AN GAOḊAL.
255
JUSTICE AND JUDGEMENT.
[From Songs For Freedom, bp Father McHale]
Once in the kingdom of Erin,
Justice had honor of men,
For truth's was the law of its living,
And right was its synonym then;
And the terrible scales of its balance
Were poised in the eye of the Lord,
And the equal, fair bench of His kingdom,
Men shaped from the judge's award!
If the word of his lips was a Gospel
Of mercy or might, as might be,
Men doubted not once of its fairness,
Or at least of a trial to be,
For the guide of his ways was his duty
To men, and he knew he should stand
Himself witness one day to their Maker,
And seeking award from His hand.
Then a judge was not one with a schemer,
Who wriggles to "place" as he can,
On the ruins of perjured pronouncements,
Unworthy a Christian and man;
Unworthy a Christian who signs him
With sacredest sign of the Cross,
And hopes by the death that it figures
To save himself lastly from loss.
Unworthy a man with a manhood,
Whose act with the word of his tongue
Is sure of a faithful fulfilment,
Though claims of a conscience be flung
Out of question, as was with the pagan,
Who never knew Christ for his God,
Nor the strictness of strictures He brought us
Nor of pool of His wrath and His rod!
Then eterne shadows were weaving
Their threads in the conduct of men,
And blissfully shading and showing
Tribunal and sentence and — then?
Tribunal of Him who hath judgement,
Sentence of Him who is just,
Retribution of Him who is mercy,
Who would spare even then if He durst!
The thought of his trust was minded,
The trust was faithfully kept,
The peer was one with the peasant,
The slave with one of his sept;
There was justice to all, and as even
As the adequate rays of the sun;
We had shade of the right up in heaven,
When justice and judge were one!
No more in the bounds of the island
Abides such implicit trust;
In its stead there is stern suspicion,
That a judge, by the fact, is not just;
The bench that should be for judgment
Was place for a heated harangue,
And the laws of the tablet of Sinai
Were sunk in the slander of slang !
Honor no more in the island,
But slings of shame and disgust
For the man who has spat on and trampled
Our noblemen's name in the dust,
Contempt for the man who has spurned
The steps from his feet, that he used
In his renegade race to the power
And the purse of the place he abused !
Men to the rescue ! we want you
To mend us the rents that are left
In the garment of Irish nobility,
The spear of the slanderer cleft;
Men! we have little but honor,
That honor today is assailed;
Shall ye cravenly show in a crisis
Where man in your race never quailed?
Is the name for your prelates "conspirators"
Fitting, who feed as they fed
Your minds with the message of doctrine,
Your souls with the Sacrament Bread;
Who stand on the towers of Israel,
And speak evermore in your ears,
On the way to the fair Land of Promise,
That winds through the valley of tears?
Is he subject for sneer or for censure,
Our oldest, our truest, our best,
Our sleepless, our fearless, loved lion,
Who watches the fold of the West,
Guarding it from the foe and false friend,
Free of trickster, of traiter, and sneak,
Is he man for the menace of malice,
Oh, loved of his heart, will ye speak ?
When his life from the day he was dowered
With ring, with mitre, with crosier in hand
Is a life of answering devotion
To the rights of a robber-ruled land;
Will ye say when the snows of his winter
Have whitened the ridge of his brow,
Is he still not your country’s Apostle,
Is he still not your Patriarch now?
Are titles of "wretches" and "miscreants"
Meet for the pastor who trod
The sore path of thorns, unfearing,
By your side to the City of God;
Who drank, of their will, of your chalice,
If beaded and brimmed with your woe,
Bore stripes upon stripes in your service,
And will bear them forever, you know?
Their lot with your lot on the waters
Of sorrow, they cast in with pride,
