Collected Works (Vol. II)

48 ORACLES Travels the scent of flowers against the wind ? Not Sandal, Taggara, nor Jasmine scent ! But the odour of the good doth so, the good pervadeth unto every element. When Sandal, Lotus, Taggara and Vassiki their odour rare Shed forth, their fragrant excellence is verily beyond compare. Yet little is this fragrance found of Taggara and Sandal wood : Mounts to the Gods, the highest, the scent of those whose deeds are right and good. Perfect in virtue, living lives of Earnestness, Right Knowledge hath Brought into liberty their minds, that Mara findeth not their path. As on a heap of rubbish thrown by the way- side the Lotus flower Will bloom sweet scented, delicate and ex- cellent to think upon; So ’mid the slothful worthless ones, the Walkers in Delusion’s power, In glory of Wisdom, light of Buddh forth hath the True Disciple shone. Desunt cetera ST. PATRICK’S DAY, 1902. Written at Dethi. O coop St. Patrick, turn again Thy mild eyes to the Western main ! Shalt thou be silent? thou forget? Are there no snakes in Ireland yet? Death to the Saxon! Slay nor spare! O God ofJustice, hear us swear! 1 ‘The reader will kindly note such important changes of metre as occur in the two last verses of ‘‘ The Twins” and elsewhere. The careless might suppose that these do not scan; they do, following directly or by analogy a similar change in the Pali. The iron Saxon’s bloody hand Metes out his murder on the land. The light of Erin is forlorn. The country fades: the people mourn. Of land bereft, of right beguiled, Starved, tortured, murdered, or exiled; Of freedom robbed, of faith cajoled, In secret councils bought and sold ! Their weapons are the cell, the law, The gallows, and the scourge, to awe Brave Irish hearts: their hates deny The right to live—the right to die. Our weapons—be they fire and cord, The shell, the rifle, and the sword! Without a helper or a friend All means be righteous to the End! Look not for help to wordy strife ! This battle is for death or life. Melt mountains with a word—and then The colder hearts of Englishmen ! Look not to Europe in your need ! Columbia’s but a broken reed ! Your own good hearts, your own strong hand Win back at last the Irish land. Won by the strength of cold despair Our chance is near us—slay nor spare ! Open to fate the Saxons lie :— Up! Ireland! ere the good hour fly! Stand all our fortunes on one cast ! Arise ! the hour is come at last. One torch may fire the ungodly shrine— O God ! and may that torch be mine! But, even when victory is assured, Forget not all ye have endured ! Of native mercy dam the dyke, And leave the snake no fang to strike! They slew our women : let us then At least annihilate their men ! Lest the ill race from faithless graves Arise again to make us slaves.