Читать книгу An Irish Crazy-Quilt - Arthur M. Forrester - Страница 5

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HAIR white as innocence, that crowned

A gentle face which never frowned;

Brow smooth, spite years of care and stress;

Lips framed to counsel and to bless;

Deep, thoughtful, tender, pitying eyes,

A reflex of our native skies,

Through which now tears, now sunshine shone—

There you have Father Tom Malone.

He bade the infant at its birth

Cead mille failthe to the earth; With friendly hand he guided youth Along the thorny track of truth; The dying felt, yet knew not why, Nearer to Heaven when he was by— For, sure, the angels at God’s throne Were friends of Father Tom Malone.

For us, poor simple sons of toil

Who wrestled with a stubborn soil,

Our one ambition, sole content,

Not to be backward with the rent;

Our one absorbing, constant fear,

The agent’s visits twice a year;

We had, our hardships to atone,

The love of Father Tom Malone.

One season failed. The dull earth slept.

Despite of ceaseless vigil kept

For sign of crop, day after day,

To coax it from the sullen clay,

Nor oats, nor rye, nor barley came;

The tubers rotted—then, oh, shame!

We—’twas the last time ever known—

Lost faith in Father Tom Malone.

We had, from fruitful years before,

Garnered with care a frugal store;

’Twould pay one gale, but when ’twas gone

What were our babes to live upon?

We had no seed for coming spring,

Nor faintest hope to which to cling;

We would have starved without a moan,

When out spoke Father Tom Malone.

His voice, so flute-like in the past,

Now thrilled us like a bugle blast,

His eyes, so dove-like in their gaze,

Took a new hue, and seemed to blaze!

“God’s wondrous love doth not intend

Hundreds to starve that one may spend;

Pay ye no rent, but hold your own.”

That from mild Father Tom Malone.

And when the landlord with a force

Of English soldiers, foot and horse,

Came down and direst vengeance swore,

Who met him at the cabin door?

Who reasoned first and then defied

The thief in all his power and pride?

Who won the poor man’s fight alone?

Why, fearless Father Tom Malone.

So, when you point to heroes’ scars,

And boast their prowess in the wars,

Give one small meed of praise, at least,

To this poor modest Irish priest.

No laurel wreath was twined for him,

But pulses throb and eyelids dim

When toil-worn peasants pray, “Mavrone,

God bless you, Father Tom Malone!”