THE TRICOLOUR
With the fire in her old veins revived, with the patriotic heart, she, too, held her place in the ranks, hearing the wonderful call that had come to her countrymen. When all seemed quenched of youth and young heroic dreams, poor and nameless, she threw off the rags that poverty held about her and was beautiful in the tricolour of faith, hope, and love.
Oh, Sean-Bhean Bhocht, the spirit of your land was not more fair than you—you who knelt in the gun-swept streets of your city to pray for the success of the revolution.
She lay some hours later in the morgue, her chill hands still clasping her rosary beads folded over her brave, unconquered heart. God rest you, sister. Sleep well, nor dream that you have failed; for such love as yours holds ever aloft the flag of liberty, and of such fine clay as yours is our island made.
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