1 To dear Margaret Gavan
Duffy - From Ruari. in my last
cell — 2 Augt 1916
9 p.m. Thank you dear friend
and Moya &and Dana and
Eva and all the fond
ones. Tomorrow St Stephen's Day
I die the death I sought
and may God forgive the
mistakes and receive the
intent — Ireland's
freedom. Ruari 2 Fac Me Cruce Inebriari Make merry, soul of mine, say: 'More!' say
'More!' Art thus o'ercome the feast before?
Thy chalice sparkles...Or
Wouldst be milk—nurtured till the sod has gaped?
Not so! Drink of the wine Heaven-graped
None ever yet escaped;
A myriad sainted hearts love—pressed in pain,
Have spurted blood of Christ; 'twere vain
Another hope to feign.
Come, come, drink deep, my soul, inebriate!
Stagger a most unworldly gait!
Be inarticulate
Thy love to state! The world's prim ears in thine unlovely key
Startle, while God brings out in thee
His heavenly symphony.
Roll in the dust — is that a fall for us?—
; Be wounded. Let the dead discuss
Why thou art Lowered thus.
Exult that Evil, seemingly at peace, 3 Triumphant prides in thy decrease—
Thy pain, not his, will cease...
Will cease? Is not! For some commingling
sweet
Decrees thy pain a counterfeit,
Nor leisure leaves to greet
Sorrow so fleet. There is a master—vision haunts thy dreams,
Whose face a mist of spittle seems,
A fog of blood, where beams
No more the sun of beauty! Ah! 'tis he
Hath overset thus utterly
Thine heart's identity!
See how he creeps to conquest amid jeers:
Falls, rises, totters...meekly bears,
A thousand shames! His tears
Speak agonies to thy love.—Come, soul of mine,
To where at last thy Worm Divine
Must on His Cross resign
His life for thine
Ah! Cross of Christ! my own, my own thou art!
Hug closer, lest thy counterpart
Steal off my fickle heart.
Let me not love the staid and sober road. But ever, with unfaltering goad,
Drive me where bleeds thy Load
May not I be the mystic Body's side
Spear-thrust, one of the wounds nail-plied
? These shall be glorified..
Cross! Vine of vines, bearing death-trampled
Fruit!
The quest of all our mad pursuit
Hangs there, the world's dispute—
Joy undilute.
Soul, soul of mine, be not unworthy found
Her slavery, whom Calvary crowned
A queen compassioned—throned;
Be moulded Jesus-shape in her embrace;
Be crucified; and on thy face
The Passion hall—mark's trace
Be cut and hammered for eternity,
Thou Temple—stone. Gold, minted be
For next world currency.
Mary! the magic metamorphosis
Of such an earth-clung soul as this
To any form of His
Thy secret is. T G D