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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..14c4d11 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #64260 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/64260) diff --git a/old/64260-0.txt b/old/64260-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index e3a7efc..0000000 --- a/old/64260-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,16673 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Lyra Celtica, by Elizabeth Amelia Sharp - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Lyra Celtica - An Anthology of Representative Celtic Poetry - -Editor: Elizabeth Amelia Sharp - J. Matthay - -Contributor: William Sharp - -Release Date: January 11, 2021 [eBook #64260] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Tim Lindell, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The Internet - Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LYRA CELTICA *** - - - THE COLLECTED WORKS OF “FIONA MACLEOD" - - (WILLIAM SHARP) - - - I. Pharais; The Mountain Lovers. - - II. The Sin-Eater; The Washer of the Ford, Etc. - - III. The Dominion of Dreams; Under the Dark Star. - - IV. The Divine Adventure; Iona; Studies in Spiritual History. - - V. The Winged Destiny; Studies in the Spiritual History of the - Gael. - - VI. The Silence of Amor; Where the Forest Murmurs. - - VII. Poems and Dramas. - - The Immortal Hour--_In paper covers._ - - - SELECTED WRITINGS OF WILLIAM SHARP - - I. Poems. - - II. Studies and Appreciations. - - III. Papers, Critical and Reminiscent. - - IV. Literary, Geography, and Travel Sketches. - - V. Vistas: The Gipsy Christ and other Prose Imaginings. - - - _Uniform with above, in two volumes_ - - A MEMOIR OF WILLIAM SHARP - - (FIONA MACLEOD) - - COMPILED BY MRS WILLIAM SHARP - - - LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN - - - - -_The Celtic -Library_ - - - LYRA CELTICA - - - - -FIRST EDITION 1896 - -SECOND EDITION (_Revised and Enlarged_) 1924 - - - - - LYRA CELTICA - - AN ANTHOLOGY OF REPRESENTATIVE - CELTIC POETRY - - EDITED BY - E. A. SHARP AND J. MATTHAY - - - _WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES_ - By WILLIAM SHARP - - - ANCIENT IRISH, ALBAN, GAELIC, BRETON, - CYMRIC, AND MODERN SCOTTISH AND - IRISH CELTIC POETRY - - - EDINBURGH: JOHN GRANT - 31 GEORGE IV. BRIDGE - 1924 - - - - - PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY - OLIVER AND BOYD EDINBURGH - - - - -CONTENTS - - “ ... _a troubled Eden, rich - In throb of heart_ ...” - - GEORGE MEREDITH - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - -INTRODUCTION xvii - - -ANCIENT IRISH AND SCOTTISH - -The Mystery of Amergin 3 - -The Song of Fionn 4 - -Credhe’s Lament 5 - -Cuchullin in his Chariot 6 - -Deirdrê’s Lament for the Sons of Usnach 8 - -The Lament of Queen Maev 10 - -The March of the Faërie Host 12 - -Vision of a Fair Woman 13 - -The Fian Banners 14 - -The Rune of St Patrick 17 - -Columcille cecenit 18 - -Columcille fecit 20 - -The Song of Murdoch the Monk 22 - -Domhnull Mac Fhionnlaidh: “The Aged -Bard’s Wish” 23 - -Ossian Sang 28 - -Fingal and Ros-crana 29 - -The Night-Song of the Bards 31 - -The Death-Song of Ossian 41 - - -ANCIENT CORNISH - -The Pool of Pilate 44, 45 - -Merlin the Diviner 46 - -The Vision of Seth 47 - - -EARLY ARMORICAN - -The Dance of the Sword 53 - -The Lord Nann and the Fairy 55 - -Alain the Fox 58 - -Bran 60 - -EARLY CYMRIC AND MEDIÆVAL WELSH - -The Soul 67 - -LLYWARC’H HÊN - -The Gorwynion 68 -The Tercets of Llywawrc’h 72 - -TALIESIN - -Song to the Wind 73 - -ANEURIN - -Odes of the Months 75 - -DAFYDD AP GWILYM - -The Summer 78 -To the Lark 81 - -RHYS GOCH (of ERYRI) - -To the Fox 82 - -RHYS GOCH AP RHICCART - -The Song of the Thrush 83 - - -IRISH (MODERN AND CONTEMPORARY) - -“A.E.” - -Sacrifice 87 -The Great Breath 88 -Mystery 89 -By the Margin of the Great Deep 90 -The Breath of Light 91 - -WILLIAM ALLINGHAM - -Æolian Harp 92 -The Fairies 93 - -THOMAS BOYD - -To the Lianhuan Shee 95 - -EMILY BRONTË - -Remembrance 97 - -STOPFORD A. BROOKE - -The Earth and Man 98 -Song 99 - -JOHN K. CASEY - -Maire, my Girl 101 -Gracie Og Machree 103 - -GEORGE DARLEY - -Dirge 104 - -AUBREY DE VERE - -The Little Black Rose 105 -Epitaph 106 - -FRANCIS FAHY - -Killiney Far Away 107 - -SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON - -Cean Dubh Deelish 109 -Molly Asthore 110 -The Fair Hills of Ireland 112 - -ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES - -Herring is King 113 -The Rose of Kenmare 115 -The Song of the Pratee 118 -Irish Lullaby 120 - -GERALD GRIFFIN - -Eileen Aroon 121 - -NORA HOPPER - -The Dark Man 123 -April in Ireland 124 -The Wind among the Reeds 125 - -DOUGLAS HYDE - -My Grief on the Sea 126 -The Cooleen 127 -The Breedyeen 128 -Nelly of the Top-Knots 130 -I shall not Die for Thee 132 - -LIONEL JOHNSON - -The Red Wind 133 -To Morfydd 134 - -DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY - -A Lament 135 - -JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN - -The Fair Hills of Eiré, O! 137 -Dark Rosaleen 139 -The One Mystery 142 - -ROSA MULHOLLAND - -The Wild Geese 144 - -RODEN NOËL - -Lament for a Little Child 146 -The Swimmer 148 -The Dance 151 -From “The Water-Nymph and the Boy” 152 -A Casual Song 154 -The Pity of it 155 -The Old 157 - -CHARLES P. O’CONOR - -Maura Du of Ballyshannon 158 - -JOHN FRANCIS O’DONNELL - -A Spinning Song 160 - -JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY - -A White Rose 161 - -ARTHUR O’SHAUGHNESSY - -The Fountain of Tears 162 - -FANNY PARNELL - -After Death 165 - -T. W. ROLLESTON - -The Dead at Clonmacnois 166 - -DORA SIGERSON - -Unknown Ideal 167 - -GEORGE SIGERSON - -Mo Cáilin Donn 168 - -JOHN TODHUNTER - -An Irish Love Song 170 -The Sunburst 171 -Song 173 - -KATHERINE TYNAN - -Winter Sunset 174 -Shamrock Song 176 -Wild Geese 178 - -CHARLES WEEKES - -Dreams 179 -Poppies 180 - -W. B. YEATS - -They went forth to the Battle, but they always fell 181 -The White Birds 183 -The Lake of Innisfree 184 - - -SCOTO-CELTIC (MIDDLE PERIOD) - -Prologue to “Gaul” 187 - -In Hebrid Seas 189 - -Cumha Ghriogair Mhic Griogair 191 - -Drowned 194 - -ALEXANDER MACDONALD - -The Manning of the Birlinn 195 - -ANGUS MACKENZIE - -The Lament of the Deer 201 - -DUNCAN BÀN MACINTYRE - -Ben Dorain 203 -The Hill-Water 208 - -MARY MACLEOD - -Song for Macleod of Macleod 210 - -MODERN AND CONTEMPORARY SCOTO-CELTIC - -Monaltri 217 - -An Coineachan--A Highland Lullaby 218 - -A Boat Song 219 - -JOHN STUART BLACKIE - -The Old Soldier of the Gareloch Head 222 - -ROBERT BUCHANAN - -Flower of the