Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A SONG OF DEFEAT, by STEPHEN LUCIUS GWYNN


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A SONG OF DEFEAT, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Not for the lucky warriors
Last Line: And victory less than defeat.
Subject(s): Ireland; War; Irish


Not for the lucky warriors,
--The winner at Waterloo,
Or him of a newer name
Whom loud-voiced triumphs acclaim
Victor against the few--
Not for these, O Eire,
I build in my heart to-day
The lay of your sons and you

I call to your mind to-day,
Out of the mists of the past,
Many a hull and many a mast,
Black in the bight of the bay
Over against Ben Edair;
And the lip of the ebbing tideway all
Red with the life of the Gael and Gall,
And the Danes in a headlong slaughter sent:
--And the women of Eire keening
For Brian, slain at his tent.

Mother, O grey, sad mother,
Love, with the troubled eyes,
For whom I marshal to-day
The sad and splendid array,
Calling the lost to arise,
--As some queen's courtier unbidden
Might fetch her gems to the sun,
Praising the glory and glow
Of all that was hers to show--
Eire, love Brian well,
For Brian fought, and he fell:
But Brian fought, and he won:
God! that was long ago!
Nearer and dearer to you,
Eire, Eire mo bhron,
(List to a name of your own,
O sweet name, My Sorrow!)
Are the suns that flamed and faded
In a night that had no morrow.

I call to your mind Red Hugh,
And the castle's broken ward;
I call to your mind O'Neill,
And the fight at the Yellow Ford:
--And the ships afloat on the main,
Bearing O'Donnell to Spain,
For the flame of his quick and leaping soul
To be quenched in a venomed bowl:
--And the shore by the Swilly's shadows,
And the Earls pushed out through the foam,
And O'Neill in his grave-clothes lying,
With the wish of his heart in Ireland,
And his body cold in Rome.
I call to your mind Benburb
And the stubborn Ulster steel,
And the triumph of Owen Roe;
Clonmel, and the glorious stand
Of the younger Hugh O'Neill;
--And Owen dead at Derry,
And Cromwell loosed on the land.

I call to your mind brave Sarsfield,
And the battle in Limerick street,
The mine and the shattered wall,
And the battered breach held good,
And William full in retreat:
--And, at the end of all,
Wild geese rising on clamorous wing
To follow the flight of an alien King.
And the hard-won treaty broke,
And the elder faith oppressed,
And the blood--but not for Ireland--
Red upon Sarsfield's breast.
Ended, the roll of the great
And famous leaders of armies,
The shining lamps of the Gael
Who wrestled a while with fate
And broke the battle of foeman
Ere the end left widowed Eire
Lone with her desolate wail.

Lone, yet forsaken:
Out of no far dim past
Call I the names of the last
Who strove and suffered for Eire.
Saddest and nearest of all,
See how they flock to the call,
The troop of famous felons:
Who won no joy of the sword,
Who tasted of no reward
But the faint, flushed dawn of a wan, sick hope,
And over whose lives there dangled
Ever the shame of the rope.
I call to your mind Lord Edward;
Tone with his mangled throat;
Emmet high on the gallows;
O'Brien, Mitchel, and Meagher--
Aye, and of newer note
Names that Eire will not forget,
Though some have faded in far-off lands,
And some have passed by the hangman's hands,
And some--are breathing yet.

Not for these, O Eire,
Not for these, or thee,
Pipers, trumpeters, blaring loud,
The throbbing drums and the colours flying,
And the long-drawn muffled roar of the crowd,
The voice of a human sea:
Theirs it is to inherit
Fame of a finer grace,
In the self-renewing spirit
And the untameable heart
Ever defeated, yet undefeat'ed,
Of thy remembering race:
For their names are treasured apart,
And their memories green and sweet,
On every hill-side and every mart,
In every cabin, in every street,
Of a land where to fail is more than to triumph,
And victory less than defeat.





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