An Elegy

In Abbey ground, by the wild western sea,
The true Knight rests, safe-shielded, Stone, by thee.
Here oft the Tiarna led the galloping band —
Now his home-coming saddens all the land.

The land held high his generous renown
From Beare to Diarra, from Lee to LifFey brown,
From Galway west to southernmost Cape Clear,
Kilkenny to Loch Ce — afar, anear.

Anear, afar, how mournful maids and men!
And every eye is wet by hill and glen;
The Suir o'erflowed, methinks, the hills rent wide,
The Skellig, shrieking, said "A Man has died!"

A Man has died. In grief all darkens o'er,
From ScarrifFs Bay, from Deen, and far Timore
To the last sunset isle, no sail I see;
Valentia mourns with tears wept bitterly.

O bitterly cry Ards and Coom the keene,
And Ballinskelligs, where no lack hath been
Of sea-borne wine and welcomes as to home —
The Giver greeting all who choose to come.

Who chose to come of that glad hall were free,
With meat, brown ale, and honey from the bee —

Through Christ's sweet will, he surely shall have rest,
Francis, whose welcome cheered the poorest guest.

Guest, void of all, with want his only friend,
Found shield and succour, kindness to the end,
Linens and woollens where the tall looms stand,
Gifts hid in gifts and red wine in his hand.

O handsome Hawk, who tower'd the country o'er!
Top-spray of all who sprang from Segerson More!
And pure thy mother's blood, Clann Connell's old, —
Thou dashing chief — thou joyous hand with gold.

Clean gold with poverty well shared alway,
O head of Counsel still, — the people's stay;
'Tis my belief from Skellig west, to Cove
No heart alive could match thy heart of love.

Love thy life's rule, from life's dawn till its night,
How many a wrong that rule humane made right,
How many a grief it chased and bitter moan —
Now the Church grieves for thee, here, lying lone.

Lone here and dead. 'Tis this makes heav'n dark,
From Rath to Ruachty, o'er mountain, sea, and bark:
What his hand gathered for the Lamb he gave,
The lofty, faultless Tree, our princely chieftain brave.

White chief of mankind, true Cavalier all o'er,
None e'er repelling, never closing door,
Gloom-sad the Gael, because our strength is low,
Eclipsed our souls, and wails the Voice of Woe,

Woe o'er Iveragh's woods and waters wide —
My wound! the stedfast generous man who died;
Not hard the way to ope with papal keys,
Lord, grant the Peace-maker Thy perfect peace.

Peace to give peace where he may not return
To heal our hurt, to light the eyes that mourn;
Shield of our hearts, our strength in sorrow found, —
My grief, my woe! — the Chief laid low, in Abbey
ground.