World 224 -The Strange Country 225 -The Dream of the World without Death 228 -The Faëry Foster-Mother 235 - -LORD BYRON - -When we Two Parted 238 -Stanzas for Music 239 - -Colin’s Cattle 240 - -MacCrimmon’s Lament 241 - -IAN CAMERON - -Song 242 - -JOHN DAVIDSON - -A Loafer 243 -In Romney Marsh 245 - -JEAN GLOVER - -O’er the Muir amang the Heather 246 - -GEORGE MACDONALD - -Song 247 - -RONALD CAMPBELL MACFIE - -Song 249 - -WILLIAM MACDONALD - -A Spring Trouble 250 - -AMICE MACDONELL - -Culloden Moor 251 - -ALICE C. MACDONELL - -The Weaving of the Tartan 252 - -WILLIAM MACGILLIVRAY - -The Thrush’s Song 254 - -FIONA MACLEOD - -The Prayer of Women 255 -The Rune of Age 257 -A Milking Song 259 -Lullaby 261 -The Songs of Ethlenn Stuart 262 -The Closing Doors 264 -The Sorrow of Delight 265 - -NORMAN MACLEOD - -Farewell to Fiunary 266 - -SARAH ROBERTSON MATHESON - -A Kiss of the King’s Hand 267 - -DUGALD MOORE - -The First Ship 268 - -LADY CAROLINE NAIRNE - -The Land o’ the Leal 269 - -ALEXANDER NICOLSON - -Skye 270 - -SIR NOËL PATON - -Midnight by the Sea 272 -In Shadowland 273 - -WILLIAM RENTON - -Mountain Twilight 274 - -LADY JOHN SCOTT - -Durisdeer 275 - -EARL OF SOUTHESK - -November’s Cadence 276 - -JOHN CAMPBELL SHAIRP - -Cailleach Bein-y-Vreich 277 - -UNA URQUHART - -An Old Tale of Three 279 - -ANON. - -Lost Love 280 - -CONTEMPORARY ANGLO-CELTIC POETS -(WALES) - -GEORGE MEREDITH - -Dirge in Woods 283 -Outer and Inner 284 -Night of Frost in May 286 -Hymn to Colour 289 - -SEBASTIAN EVANS - -Shadows 292 - -EBENEZER JONES - -When the World is Burning 293 -The Hand 294 - -EMILY DAVIS - -A Song of Winter 296 - -ERNEST RHYS - -The Night Ride 297 -The House of Hendra 298 - - -CONTEMPORARY ANGLO-CELTIC POETS -(MANX) - -T. E. BROWN - -The Childhood of Kitty of the Sherragh Vane 307 - -HALL CAINE - -Graih my Chree 309 - - -CONTEMPORARY ANGLO-CELTIC POETS -(CORNISH) - -A. T. QUILLER COUCH - -The Splendid Spur 317 -The White Moth 318 - -STEPHEN HAWKER - -Featherstone’s Doom 319 -Trebarrow 320 - -RICCARDO STEPHENS - -Witch Margaret 321 -A Ballad 323 -Hell’s Piper 325 - -MODERN AND CONTEMPORARY BRETON - -The Poor Clerk 331 - -The Cross by the Way 333 - -The Secrets of the Clerk 335 - -Love Song 336 - -HERVÉ-NOËL LE BRETON - -Hymn to Sleep 338 -The Burden of Lost Souls 340 - -VILLIERS DE L’ISLE-ADAM - -Confession 342 -Discouragement 343 - -LECONTE DE LISLE - -The Black Panther 344 -The Spring 346 - -LEO-KERMORVAN - -The Return of Taliesen 348 - -LOUIS TIERCELIN - -By Menec’hi Shore 351 - - -THE CELTIC FRINGE - -BLISS CARMAN - -Song 355 -The War-Song of Gamelbar 356 -Golden Rowan 359 -A Sea Child 360 - -ELLEN MACKAY HUTCHINSON - -The Quest 361 -Moth Song 362 -June 363 - -HUGH M‘CULLOCH - -Scent o’ Pines 364 - -DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT - -The Reed-Player 365 - -THOMAS D’ARCY M‘CGEE - -The Celtic Cross 366 - -MARY C. G. BYRON - -The Tryst of the Night 368 - -ALICE E. GILLINGTON - -The Doom-Bar 369 -The Seven Whistlers 371 - -SHANE LESLIE - -Requiem 373 - -PADRAIC COLUM - -An Old Woman of the Roads 374 -A Cradle Song 375 - -JAMES STEPHENS - -The Coolun 376 -The Clouds 377 - -ELEANOR HULL - -The Old Woman of Beare 378 - -THOMAS MACDONAGH - -From a “Litany of Beauty” 381 - -SEOSAMH MACCATHMHAOIL - -I will go with my Father a-ploughing 383 -A Northern Love Song 384 - -PATRICK MACGILL - -Fairy Workers 385 - -FRANCIS LEDWIDGE - -The Shadow People 386 -My Mother 387 - -GORDON BOTTOMLEY - -Lyric from “The Crier by Night” 388 - -JAMES H. COUSINS - -The Quest 389 - -PADRAIC H. PEARSE - -The Fool 390 - -LORD DUNSANY - -The Return of Song 392 - -KENNETH MACLEOD - -Dance to your Shadow 393 -Sea Longing 394 -The Reiving Ship 395 - -MARJORY KENNEDY-FRASER - -Land of Heart’s Desire 396 -Ossian’s Midsummer Day-Dream 397 -Kishmul’s Galley 398 - -AGNES MURE MACKENZIE - -Aignish on the Machair 399 - -NEIL MUNRO - -Fingal’s Weeping 400 - - -NOTES 403-450 - - - - -INTRODUCTION - - -In this foreword I must deal cursorily with a great and fascinating -subject, for “Lyra Celtica” has extended beyond its original limits, and -Text and Notes have absorbed much of the space which had been allotted -for a preliminary dissertation on the distinguishing qualities and -characteristics of Celtic literature. - -For most readers, the interest of an anthology is independent of any -introductory remarks: the appeal is in the wares, not in the running -commentary of the hawker. For those, however, who have looked for a -detailed synthesis, as well as for the Celticists who may have expected -an ample, or, at least, a more adequately representative selection from -the older Celtic literatures, I have a brief word to say before passing -on to the matter in hand. - -In the first place, this volume is no more than an early, and, in a -sense, merely arbitrary, gleaning from an abundant harvest. For “Lyra -Celtica” is not so much the introduction to a much larger, more organic, -and more adequately representative work, to be called “Anthologia -Celtica,” but is rather the outcome of the latter, itself culled from a -vast mass of material, ancient, mediæval, and modern. It is, moreover, -intentionally given over mainly to modern poetry. “Anthologia Celtica” -may not appear for a year or two hence, perhaps not for several years; -for a systematic effort to compile a scholarly anthology, on -chronological and comparative lines, of the ancient poetry of Irish and -Scottish Gaeldom, of the Cymric, Armorican, and other Brythonic bards, -is a task not to be lightly undertaken, or fulfilled in anything like -satisfactory degree without that patience and care which only -enthusiastic love of the subject can give, and for which the extrinsic -reward is payable in rainbow-gold alone. - -In the second place, all that was intended to be written here, will be -given more fully and more systematically in a volume to be published -later: “An Introduction to the Study of Celtic Literature.” Therein an -effort is made to illustrate the distinguishing imaginative qualities of -the several Celtic races; to trace the origins, dispersion, interfusion, -and concentration of the early Celtic, Picto-Celtic, and later Goidelic -and Brythonic peoples, and to reflect Celtic mythopœic and authentic -history through Celtic poetry and legendary lore. Concurrently there is -an endeavour to relate, in natural order, the development of the -literature of contemporary Wales, Brittany, Ireland, and Celtic -Scotland, from their ancient Cymric, Armorican, Erse, and Alban-Gaelic -congeners. - - * * * * * - -It is not yet thirty years ago since