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 THE NORTHUMBERLAND PRESS, THORNTON STREET, NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE End of Project Gutenberg's The Open Secret of Ireland, by T. M. Kettle