Читать книгу The Tricolour: Poems of the Irish Revolution - Dora Sigerson Shorter - Страница 3
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THE TRICOLOUR
I
About this time there was let loose a great tumult in the city. Fire and battle held Dublin for about a week, and then from out of it all, above the crash of falling houses and the roar of guns, over the crackling flames rose the tricolour, and for a few mad days it shone into the hearts of the people.
And then a wounded prisoner of war, by the name of James Connolly, was slain, and so was disbanded the wonderful Citizen Army which had arisen from the awful conditions of bad housing and miserable wages so prevalent in Ireland.
So Labour was shot down because it dared to be discontented with its fortunes.
At the same time Pearse, the idealist, surrendered to superior forces to save his countrymen.
And Idealism was shot down because it dared to dream greater dreams than were allowed to small nationalities.
On Easter Monday Sheehy-Skeffington, the pacifist, was murdered secretly and without trial. Thus Peace was shot down by a lunatic, because it got in the way of militarism.
So the bright flag fell from the high place where it had floated free. Yet what a tricolour were these three—Labour, Idealism, and Pacifism—how proudly it flew, so distinct in its colours, so perfect in its union, preaching its lesson for Easter to the people! At Easter, the time of Resurrection, not of Death. Yet out of Death comes Resurrection. Who will take it upon himself to crucify Labour, since Christ was the Son of a carpenter; Idealism, for Christ was an idealist; Peace, for did not Christ our Lord say “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God”?
II
Out of poverty and misery from some dark corner of the slums she had hurried at the sound of the shooting—the old woman who had no place in the revolution—where the young, the hopeful, the idealists were fighting. What could she do then, this weak and trembling old creature, this Sean-Bhean Bhocht, useless, and in the way in the gun-swept streets of the blazing city?
What did she deem her mission in the fighting world of soldiers? What could she teach?
She was seen kneeling in the danger zone saying her rosary. What was she praying for at such a moment? Was it for herself or for someone dear to her? Listen, and I will tell you why she hurried her black beads through her fingers for fear God would not give her time to finish. Great was her prayer. She prayed for the success of the revolution.
Think of it, meditate on this sacred prayer, for here is the spirit of Ireland. This is the spirit of patriotism—the love that survives all things.
Without hope of gain, without hope of honour, without love of life, without fear of death, who mourned for nobody, for whom nobody would mourn, she knelt in the streets in the danger zone and prayed for the success of the revolution.
With the fire in her old veins revived, with the patriotic heart, she, too, held her place in the ranks, hearing the wonderful call that had come to her countrymen. When all seemed quenched of youth and young heroic dreams, poor and nameless, she threw off the rags that poverty held about her and was beautiful in the tricolour of faith, hope, and love.
Oh, Sean-Bhean Bhocht, the spirit of your land was not more fair than you—you who knelt in the gun-swept streets of your city to pray for the success of the revolution.
She lay some hours later in the morgue, her chill hands still clasping her rosary beads folded over her brave, unconquered heart. God rest you, sister. Sleep well, nor dream that you have failed; for such love as yours holds ever aloft the flag of liberty, and of such fine clay as yours is our island made.