Matthew Arnold published his -memorable and beautiful essay on Celtic Literature, so superficial in -its knowledge, it is true, but informed by so keen and fine an -interpretative spirit; yet already, since 1868, the writings of Celtic -specialists constitute quite a library. - -Of recent years we have had many works of the greatest value in Celtic -ethnology, philology, history, archæology, art, legendary ballads and -romances, folk-lore, and literature. Of all the Celtic literatures, that -which was least known, when Arnold wrote, was the Scoto-Gaelic; but now -with books such as Skene’s “Celtic Scotland,” Campbell’s “Popular Tales -of the West Highlands,” with its invaluable supplementary matter, Dr -Cameron’s “Reliquiæ Celticæ,” and many others, there is no difficulty -for the would-be student. Again, it is impossible to overrate the value -of popular books at once so able, so trustworthy, and so readily -attainable, as Professor Rhys’s “Celtic Britain,” or Dr Douglas Hyde’s -“Story of Early Gaelic Literature”; while Breton literature, ancient or -modern, has found almost as many, and certainly as able and -enthusiastic, exponents as that of Wales or that of Ireland. In Ireland -there is, with Mr Standish Hayes O’Grady, Dr Douglas Hyde, Dr Sigerson, -and many more, quite an army of workers in every branch of Celtic -science and literature; in Scotland one less numerous perhaps, but not -less ardent and justly enthusiastic; and in Wales the old Cymric spirit -survives unabated, from the Butt of Anglesea to the marches of Hereford. -In Brittany there was, till the other day, Hersart de la Villemarqué, -and now there are M. de Jubainville, M. Loth, M. Anatole Le Braz, M. -Auguste Brizeux, Charles Le Goffic, Louis Tiercelin, and many more -philologists and other students, poets, romancists, and critics. -Cornwall has not been neglected, nor has Man, and even the outlying -fringe of Celtdom has found interpreters and expounders. In France the -“Revue Celtique”; in Ireland, Scotland, and Wales, Gaelic or Welsh or -Anglo-Celtic periodicals and “Transactions,” stimulate a wider and -deeper interest, and do inestimable service. The writings of men such as -Renan, De Jubainville, Valroger, and other French Celticists: of -Windisch, Kuno Meyer, and other Germans: of English specialists such as -Mr Whitley Stokes, Mr Alfred Nutt, and others: these, together, and in -all their different ways of approach, are, along with the writings of -native specialists in Ireland, Wales, and Scotland, accomplishing a work -greater than is now to be measured or even accurately apprehended. - -To all who would know something authentic concerning the history of the -Celtic race since its occupation of these Isles, and of a large section, -and latterly of a corner, of Western Europe, I would recommend -Professor Rhys’s admirable little book, “Celtic Britain,” a volume -within the reach of all. In the Irish National Library, the volumes of -which are sold at a trifling sum, may be had Dr Douglas Hyde’s lucid and -excellent exposition of early Gaelic literature; and, among valuable -popular contributions to Anglo-Celtic Literature, mention should be made -of the Rev. Nigel MacNeill’s “Literature of the Highlanders.” These -three books alone, each priced at a moderate sum, will give a reader, -hitherto ignorant of the subject, much trustworthy information on the -history, ethnology, and literature of the Irish and Scottish Gael. I -know of no “popular” book on early Welsh literature, and certainly none -that, in trustworthiness, has superseded Stephens’s “Literature of the -Cymri.” Mr Norris has introduced us to much ancient Cornish writing -which it would have been a pity to let lapse uncollected: and of MM. -Villemarqué, De Jubainville, Valroger, Le Braz, and other Breton -specialists I have already spoken. - -It would seem reserved for this coming century, says Dr Hyde, unless a -vigorous, sustained, and national effort at once be made, to catch the -last tones of “that beautiful, unmixed Aryan language which, with the -exception of that glorious Greek which has now renewed its youth like -the eagle, has left the longest, most luminous, and most consecutive -literary track behind it of any of the vernacular tongues of Europe.” -But, alas, a stronger law than that which man can make or unmake, or -nations can resolve, is slowly disintegrating the subsoil wherefrom the -roots of the Celtic speech draw the sole nurture which can give it the -beauty and fragrance of life. - -Some idea of the vastness of the mass of the as yet untranslated Celtic -literature may be had from the notes in books by Dr Douglas Hyde, J. F. -Campbell, Alfred Nutt, and other specialists. In the National Libraries -in Great Britain alone it is estimated that, if all the inedited MSS. -were printed, they would fill at least twelve hundred or fourteen -hundred octavo volumes. Those who would realise more adequately the -extent and importance of this early literature should, besides the -authorities already mentioned, consult Eugene O’Curry’s invaluable -“Manners and Customs,” and in particular the section of 130 pp. devoted -to Education and Literature in Ancient Erinn, which deals with the most -important Irish-Gaelic poets from the earliest times down to the -eleventh century: the likewise invaluable “Myvyrian Archaiology,” which -sets forth an imposing list of Cymric poets, with much information -concerning life in Ancient Wales: and books such as Campbell’s “Leabhar -na Féinne,” and “Tales of the West Highlands,” MacNeill’s “Literature of -the Highlanders,” and (though for students rather than the general -reader) the writings of Skene, Anderson, Whitley Stokes, Nutt, and many -others. - -Modern Irish-Celtic literature may be said to date from O’Donovan’s -superb redaction and amplification of “The Annals of the Four Masters,” -one of the monumental achievements in world-literature, on the side of -scholarship; and from Keating’s “History of Ireland,” on the side of -popular writing. Since O’Donovan and Keating, the literary activity of -Ireland has again and again re-asserted itself, and is once more so much -in evidence, in Celtic scholarship and in Anglo-Celtic romance and -poetry, that the not over-ready attention of England is perforce drawn -to it. - -The contemporary Anglo-Celtic poetry of Ireland has a quality which no -other English poetry possesses in like degree: the quality which Matthew -Arnold defined as natural magic--“Celtic poetry drenched in the dew of -natural magic.” Obviously, the lover of poetry may