AN GAODHAL.
37
The following, sent us by a true Gael, was written on the death of the
"Convict," Edward Duffy, in Millbank Prison, in January, 1878, by O'Don¬
ovan Rossa, who was, also, a Convict in the same prison. —
The world is growing darker to me — darker day by day;
The stars that shone upon life's path are vanishing away,
Some setting and some shifting, only one that changes never —
'Tis the guiding star, the beacon-light that blazes bright as ever.
Liberty sits mountain high, and Slavery has birth
In the hovels, in the mansions, in the lowest dens of earth.
The tyrants of the world pitfalls dig the path between
And overshadow it with scaffolds, prison blocks, and guillotine.
The gloomy way is brightening when we walk with those we love,
The heavy load is lightening when we hear and they approve.
The path of life grows darker to me as I journey on,
For the loving hearts that travelled it are falling one by one.
The news of death is saddening, even in the festive hall,
But when 'tis heard through prison bars, 'tis saddest then of all:
Where there's none to share the sorrow in the solitary cell —
In the prison within prison — a blacker hell in hell.
That whisper through the grating * has thrilled through all my veins:
"Duffy is dead!" A noble soul has slipped the tyrant's chains,
And whatever wounds they gave him, their living books will show
How they very kindly treated him, more like friend than foe.
For these are Christian Pharisees, hypocrites of creeds,
With the Bible on their lips and the Devil in their deeds —
Too merciful in public gaze to take our lives away,
Too anxious here to plant in us the seeds of life's decay.
Those Christians stand between us and the God above our head,
The sun and moon they prison, and with hold the daily bread,
Entomb, enchain, and starve us, that the mind they may control,
And quench the fire that burns in the ever living soul.
To lay your head upon the block for faith in freedom's God,
To fall in fight for Freedom in the land your fathers trod,
For Freedom on the scaffold high to draw your latest breath,
Or anywhere, 'gainst tyranny, 'tis well to die the death.
Still sad and lone was yours, Ned, 'mid the jailers of your race,
With none to press the cold white hand, with none to smooth the face ;
With none to take the dying wish to homeland, friend, or brother,
To kinered mind, to promised bride, or to the sorrowing mother.
I tried to get to speak to you before you passed away, †
As you were dying near to me, and far from Castlerea
But the Bible-mongers spurned me off when at their office door,
I asked that month to see you — now I'll never see you more.
If spirits once released from earth could visit earth again,
You'd come to see me here, Ned; but for these we look in vain.
In the Dead-house you are lying, and I'd "wake" you if I could,
But they'll wake you in Loughlin, Ned, in that cottage by the wood.
For the mother's instinct tells her that the dearest one is dead —
That the gifted mind, the noble soul, from earth to heaven hath fled.
As the girls rush towards the doors and look towards the trees,
To catch the sorrow-laden wail that’s borne on the breeze.
Thus the path of life grows darker to me — darker day by day;
The stars that flashed their light on it are vanishing away,
Some setting and some shifting, but that one which changes never —
The beacon light of liberty that blazes bright as ever.
* John Lynch, a fellow convict, whispered through the grating of Rossa's
cell that Duffy was dead.
† Rossa was refused permission to see him by the governor.
