Above the portico a flag-staff, bearing the Union Jack,
remained fluttering in the flames for some time, but ultimately
when it fell the crowds rent the air with shouts,
and seemed to see significance in the incident.—DAILY PAPERS.
Winds of the World, give answer! They are whimpering to and fro— And what should they know of England who only England know?— The poor little street-bred people that vapour and fume and brag, They are lifting their heads in the stillness to yelp at the English Flag! Must we borrow a clout from the Boer—to plaster anew with dirt? An Irish liar's bandage, or an English coward's shirt? We may not speak of England; her Flag's to sell or share. What is the Flag of England? Winds of the World, declare! The North Wind blew:—“From Bergen my steel-shod vanguards go; I chase your lazy whalers home from the Disko floe; By the great North Lights above me I work the will of God, And the liner splits on the ice-field or the Dogger fills with cod. “I barred my gates with iron, I shuttered my doors with flame, Because to force my ramparts your nutshell navies came; I took the sun from their presence, I cut them down with my blast, And they died, but the Flag of England blew free ere the spirit passed. “The lean white bear hath seen it in the long, long Arctic night, The musk-ox knows the standard that flouts the Northern Light: What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my bergs to dare, Ye have but my drifts to conquer. Go forth, for it is there!” The South Wind sighed:—“From the Virgins my mid-sea course was ta'en Over a thousand islands lost in an idle main, Where the sea-egg flames on the coral and the long-backed breakers croon Their endless ocean legends to the lazy, locked lagoon. “Strayed amid lonely islets, mazed amid outer keys, I waked the palms to laughter—I tossed the scud in the breeze— Never was isle so little, never was sea so lone, But over the scud and the palm-trees an English flag was flown. “I have wrenched it free from the halliard to hang for a wisp on the Horn; I have chased it north to the Lizard—ribboned and rolled and torn; I have spread its fold o'er the dying, adrift in a hopeless sea; I have hurled it swift on the slaver, and seen the slave set free. “My basking sunfish know it, and wheeling albatross, Where the lone wave fills with fire beneath the Southern Cross. What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my reefs to dare, Ye have but my seas to furrow. Go forth, for it is there!” The East Wind roared:—“From the Kuriles, the Bitter Seas, I come, And me men call the Home-Wind, for I bring the English home. Look—look well to your shipping! By the breath of my mad typhoon I swept your close-packed Praya and beached your best at Kowloon! “The reeling junks behind me and the racing seas before, I raped your richest roadstead—I plundered Singapore! I set my hand on the Hoogli; as a hooded snake she rose, And I flung your stoutest steamers to roost with the startled crows. “Never the lotus closes, never the wild-fowl wake, But a soul goes out on the East Wind that died for England's sake— Man or woman or suckling, mother or bride or maid— Because on the bones of the English the English Flag is stayed. “The desert-dust hath dimmed it, the flying wild-ass knows, The scared white leopard winds it across the taintless snows. What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my sun to dare, Ye have but my sands to travel. Go forth, for it is there!” The West Wind called:—“In squadrons the thoughtless galleons fly That bear the wheat and cattle lest street-bred people die. They make my might their porter, they make my house their path, Till I loose my neck from their rudder and whelm them all in my wrath. “I draw the gliding fog-bank as a snake is drawn from the hole, They bellow one to the other, the frighted ship-bells toll, For day is a drifting terror till I raise the shroud with my breath, And they see strange bows above them and the two go locked to death. “But whether in calm or wrack-wreath, whether by dark or day, I heave them whole to the conger or rip their plates away, First of the scattered legions, under a shrieking sky, Dipping between the rollers, the English Flag goes by. “The dead dumb fog hath wrapped it—the frozen dews have kissed— The naked stars have seen it, a fellow-star in the mist. What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my breath to dare, Ye have but my waves to conquer. Go forth, for it is there!”