at once object that -Shakespere, Milton, Coleridge, Shelley, Keats, are English, and Byron, -Burns, and Scott are Scottish, and not distinctively Anglo-Celtic. Well, -of Shakespere’s ancestry we know little; and if Celtic enthusiasts -maintain that he must have had a strong Celtic strain in his blood, -they may be innocent blasphemers, but do not deserve crucifixion for -their iniquity. Milton was of Welsh blood through his maternal descent; -and Keats is a Celtic name. Keats’ mother’s name is Welsh of the Welsh, -while his genius is as convincingly Celtic in its distinguishing -qualities as though he were able to trace his descent from Oisìn or -Fergus Honey-Mouth of “the Fingalians.” Keats, born a Cockney, is -pre-eminently a Celtic poet, by virtue of the nationality of the brain -if for no other authentic reason; while Moore, born in Ireland of Celtic -ancestry, is the least Celtic of all modern poets of eminence. So far as -we know, Coleridge and Shelley are of unmixed English blood, though who -can say there was nothing atavistic in their genius, and that the wild -lyricism of the one and the glamour and magic of the other were not in -part the expression of some “ancestral voice”? - -Of the three great modern Scots, it is still a debatable point if Burns -was not more Celtic than “Lowland,” that is, by paternal as well as by -maternal descent; and it surely is almost unquestionable that, in the -geography of the soul, Burns’ natal spot must be sought in the Fortunate -Isles of Celtdom. Byron, of course, though far more British than -Scottish, and again more Scottish than Celtic, had a strong Celtic -strain in his blood; and Scott, as it happens, was of the ancient stock, -and not “the typical Lowlander” he is so often designated.[1] - -The truth is, that just as in Scotland we may come upon a type which is -unmistakably national without being either Anglo-Saxon or Celtic or -Anglo-Celtic, but which, rightly or wrongly, we take to be Pictish (and -possibly a survival of an older race still), so, throughout our whole -country, and in Sussex and Hampshire, as well as in Connemara or Argyll, -we may at any moment encounter the Celtic brain in the Anglo-Saxon -flesh. In Scotland, in particular, it may be doubted if there are many -families native to the soil who have not at least a Celtic strain. -People are apt to forget that Celtic Scotland does not mean only the -Western Isles and the Highlands, and that the whole country was at one -time Celtic (Goidelic), and before that was again Celtic, when Brythonic -or Cymric Scotland and the Dalriadic Scoto-Irish of Argyll, and the -northern Picts, who were probably Gaels, or of kindred Celtic origin, -held the land, and sowed the human seed whence arose much of the finest -harvest of a later Scotland. - -Here I may conveniently quote a significant passage from “Celtic -Britain”:-- - -“This means, from the Celtic point of view, that the Goidelic race of -history is not wholly Celtic or Aryan, but inherits in part a claim to -the soil of these islands, derived from possession at a time when, as -yet, no Aryan waggoner had driven into Europe; and it is, perhaps, from -their Kynesian ancestry that the Irish of the present day have inherited -the lively humour and ready wit, which, among other characteristics, -distinguish them from the Celts of the Brythonic branch, most of whom, -especially the Kymry, are a people still more mixed, as they consist of -the Goidelic element of the compound nature already suggested, with an -ample mixture of Brythonic blood, introduced mostly by the Ordovices. -And as to Welsh, it is, roughly speaking, the Brythonic language, as -spoken by the Ordovices, and as learned by the Goidelic peoples they -overshadowed in the Principality of Wales. To this its four chief -dialects still correspond, being those, respectively, of Powys, Gwent -or Siluria, Dyved or Demetia, and Venedot or Gwynedd. - -“Skulls are harder than consonants, and races lurk when languages slink -away. The lineal descendants of the neolithic aborigines are ever among -us, possibly even those of a still earlier race. On the other hand, we -can imagine the Kynesian impatiently hearing out the last echoes of -palæolithic speech; we can guess dimly how the Goidel gradually silenced -the Kynesian; we can detect the former coming slowly round to the -keynote of the Brython; and, lastly, we know how the Englishman is -engaged, linguistically speaking, in drowning the voice of both of them -in our own day. Such, to take another metaphor, are some of the lines -one would have to draw in the somewhat confused picture we have -suggested of one wave of speech chasing another, and forcing it to dash -itself into oblivion on the western confines of the Aryan world; and -that we should fondly dream English likely to be the last, comes only -from our being unable to see into a distant future pregnant with untold -changes of no less grave a nature than have taken place in the dreary -wastes of the past.” - -To return: among the great English and Scottish writers of to-day two -may be taken as examples of this brain-kinship with a race physically -alien. Much of the poetry of Algernon Charles Swinburne is distinctively -Celtic, particularly in its lyric fire and wonderful glow and colour, as -well as its epithetical luxuriance; but, indeed, this is hardly a good -instance after all, for Mr Swinburne’s north-country ancestry is not -without definite Celtic admixture. “Tristram of Lyonesse” is, in its own -way, as Celtic as “The Voyage of St Brendan,” and with more of innate -inevitableness than in those lovely Celtic reflections in the -essentially English brain of Tennyson, “The Dream” and “The Voyage of -Maelduin.” - -As for Robert Louis Stevenson, come of Lowland stock, and, as he said -himself once, “made up o’ Lallan dust, body and soul,” there is not, so -far as I know, any proof that a near paternal or maternal ancestor was -of Celtic blood. But who, that has studied his genius, can question the -Celtic strain in him, or who believe that, though “the Lallan dust” may -have been unadulterate for generations, the brain which conceived and -wrought “The Merry Men” and “Thrawn Janet” was not attuned to Celtic -music? There is a poem of his which seems to me typically Celtic in its -indescribable haunting charm, its air of I know not what rare music, its -deep yearning emotion, and its cosmic note-- - - “In the highlands, in the country places, - Where the old plain men have rosy faces, - And the young fair maidens - Quiet eyes; - Where essential