Life of John Boyle O'Reilly — Chapter 8

Ho, white-maned waves of the Western SeaThat ride and roll to the strand!Ho, strong-winged birds never blown a-leeBy the gales that sweep toward land!Ye are symbols both of a hope that saves,As ye swoop in your strength and grace,As ye roll to the land like the billowed gravesOf a suicidal race.You have hoarded your strength in equal parts;For the men of the future reignMust have faithful souls and kindly hearts,And bone and sinew and brain.

Dead! but the death was fitting:His life to the latest breath,Was poured like wax on the Chart of Eight,And is sealed by the stamp of Death!

"Strongbow's force, and Henry's wile,Tudor's wrath, and Stuart's guile,Iron Stafford's tiger jaws.And brutal Brunswick's penal laws;Not forgetting Saxon faith.Not forgetting Norman scaith.Not forgetting William's word,Not forgetting Cromwell's sword."

"I give glory to God for our battles wonBy wood or river, by bay or creek;For Noma who died ; for my father Conn;For feasts and the chase on the mountain bleak.I bewail my sins, both known and unknown,And of those I have injured forgiveness seek.The men that were wicked to me and mine(Not quenching a wrong, nor in war nor wine)I forgive and absolve them all, save three,And may Christ in his mercy be kind to me."

Races and sects were to him a profanity:Hindoo, and negro, and Celt were as one;Large as Mankind was his splendid humanity,Large in its record the work he has done.