Classic Poem

Too cold this night for Hugh Maguire,
I tremble at the pounding rain;
Alas that venomous cold.
Is my companion's lot.

It brings an anguish to my heart
To see the fiery torrents fall;
He and the spiky frost —
A horror to the mind!

The floodgates of the heavens yawn
Above the bosom of the clouds;
And every pool a sea,
And murder in the air.

One thinks of the hare that haunts the wood,
And of the salmon in the bay,
Even the wild bird, one grieves
To think they are abroad.

Then one remembers Hugh Maguire
Abroad in a strange land tonight
Under the lightning's glare
And clouds with fury filled.

He in West Munster braves his doom,
And without shelter strides between
The drenched and shivering grass
And the impetuous sky.

Cold on that tender blushing cheek
The fury of the springtime gales
That toss the stormy rays
Of stars about his head.

I can scarce bear to conjure up
The contour of his body crushed
This rough and gloomy night
In its cold iron suit.

The gentle and war-mastering hand
To the slim shaft of his cold spear
By icy weather pinned —
Cold is the night for Hugh.

The low banks of the swollen streams
Are covered where the soldiers pass;
The meadows stiff with ice,
The horses cannot feed.

And yet as though to bring him warmth
And call the brightness to his face
Each wall that he attacks
Sinks in a wave of fire,

The fury of the fire dissolves
The frost that sheaths the tranquil eye,
And from his wrists the flame
Thaws manacles of ice.