silence cheers and blesses - And forever in the hill-recesses - Her more lovely music - Broods and dies, - - O to mount again where erst I haunted; - Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted, - And the low green meadows - Bright with sward; - And when even dies, the million tinted, - And the night has come, and planets glinted, - Lo, the valley hollow - Lamp-bestarred! - - O to dream, O to awake and wander - There, and with delight to take and render, - Through the trance of silence, - Quiet breath; - Lo! for there, among the flowers, and grasses, - Only the mightier movement sounds and passes; - Only winds and rivers, - Life and death.” - -Of course there is a certain poignant note common to all poetry, and he -might be a zealous Celticist, but a poor worshipper of Apollo, who would -try to limit this charm of exquisite regret and longing to Celtic -poetry. It is an unfrontiered land, this pleasant country in the -geography of the soul which we call Bohemia; and here all parochial and -national, and even racial distinctions fall away, and Firdausi and -Oisìn, Omar the Tentmaker and Colum the Saint, and all and every -“Honey-Mouth” of every land and time, move in equal fellowship. Even in -one of the most haunting quatrains by any modern Anglo-Celtic poet-- - - “O wind, O mighty melancholy wind, - Blow through me, blow! - Thou blowest forgotten things into my mind, - From long ago”-- - -we must not forget the elder music of one who is among the truest of the -poets of Nature whom the world has seen: though neither in brain nor, so -far as we know, in blood, had Wordsworth any kinship with the Celt--the -music “Of old, unhappy, far-off things.” - -By a natural association, “Ossian” comes to mind. It is pleasant to -think that a book like “Lyra Celtica” appears just at the centenary of -James Macpherson. Macpherson died in 1796, but long before his death his -reputed “Ossian” had become one of the most vital influences in -literature. This is not the occasion to go into the “Ossian” dispute. It -must suffice to say that the concensus of qualified opinion decides--(1) -That Macpherson’s “Ossian” is not a genuine rendering of ancient -originals; (2) that he worked incoherently upon a genuine but -unsystematised, unsifted, and fragmentary basis, without which, however, -he could have achieved nothing; (3) that inherent evidence disproves -Macpherson’s sole or even main authorship as well as “Ossian’s,” and -that he was at most no more than a skilful artificer; (4) that, if he -were the sole author, he would be one of the few poetic creators of the -first rank, and worthy of all possible honour; (5) that no single work -in our literature has had so wide-reaching, so potent, and so enduring -an influence. - -Much of the tragic gloom, of which “Ossian” is a true mirror, colours -even contemporary Scoto-Celtic poetry; and though in Gaelic there is -much humorous verse, and much poetry of a blithe, bright, and even -joyous nature, the dominant characteristic is that of gloom, the gloom -of unavailing regret, of mournful longing, a lament for what cannot be -again. True, in a Gaelic poem by Mary Mackellar, a contemporary Highland -poet, we hear of - - Spioraid aosmhoir tìr nan Gàidheal, - Ciod an diugh a’s fàth do ’n ghàirich - ’Dhùisg thu comhdaichte le aighear, - As an uaigh ’s an robh thu’d ’chadal? - - (Spirit of the Gaelic earth - Wherefore is this mirth unwonted - That hath waked thee from the tomb, - And to triumph turned thy gloom?)-- - -but, alas! that fine line, “Spioraid aosmhoir tìr nan Gàidheal” is not -an invocation to the Gaelic muse to arouse herself to a new and blither -music, but is simply part of some congratulatory lines of a “Welcome to -the Marquis of Lorne on his union with the Princess Louise”![2] - -The “Spirit of the Gaelic earth” does not make for mirth, as a rule, at -least in the Highlands, save in verse of a frankly Bacchanalian or -satiric kind. - -In this, there is a marked contrast with the Irish-Gaelic, whose muse -is laughter-loving though ever with “dewy dark eyes.” - -If, however, the blithe and delightful peasant poetry of Mr Alfred -Percival Graves, and that so beautifully translated and paraphrased by -Dr Douglas Hyde, be characteristically Irish, so also is such typically -Celtic poetry as this lyric by the latest Irish singer, Miss Moira -O’Neill-- - - -“SEA WRACK.” - - The wrack was dark an’ shiny where it floated in the sea, - There was no room in the brown boat but only him an’ me; - Him to cut the sea wrack--me to mind the boat, - An’ not a word between us the hours we were afloat. - The wet wrack, - The sea wrack, - The wrack was strong to cut. - - We laid it on the grey rocks to wither in the sun; - An’ what should call my lad then to sail from Cushendun? - With a low moon, a full tide, a swell upon the deep, - Him to sail the old boat--me to fall asleep. - The dry wrack, - The sea wrack, - The wrack was dead so soon. - - There’s a fire low upon the rocks to burn the wrack to kelp; - There’s a boat gone down upon the Moyle, an’ sorra one to help. - Him beneath the salt sea--me upon the shore-- - By sunlight or moonlight we’ll lift the wrack no more. - The dark wrack, - The sea wrack, - The wrack may drift ashore. - -When we come to examine the literature of the four great divisions of -the Celtic race, a vast survey lies before us, with innumerable vistas. -A lifetime might well be given to the study of any one of the ancient -Erse, Alban-Gaelic, Cymric, and Armorican literatures: a lifetime that -would yet have to leave much undiscovered, much unrelated. There is room -for every student. In old Irish literature alone, though so many -enthusiasts are now working towards its greater elucidation and the -transference of the better part of it into Anglo-Celtic literature, -there remain whole tracts, and even regions, of unexploited land. In a -score of ways, pioneers have been clearing the ground for us: -philologists like Windisch, Loth, Kuno Meyer, Whitley Stokes; literary -scholars like S. Hayes O’Grady, Campbell of Islay, Cameron of Brodick, -Dr Douglas Hyde; folklorists innumerable, in Scotland, Wales, and -Ireland; romancists like Standish O’Grady, who write across the angle of -the historic imagination, and romancists like W. B. Yeats, who write -across the angle of the poetic imagination; and poets, an ever-growing -band of sweet singers, who catch for us the fugitive airs, the exquisite -fleeting cadences, the haunting, indefinable music of an earlier day. - -From Ireland the Neo-Celtic Renascence has extended