Padraig (Patrick) Pearse
At a dinner in Dublin in May of 1916 General Blackadder, President of the Court Martial that was trying the leaders of the recent rebellion told his hostess: "I've just performed one of the hardest tasks I ever had to do. Condemned to death one of the finest characters I ever came across. A man named Pearse. Must be something very wrong in the state of things, must there not, that makes a man like that rebel? I'm not surprised that his pupils adored him".
The man to whom he referred was Patrick Pearse, Commander in Chief of the
Irish forces in the Easter Rebellion of 1916.
When a very young man, Pearse had fallen totally and hopelessly in love …
and had given his heart, his soul and his mind to the object of his adoration.
Her name was Ireland.
He was a teacher, and founded St. Enda's school. There, a generation of young
Irish boys were taught that they were not a colony populated by a shamed,
degraded and inferior people. They were a nation ancient and proud, with a
rich heritage, and deserving to be free. He was a dreamer and a poet, and
an unlikely warrior. He ranks among the few people I call heroes. He set a
course for his life, and a goal: Irish freedom. He never deviated from that
goal no matter what, and in the end willingly gave his life in its pursuit.
His free-verse poetry has always moved me, and was one of the inspirations
for me to try and set some of my own thoughts down in verse when I was younger.
Herewith are two of my favorites. The first was written for his mother at
her request for something to remember him and his younger brother by when
it became apparent to all of them that his life was drawing to a close. It
echoes my own strong belief that the women who wait for soldiers (and indeed
for policemen) often carry a heavier burden that those who carry the fight.
If you think it is hard being a soldier or a cop, try being a soldier's or
a cop's wife or sweetheart. God bless them through the generations, for we
would be little without them.
The Mother
I do not
grudge them, Lord; I do not grudge
My two strong sons that I have seen go out
To break their strength and die, they and a few,
In bloody protest for a glorious thing.
They shall be spoken of among their people,
The generations shall remember them,
And call them blessed;
But I will speak their names to my own heart
In the long nights;
The little names that were familiar once
Round my dead hearth;
Lord, thou art hard on mothers;
We suffer in their coming and their going;
And tho' I grudge them not, I weary weary
Of the long sorrow - And yet I have my joy:
My sons were faithful … and they fought.
The second poem was part of my awakening to the spirit of the people who were part of my ancestry. They are a people who may be defeated, but never be conquered. You don't have to be Irish to decide that you will never submit.
The Rebel
I am come
of the seed of the people, the people that sorrow;
Who have no treasure but hope,
No riches laid up but a memory
Of an ancient glory
My mother bore me in bondage, in bondage my mother was born,
I am of the blood of serfs;
The children with whom I have played,
The men and women with whom I have eaten
Have had masters over them, have been under the lash of masters,
And though gentle, have served churls.
The hands that have touched mine, the dear hands whose touch
Is familiar to me
Have worn shameful manacles, have been bitten at the wrist by manacles,
Have grown hard with the manacles and the task-work of strangers.
I am flesh of the flesh of these lowly, I am bone of their bone
I that have never submitted;
I that have a soul greater than the souls of my people's masters,
I that have vision and prophecy, and the gift of fiery speech,
I that have spoken with God on the top of his holy hill .
And because
I am of the people, I understand the people,
I am sorrowful with their sorrow, I am hungry with their desire;
My heart is heavy with the grief of mothers,
My eyes have been wet with the tears of children,
I have yearned with old wistful men,
And laughed and cursed with young men;
Their shame is my shame, and I have reddened for it …
Reddened for that they have gone in want, while others have been full,
Reddened for that they have walked in fear of lawyers and their jailors,
With their Writs of Summons and their handcuffs,
Men mean and cruel.
I could have borne stripes on my body
Rather than this shame of my people.
And now I speak, being full of vision;
I speak to my people, and I speak in my people's name to
The masters of my people:
I say to my people that they are holy,
That they are august despite their chains,
That they are greater than those that hold them,
And stronger and purer,
That they have but need of courage, and to call on the name of their God,
God the unforgetting, the dear God who loves the people
For whom he died naked, suffering shame.
And I say to my people's masters: Beware …
Beware of the thing that is coming, beware of the risen people
Who shall take what ye would not give.
Did ye think to conquer the people, or that law is stronger than life,
And than men's desire to be free?
We will try it out with you … ye that have harried and held,
Ye that have bullied and bribed,
Tyrants … hypocrites … liars!