Newspaper Clippings

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Her sons gave glory to a nation. We remember and are proud of this PATRIOT MOTHER SHE was a Dublin girl; her people came from Co. Meath, A gentle girl, with a hidden reserve of courage and steadfastness, and she was destined for the role of a patriot mother. Her early years were lived against a background that was essentially of the true Gaelic Ireland. The history of her country was a living saga in her heart. If to love Ireland beyond life itself is an almighty folly, then this girl was guilty of that folly. The years slip by, and the young girl assumes the role of wife and mother. A mother instilling into the hearts of her children a love for the simple and enduring things of life. A mother with sublime and absolute unselfishness directing and reflecting back into the heart of Ireland the love and devotion she inspired in her children. Interweaving through the pattern of her daily living was the thread of a deep spiritual fervour. Understanding, so vital in their early years, she gave to A woman with a proud lift to her head watched at a gateway as her sons went forth: finely-fashioned hand resting on sword hilt— "Soft hand that played at my breast, strong hand that will fall heavy on the Gall, brave hand that will break the yoke!" Their eyes held, all the years of their living were merged into this moment of realisation. "Go, and God go with ye, if we do not meet again, we will meet in Heaven." The echo of the woundedness in her voice is imprisoned forever in her parting words. Branches a delicate lace work against a night sky, a shadowed road that gave no return. Her sons, small and helpless once, now one wears the uniform of a Commander-in-Chief of the Irish Republican Army. The echoes of a firing squad dying on the morning air, the dream breaking in an agonising movement in a mother's heart. "Tell him that mother will be braver than ever, and that she will carry her cross." A courage-drenched thought piercing the veils between earthly existence and eternity, linking the present with the hereafter. Courage that was the substance of their living, the strength and sweetness of their dying. And after, no more for her the surge of their living hopes and ideals, only the shallows of memory. THE remembering of a mother through the years. The vast emptiness of a study, shafts of evening sunlight touching unopened books. Ink dried to a brown rust on a pen, white paper that will no longer take the imprint of the treasures of his mind. Seeing the beauty of the world with his eyes. "How beautiful the world of God's creation, mother, see the slanting rays of the sun." An early photograph of Mrs. Pearse Voices sweeping the strings of her heart, children's voices, eager boys' voices. Low beautiful voices of their manhood, shot with the fire of their idealistic visions. Blossom - frosted branches of the Spring bringing the awareness of a son's closeness to eternal beauty. Her son—oh proud thought—before his going fashioned a rann for Mary's son, the golde…