through Gaeldom. The -concurrent Welsh development may be independent of this Irish influence, -and probably is: largely because the poetic imagination of the Cymri of -to-day was stirred from within, by the stimulus to the national genius -through the world-wide attention drawn by the publication of the -“Mabinogion,” as in turn the Gaelic imagination was stirred by the -incalculable influence of “Ossian”--an influence so great, so deep, so -wide-reaching, that, as already said, were Macpherson to be proved the -sole author, were it convincingly demonstrable that he was, not a more -or less confused and unscholarly interpreter, but himself a creator, -himself “Ossian,” he would deserve to rank with the three or four great -ancients and moderns who have dug, deep and wide, new channels for the -surging flow of human thought. Possibly, at any rate, this may prove to -be one good reason for the independence of the Welsh development from -any Irish stimulus--an impulse from within always being more potent and -enduring than one from without; but, fundamentally, this independence is -due to an organic difference. In a word, the Celtic genius is broadly -divisible, even at this day, into two great sections: the Goidelic and -the Brythonic or Cymric--let us say, is represented by the Welsh Celt -and the Gaelic Celt. Those readers or students who approach the -literature of either, ancient or modern, but particularly the latter, -and expect to find identity both of sentiment and in method of -expression, will ultimately be as disappointed as one who should, with -the same idea, approach Spanish and Portuguese, or Dutch and German, or -Provençal and French. In every respect, save that of ancient kinship, -the Welsh and the Gaels differ materially. There is, perhaps, more -likeness between the Highlander and the Welshman than between the latter -and the Irishman; but even here the distinctions are considerable, and -the Gaelic islesman of Barra or Uist is as different a creature from the -native of Glamorgan or Caermarthen as though no racial cousinship united -them. But, in the instance of Welsh and Irish, the unlikeness is so -marked that the best analogue is that of the Frenchman and the German. -The Irish are the French of the Celtic races, the Welsh the Germans. The -two people are distinct in their outer and inner life as well as in -their literature; and for a Connaught man or a Hebridean to go through -Wales would be as foreign an experience as for a Welshman to find -himself among the Catholic islesmen of South Uist, or among the moorside -villages of Connemara. - -To-day the Gael and Cymri are foreigners. Strangely enough, the section -of the Celtic race most akin to the Welsh is the Manx--a Goidelic -people, and with a Gaelic dialect. The Gael himself, however, does not -stand out distinctly. Although there is a far greater likeness between -the Scoto-Celt and the Irish-Celt than between either and the Welshman, -there are traits which unmistakably distinguish them. In Ireland itself, -the Celt of the south-east and south differs in more respects than mere -dialect from his kinsman by the Connaught shore or of the hills of -Connemara; as, in Scotland, there is a marked distinction between the -“Tuathach” (North Highlander) and the “Deasach” (the South and West -Highlander). A Farquharson or a Gordon from Aberdeenshire has to shake -hands across the arms of many a Mackenzie and Macgregor, many a Cameron -and Macpherson, before he can link in brotherly grip with a MacNeill of -Barra, a Macdonald of Skye, a Macleod of the Lewis. These distinctions, -of course, are in their nature parochial rather than racial; but they -are highly indicative of a fundamental weakness in the Celtic nature, -and suggest a cogent reason for the failure of the race to cohere into -one compact and indispersable nation, as the central Teutonic races -merged into “Germany,” as Gauls, Normans, and Provençals merged into -“France,” and as the Brythons, the Teutonic outlanders (Frisians, -Angles, Jutes, &c.), Saxons, Danes, Normans, and Anglo-Celts merged into -“England,” and, later, into “Great Britain,” into the “British Empire.” - -The most marked Celtic national homogeneity is to be found in Wales. -Wales has ever persisted, and still persists in her moat and her -drawbridge. In the preservation of her language is her safeguard. -Without Welsh, Wales would be as English as Cumberland or Cornwall. In -this way only, knit indissolubly to the flank of England as she is, and -without any natural eastern frontier of mountain range or sea, can she -isolate herself; and I am convinced that herein we have one main reason -for the passionate attachment of the Cymri of to-day to their ancient -language--an attachment as strong among the unlettered as among ardent -scholars, and even among those who have no heed for the beauty of -traditional literature or, indeed, heed of any kind other than for the -narrow personal interests of domesticity. - -But this very isolation of Wales, through her language, has, no doubt, -interfered materially with the development of her Anglo-Celtic -literature. Contrasted with that of Ireland or that of Scotland, how -astonishingly meagre it is. All Ireland is aflame with song; Scotland is -again becoming the land of old romance. Here and there are a few -writers, a poet-romancist like Mr Ernest Rhys, a poet like the late -Emily Davis, a few novelists who are Welsh by the accident of birth -rather than by the nationality of the brain. For, of course, Mr George -Meredith stands so far above all localisation of this kind that it would -be out of place to rank him merely as the head of contemporary Wales. He -is the foremost Anglo-Celtic voice of to-day; so emphatically foremost, -by the distinguishing qualities of his genius, that if to-morrow he were -proved to be come of a stock of long unmixed Saxon ancestry never -dissociated from that southern country of which he is by birth a native, -we should be justified in abiding by the far more significant and -important lineage of the brain. - -But this great exception apart, the difference alluded to is -extraordinary. Wales is so animated by national enthusiasms, pride, and -incalculable hereditary uplift, that her silence--in English, that -is--can hardly be accounted for away from the supposition that, in -closing her ears against English, she has also set her lips against -utterance in that tongue. - -The Scoto-Celtic writers of to-day, both in prose and poetry, have -produced more Anglo-Celtic literature than Wales has done since the -beginning of the century, and with a range, a vitality, a beauty, far -beyond anything that has come forth from modern Cymru; and Ireland, -again, in poetry at any rate, has given us even more than Scotland. - -The Celtic Renascence, of which so much has been written of late--that -is, the re-birth of the Celtic genius in the brain of Anglo-Celtic poets -and the brotherhood of dreamers--is, fundamentally, the outcome of -“Ossian,” and, immediately, of the rising of the sap in the Irish -nation. - -Of the immense and never yet approximately defined Irish-Celtic -influence in literature a fine and true word has been said by one of the -ablest of the Irish fellowship; and I would strongly urge every reader -to obtain Mr Stopford Brooke’s admirable and stimulating little essay -“On the Need and Use of getting Irish Literature into the English -Tongue.”