“CLEARED” (In Memory of a Commission) Help for a patriot distressed, a spotless spirit hurt, Help for an honorable clan sore trampled in the dirt! From Queenstown Bay to Donegal, O listen to my song, The honorable gentlemen have suffered grievous wrong. Their noble names were mentioned—O the burning black disgrace!— By a brutal Saxon paper in an Irish shooting-case; They sat upon it for a year, then steeled their heart to brave it, And “coruscating innocence” the learned Judges gave it. Bear witness, Heaven, of that grim crime beneath the surgeon's knife, The honorable gentlemen deplored the loss of life; Bear witness of those chanting choirs that burk and shirk and snigger, No man laid hand upon the knife or finger to the trigger! Cleared in the face of all mankind beneath the winking skies, Like phoenixes from Phoenix Park (and what lay there) they rise! Go shout it to the emerald seas-give word to Erin now, Her honorable gentlemen are cleared—and this is how: They only paid the Moonlighter his cattle-hocking price, They only helped the murderer with council's best advice, But—sure it keeps their honor white—the learned Court believes They never gave a piece of plate to murderers and thieves. They ever told the ramping crowd to card a woman's hide, They never marked a man for death—what fault of theirs he died?— They only said “intimidate,” and talked and went away— By God, the boys that did the work were braver men than they! Their sin it was that fed the fire—small blame to them that heard The “bhoys” get drunk on rhetoric, and madden at the word— They knew whom they were talking at, if they were Irish too, The gentlemen that lied in Court, they knew and well they knew. They only took the Judas-gold from Fenians out of jail, They only fawned for dollars on the blood-dyed Clan-na-Gael. If black is black or white is white, ill black and white it's down, They're only traitors to the Queen and rebels to the Crown. “Cleared,” honorable gentlemen. Be thankful it's no more: The widow's curse is on your house, the dead are at your door. On you the shame of open shame, on you from North to South The band of every honest man flat-heeled across your mouth. “Less black than we were painted”?—Faith, no word of black was said; The lightest touch was human blood, and that, ye know, runs red. It's sticking to your fist today for all your sneer and scoff, And by the Judge's well-weighed word you cannot wipe it off. Hold up those hands of innocence—go, scare your sheep, together, The blundering, tripping tups that bleat behind the old bell-wether; And if they snuff the taint and break to find another pen, Tell them it's tar that glistens so, and daub them yours again! “The charge is old”?—As old as Cain—as fresh as yesterday; Old as the Ten Commandments, have ye talked those laws away? If words are words, or death is death, or powder sends the ball, You spoke the words that sped the shot—the curse be on you all. “Our friends believe”? Of course they do—as sheltered women may; But have they seen the shrieking soul ripped from the quivering clay? They—If their own front door is shut, they'll swear the whole world's warm; What do they know of dread of death or hanging fear of harm? The secret half a country keeps, the whisper in the lane, The shriek that tells the shot went home behind the broken pane, The dry blood crisping in the sun that scares the honest bees, And shows the “bhoys” have heard your talk—what do they know of these? But you—you know—ay, ten times more; the secrets of the dead, Black terror on the country-side by word and whisper bred, The mangled stallion's scream at night, the tail-cropped heifer's low. Who set the whisper going first? You know, and well you know! My soul! I'd sooner lie in jail for murder plain and straight, Pure crime I'd done with my own hand for money, lust, or hate, Than take a seat in Parliament by fellow-felons cheered, While one of those “not provens” proved me cleared as you are cleared. Cleared—you that “lost” the League accounts—go, guard our honor still, Go, help to make our country's laws that broke God's laws at will— One hand stuck out behind the back, to signal “strike again”; The other on your dress-shirt front to show your heart is @dane, If black is black or white is white, in black and white it's down, You're only traitors to the Queen and but rebels to the Crown If print is print or words are words, the learned Court perpends: We are not ruled by murderers, only—by their friends.
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