Roch Abbey Gateway

What dost thou here, lorn Ireland's dying daughter?
These holy walls, that erst, with open door
Welcomed the pilgrim—offering bread and water,
Prayer, rest, and counsel, to the way-worn poor—
Now mute and barren as the manless moor,
Would not, to Christ himself, afford a crumb!
Perish, unheard, thou spurn'd of lord and boor!
Poor Erin's waif! be Supplication dumb
Where Charity is deaf. At hallow'd gates
Hop'st thou for succour? Outcast! over them
Mourns ivied Ruin; or, within them, waits
Obstruction loop'd and ring'd with gold and gem;
And Mammon, plotting woe to harpied states,
Scowls from beneath his cloven diadem.
Fair was she, and her famish'd child was like her;
Nought lovelier mourns beneath the laughing skies.
As I approach'd, I saw the baby strike her;
It raged for food, while tears gushed from her eyes!
Why did she marry, in the land of sighs,
Where crimes, call'd laws, made by the lawless, named
Her child “Benoni?” Let the basely wise
Say, rather, why, self-duped and unashamed,
They curse God's blessings; and, with blasphemies,
Hallow the arrow at our vitals aim'd,
Lauding the madness that makes precious things,
Yea, things most precious, worthless! Heav'n is blamed,
And hope and action droop their palsied wings,
Because our lords are bread-tax-eating kings.