[3] With its conclusion, every lover of English poetry and -romance will agree. - -“When we have got the old [Celtic] legendary tales rendered into fine -prose and verse, I believe we shall open out English poetry to a new and -exciting world, an immense range of subjects, entirely fresh and full of -inspiration. Therefore, as I said, get them out into English, and then -we may bring England and [Celtdom] into a union which never can suffer -separation, and send another imaginative force on earth which may (like -Arthur’s tale) create Poetry for another thousand years.” - -These are inspiring words, and should find an eager response. - -More and more we may hope that the beautiful poetry of Ireland, ancient -and modern, with its incommunicable charm and exquisite spontaneity; -that the strange, elemental, sombre imagination of the West Highlander -and of the Gael of the Isles; and that the vivid spell of the old Welsh -bards, will, before long, become a still greater, a still more -regenerating, and a lasting force and influence in our English -literature. - - * * * * * - -In the Notes I have something to say concerning each of the many ancient -and modern writers drawn upon for this representative anthology, so need -not here enter into further detail of the kind. - -Obviously, it would be impossible to make a work of this nature as -welcome to the Celtic scholar as to the general reader. No one in the -least degree acquainted with ancient Gaelic and Cymric literature could -fail to note how merely superficial this section of “Lyra Celtica” is. -Therefore, let me again aver that this anthology has been compiled, not -for the specialist, but for the lover of poetry; and to serve, for the -many who have no knowledge of “Anglo-Celtic” as distinct from -“Anglo-Saxon” poetry, as a small Pisgah whence to gain a glimpse into a -strange and beautiful land, a land wherein, as in a certain design by -William Blake, the sun, the moon, and the morning star all shine -together, and where the horizons are spanned by fugitive rainbows ever -marvellously dissolving and more marvellously re-forming. - -The effort of the Editor has been to give, not always the finest or most -unquestionably authentic examples of early Celtic poetry, but the most -characteristic. Thus only could some idea be conveyed of the physiognomy -of this ancient literature. - -In the first section, that representative of Early Gaelic, a long period -of time is covered. A whole heroic age lies between that strange -pantheistic utterance of Amergin, who is now accepted as the earliest -Erse poet of whom we have authentic record, and the hymns of Columba: -and the quaint “Shaving Hymn” of Murdoch the Monk, though it precedes -the Ossianic fragments, relates to a much nearer period of history than -they do. Of these Ossianic fragments, it is not needful to say more here -than that, in their actual form, they are no more genuinely old than, -for example, are many of the lovely fantasias on old themes by modern -Irish poets. They are, at most, fundamentally ancient, and are given -here on this plea, and not as the translations of Macpherson. The day is -gone when the stupid outcry against Macpherson’s “Ossian,” as no more -than a gigantic fraud, finds a response among lovers of literature. We -all know, now, that Macpherson’s “Ossian” is not a genuine translation -of authentic =Dana Oisìn mhic Fhionn=, but, for all its great and enduring -beauty, a clumsily-constructed, self-contradictory, and sometimes -grotesquely impossible rendering of disconnected, fugitive, and, for the -most part, oral lore. Of the genuineness of this legendary lore there is -no longer any doubt in the minds of those native and alien students, who -alone are qualified to pronounce a definite verdict on this long -disputed point. It would have been easy to select other Ossianic -fragments; but as, in this anthology, the spirit and not the letter was -everything, it was considered advisable to make as apt a compromise with -Macpherson’s “Ossian” as practicable. Ancient poetry of the nature of -pieces such as “The Song of Fionn” (page 4) convey little to the -ordinary reader, not only on account of their puzzling allusions to -events and persons of whom the Englishman is not likely to have heard, -or from the strangeness of their style, as because of the remoteness of -the underlying sentiment and mental standpoint. And of this there can be -no question: that the ancient poetry, the antique spirit, breathes -throughout this eighteenth-century restoration, and gives it enduring -life, charm, and all the spell of cosmic imagination. It may well be, -indeed, that the literary historian has another signal discovery to -make, and, in definitively dissociating Oisìn of the Féinn and Ossian of -Badenoch, prove convincingly that James Macpherson was not even the -author (of the greater part at any rate) of the matter that has been -interpolated into the original, inchoate, traditional bardic lore. - -However much or little appeal “Ossian” may have for English readers of -to-day, there can surely be no doubt that all who have the spirit of -poetry must recognise the charm of the ancient Celtic imagination in -compositions such as “Credhe’s Lament” (page 5). This lovely haunting -lament, from the “Book of Lismore,” comes in its English form from that -invaluable work of Mr S. Hayes O’Grady, “Silva Gadelica.” Of how much -Celtic poetry, modern as well as ancient, is not this, though variously -expressed, the refrain: “Melodious is the crane, and O melodious is the -crane, in the marshlands of Druim-dá-thrén! ’tis she that may not save -her brood alive!” - -For the remarkable continuity of both expression and sentiment which -characterises Celtic poetry, ancient and modern, let the student turn, -for example, to the most famous Gaelic poem in Scotland to-day, Duncan -Bàn Macintyre’s “Ben Dorain,” and compare it with this “Lay of Arran” by -Caeilte, the Ossianic bard--Arran, no longer Arran of the many stags, -but still one of the loveliest of the Scottish isles, and touched on -every headland and hill with the sunset glamour of the past. - - -CAEILTE--LAY OF ARRAN.