Sadly the dead leaves rustle in the whistling wind, Around the weather-worn gray church, low down the vale: The Saints in golden vesture shake before the gale; The glorious windows shake, where still they dwell enshrined; Old Saints, by long dead, shrivelled hands, long since designed: There still, although the world autumnal be, and pale, Still in their golden vesture the old saints prevail; Alone with Christ, desolate else, left by mankind. Only one ancient Priest offers the sacrifice, Murmuring holy Latin immemorial: Swaying with tremulous hands the old censer full of spice, In gray, sweet incense clouds; blue, sweet clouds mystical: To him, in place of men, for he is old, suffice Melancholy remembrances and vesperal. _Lionel Johnson_ WAYS OF WAR A terrible and splendid trust Heartens the host of Inisfail: Their dream is of the swift sword-thrust, A lightning glory of the Gael. Croagh Patrick is the place of prayers, And Tara the assembling place: But each sweet wind of Ireland bears The trump of battle on its race. From Dursey Isle to Donegal, From Howth to Achill, the glad noise Rings: and the heirs of glory fall, Or victory crowns their fighting joys. A dream! a dream! an ancient dream! Yet, ere peace come to Inisfail, Some weapons on some field must gleam, Some burning glory fire the Gael. That field may lie beneath the sun, Fair for the treading of an host: That field in realms of thought be won, And armed minds do their uttermost: Some way, to faithful Inisfail, Shall come the majesty and awe Of martial truth, that must prevail, To lay on all the eternal law. _Lionel Johnson_ THE RED WIND Red Wind from out the East: Red wind of blight and blood! Ah, when wilt thou have ceased Thy bitter, stormy flood? Red Wind from over sea, Scourging our holy land! What angel loosened thee Out of his iron hand? Red Wind! whose word of might Winged thee with wings of flame? O fire of mournful night! What is thy Master's name? Red Wind! who bade thee burn, Branding our hearts? Who bade Thee on and never turn, Till waste our souls were laid? Red Wind! from out the West Pour Winds of Paradise: Winds of eternal rest, That weary souls entice. Wind of the East! Red Wind! Thou scorchest the soft breath Of Paradise the kind: Red Wind of burning death! O Red Wind! hear God's voice: Hear thou, and fall, and cease. Let Inisfail rejoice In her Hesperian peace. _Lionel Johnson_ CELTIC SPEECH