of prose, and no adequate poetry comes to my mind.  The Irish poets have recently been so busy compiling catalogues of crime, profanity, and mania for the Abbey Theatre that they have not had time to attend to politics; and in attempting to suggest the spirit that must inform the settlement between Ireland and England, if out of it is to spring the authentic flower of loyalty, I am reluctantly compelled to fall back on a weaker brother, not of the craft: 

    Bond, from the toil of hate we may not cease: 
    Free, we are free to be your friend. 
    But when you make your banquet, and we come,
    Soldier with equal soldier must we sit,
    Closing a battle, not forgetting it. 
    This mate and mother of valiant rebels dead
    Must come with all her history or her head. 
    We keep the past for pride. 
    Nor war nor peace shall strike our poets dumb: 
    No rawest squad of all Death’s volunteers,
    No simplest man who died
    To tear your flag down, in the bitter years,
    But shall have praise, and three times thrice again,
    When, at that table, men shall drink with men.

As political poetry, this may be open to amendment; as poetic politics, it is sound, decisive, and answerable.

THE END

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