THE IRISH “INFERNO.”
Dream of a Perplexed Premier, after long pondering over the pages of the grim Florentine.
In the mid-hours of Night, when visions throng, 1 found me in a Mournful Isle, astray
Where no path lightwards led: and e’en to tell It w ere unwelcome task, how savage wild That region, how distressed and desolate, Which only to remember doth renew
In waking thought the bitterness of sleep.
* * * * There had been little respite to the care
That in my heart’s recesses deep had dwelt All that long Session perilously pass’d ;
And as a man with difficult short breath, Forespent with struggle, ’scaped from sea’to shore, Upon the unknown land before him stands At gaze; e’en so my spirit, that failed not
When conflict called it, turned to view the straits Whereto long toil had brought mo.
******
On my way My pale Guide led me, far from air sorene, Into a climate ever vexed with storms.
“ All hope abandon ye who enter here ”
Seemed its fit welcoming. Conflicting tongues, Outcries of injury, and wails of woe,
Accents of anger, voices harsh and hoarse, Made up a tumult that for ever whirls In that wild region.
Then I question made
Of my grave Guide : “ Wlmt doth aggrieve them thus, That they complain so loud ? ” He straight replied : “ Wild hopes long entertained, and their blind life So poorly passing, that all other lots They envy.”
Thc.loud anguish of that race
With pity paled my cheek. What here avails, Our utmost wisdom,—we so alien,
So execrated e’en by thoso whose debt To us but moves fresh hate, who wrongfully With blame requite us, ana with evil word ?
My leader stay’d, and something wanly smiled, A smile of many meanings, which, to me,
Though wordless he the while, seemed eloquent Of mingled memories: Of historic hate
Unwisely fostered, and of secular wrong Blindly inflicted, home impatiently,
And vengefully remembered: Of the tongues Of poisoned strife-engenderers’ stirring wrath, In souls dark moving ’neath the dual curse Of ignorance and suffering. And I gazed
With will-dividing thought on the wild rout Of wicked strife and fierce contention, sprung
From error’s dragon-teeth, by long dead hands Assiduously sown.—A woeful sight
To darken Hope’s clear eyes in anger stern, And urge mild Patience to the penal stroke.
Mad hate and skulking malice ; murder armed Against the helpless, Cruelty a-grin
W ith unchecked triumph and impunity ; Taw mocked, evaded, spurned; Justice quite thrust From the fray’s forefront, gaoled Sedition lord And throned Authority helpless!
0 blind lust 1 0 foolish wrath! that so does goad them on, In spite of reason’s ban and in despite Of pity’s bounty and remedial aid.
What though old wrong yet rankles, what though greed Of dead despoilers leaves bad legacy
Of bitterness ? Should living love be spurned, And instant justice flouted, the long toil
Of the past-hampered prosont set at nought,
QUALIFYING A SWEEPING ASSERTION.
Sophie (after hearing about Frank). “ I declare I shall not believe a word a Man says to me. They ’re all Liars ! ” Beatrice. “For shame, Sophie!” Sophie [regretfully). “At least all the Nice Ones are!”
Dream of a Perplexed Premier, after long pondering over the pages of the grim Florentine.
In the mid-hours of Night, when visions throng, 1 found me in a Mournful Isle, astray
Where no path lightwards led: and e’en to tell It w ere unwelcome task, how savage wild That region, how distressed and desolate, Which only to remember doth renew
In waking thought the bitterness of sleep.
* * * * There had been little respite to the care
That in my heart’s recesses deep had dwelt All that long Session perilously pass’d ;
And as a man with difficult short breath, Forespent with struggle, ’scaped from sea’to shore, Upon the unknown land before him stands At gaze; e’en so my spirit, that failed not
When conflict called it, turned to view the straits Whereto long toil had brought mo.
******
On my way My pale Guide led me, far from air sorene, Into a climate ever vexed with storms.
“ All hope abandon ye who enter here ”
Seemed its fit welcoming. Conflicting tongues, Outcries of injury, and wails of woe,
Accents of anger, voices harsh and hoarse, Made up a tumult that for ever whirls In that wild region.
Then I question made
Of my grave Guide : “ Wlmt doth aggrieve them thus, That they complain so loud ? ” He straight replied : “ Wild hopes long entertained, and their blind life So poorly passing, that all other lots They envy.”
Thc.loud anguish of that race
With pity paled my cheek. What here avails, Our utmost wisdom,—we so alien,
So execrated e’en by thoso whose debt To us but moves fresh hate, who wrongfully With blame requite us, ana with evil word ?
My leader stay’d, and something wanly smiled, A smile of many meanings, which, to me,
Though wordless he the while, seemed eloquent Of mingled memories: Of historic hate
Unwisely fostered, and of secular wrong Blindly inflicted, home impatiently,
And vengefully remembered: Of the tongues Of poisoned strife-engenderers’ stirring wrath, In souls dark moving ’neath the dual curse Of ignorance and suffering. And I gazed
With will-dividing thought on the wild rout Of wicked strife and fierce contention, sprung
From error’s dragon-teeth, by long dead hands Assiduously sown.—A woeful sight
To darken Hope’s clear eyes in anger stern, And urge mild Patience to the penal stroke.
Mad hate and skulking malice ; murder armed Against the helpless, Cruelty a-grin
W ith unchecked triumph and impunity ; Taw mocked, evaded, spurned; Justice quite thrust From the fray’s forefront, gaoled Sedition lord And throned Authority helpless!
0 blind lust 1 0 foolish wrath! that so does goad them on, In spite of reason’s ban and in despite Of pity’s bounty and remedial aid.
What though old wrong yet rankles, what though greed Of dead despoilers leaves bad legacy
Of bitterness ? Should living love be spurned, And instant justice flouted, the long toil
Of the past-hampered prosont set at nought,
QUALIFYING A SWEEPING ASSERTION.
Sophie (after hearing about Frank). “ I declare I shall not believe a word a Man says to me. They ’re all Liars ! ” Beatrice. “For shame, Sophie!” Sophie [regretfully). “At least all the Nice Ones are!”