Do what thou wilt, thou shalt not so, Dark Angel! triumph over me: _Lonely, unto the Lone I go; Divine, to the Divinity._ TE MARTYRUM CANDIDATUS BY LIONEL JOHNSON Ah, see the fair chivalry come, the companions of Christ! White Horsemen, who ride on white horses, the Knights of God! They, for their Lord and their Lover who sacrificed All, save the sweetness of treading, where He first trod! These through the darkness of death, the dominion of night, Swept, and they woke in white places at morning tide: They saw with their eyes, and sang for joy of the sight, They saw with their eyes the Eyes of the Crucified. Now, whithersoever He goeth, with Him they go: White Horsemen, who ride on white horses, oh fair to see! They ride, where the Rivers of Paradise flash and flow, White Horsemen, with Christ their Captain: forever He! CHRISTMAS AND IRELAND BY LIONEL JOHNSON The golden stars give warmthless fire, As weary Mary goes through night: Her feet are torn by stone and briar; She hath no rest, no strength, no light: O Mary, weary in the snow, Remember Ireland’s woe! O Joseph, sad for Mary’s sake! Look on our earthly Mother too: Let not the heart of Ireland break With agony the ages through: For Mary’s love, love also thou Ireland, and save her now! Harsh were the folk, and bitter stern, At Bethlehem, that night of nights. _For you no cheering hearth shall burn: We have no room here, you no rights._ O Mary and Joseph; hath not she, Ireland, been even as ye? The ancient David’s royal house Was thine, Saint Joseph! wherefore she, Mary, thine Ever Virgin Spouse, To thine own city went with thee. Behold! thy citizens disown The heir of David’s throne! Nay, more! The very King of Kings Was with you, coming to His own: They thrust Him forth to lowliest things; The poor, meek beasts of toil alone Stood by, when came to piteous birth The God of all the earth. And she, our Mother Ireland, knows Insult, and infamies of wrong: Her innocent children clad with woes, Her weakness trampled by the strong: And still upon her Holy Land Her pitiless foemen stand. From Manger unto Cross and Crown Went Christ: and Mother Mary passed Through Seven Sorrows, and sat down Upon the Angel Throne at last. Thence, Mary! to thine own Child pray, For Ireland’s hope this day! She wanders amid winter still, The dew of tears is on her face: Her wounded heart takes yet its fill Of desolation and disgrace. God still is God! And through God she Foreknows her joy to be.