[4] - - “Arran of the many stags--the sea impinges on her very shoulders! - an island in which whole companies were fed--and with ridges among - which blue spears were reddened! Skittish deer are on her - pinnacles, soft blackberries upon her waving heather; cool water - there is upon her rivers, and mast upon her russet oaks! Greyhounds - there were in her, and beagles; blaeberries and sloes of the - blackthorn; dwellings with their backs set close against her woods, - and the deer fed scattered by her oaken thickets! A crimson crop - grew on her rocks, in all her glades a faultless grass; over her - crags affording friendly refuge, leaping went on and fawns were - skipping! Smooth were her level spots--her wild swine they were - fat; cheerful her fields (this is a tale that may be credited), her - nuts hung on her forest hazel’s boughs, and there was sailing of - long galleys past her! Right pleasant their condition all when the - fair weather sets in: under her rivers’ brinks trouts lie; the - sea-gulls wheeling round her grand cliff answer one the other--at - every fitting time delectable is Arran!” - -Again, most readers will be able to apprehend the delight of the -barbaric outlook in compositions such as “Cuchullin in His Chariot,” -which has been excerpted from Hector MacLean’s “Ultonian Hero Ballads”; -or the fantastic beauty of “The March of the Faerie Host,” as rendered -by Prof. Kuno Meyer after the original in “The Book of Lismore”; or the -lovely portrait of a beautiful woman, by a Highland poet of old, the -“Aisling air Dhreach Mna; or, Vision of a Fair Woman.” Possibly, too, -even Celtic scholars may not be displeased to read here English metrical -paraphrases, such as Sir Samuel Ferguson’s “Lament of Deirdrê for the -Sons of Usnach,”[5] or Mr T. W. Rolleston’s haunting “The Lament of -Queen Maev”; or, again, in dubiously authentic fragments such as “Fingal -and Ros-crana,” to have an opportunity to trace the “inner self” of many -a familiar ballad or legend. - -The Breton section, also, is represented equally slightly, though -perhaps not inadequately, all things considered. “The Dance of the -Sword” is, probably, fundamentally one of the most ancient of Celtic -bardic utterances. In the modern selection, it will be a surprise to -many readers to encounter names so familiar to lovers of French poetry -as Leconte de Lisle and Villiers de l’Isle-Adam. There are many -contemporary Breton poets of distinction, but it was feasible to select -no more than one or two. Auguste Brizeux and Charles Le Goffic may be -taken as typical exemplars of the historically re-creative and the -individually impressionistic methods. Unfortunately neither is -represented here. It was desirable to select at least one poet who still -uses the old Armorican tongue; but in my translation from -Leo-Kermorvan’s “Taliesen” (as again in that of Tiercelin’s “By Menec’hi -Shore”), I have not attempted a rhymed version, as in the original, or -in the French version published in the “Anthologie.” There are very few -translators who can be faithful both to the sound and sense, in the -attempt concurrently to reproduce identity of form, music, and -substance; and, as a rule, therefore, rhythmic prose, or an unrhymed -metrical version, is likely to prove more interesting as well as more -truly interpretative. - -Out of the rich garth of ancient and mediæval Welsh poetry, the Editor -has culled only a few blossoms. They contain, at least, something of -that lyric love of Nature which is so distinctively Celtic, and is the -chief charm of the poetic literature of Wales. It is earnestly to be -hoped that some poet-scholar will give us before long, in English, an -anthology of the best contemporary Welsh poetry. - -Of living poets who write in Gaelic, there are more in Scotland than in -Ireland. The Hebrides have been a nest of singers, since Mary Macleod -down to the youngest of the Uist poets of to-day; and though there is -not at present any Alexander Macdonald or Duncan Bàn Macintyre, there -are many singers who have a sweet and fine note, and many writers whose -poems have beauty, grace, and distinction. Perhaps the last fine product -of the pseudo-antique school is the “Sean Dàna”[6] of Dr John Smith, -late in the last century; but occasionally there occurs in our own day a -noteworthy instance of the re-telling of the old tales in the old way. -In “The Celtic Monthly,” and other periodicals, much good Gaelic verse -is to be found, and it is no exaggeration to say that at this moment -there are more than a hundred Gaelic singers in Western Scotland whose -poetry is as fresh and winsome, and, in point of form as well as -substance, as beautiful, as any that is being produced throughout the -rest of the realm. The Gaelic Muse has also found a home in Canada, and -it is interesting to note that one of the longest of recent Gaelic poems -was written by a Highlander in far-away Burmah. - -“The Highlander” (and in this and the following passage I quote the -words of Professor Mackinnon, from his Inaugural Address on his -succession to the Celtic Chair at Edinburgh University) “The Highlander -may be truly described as the child of music and song. For many a long -year his language is the language, for the most part, of the uneducated -classes. And yet, amid surroundings which too often are but mean and -wretched, without the advantages of education beyond what his native -glen supplied, he has contrived to enliven his lot by the cultivation of -such literature as the local bards, the traditions of the clan, and the -popular tales of the district supplied. He has attempted, not -unsuccessfully, to live not for the day and hour alone, but, in a true -sense, to live the life of the spirit! He has produced a mass of lyric -poetry which, in rhythmical flow, purity of sentiment, and beauty of -expression, can compare favourably with the literature of more powerful -and more highly-civilised communities. - -“In the highest efforts of Gaelic literature, in the prose of Norman -Macleod, in the masterpieces of the lyric poets, in the “Sean Dàna” of -Dr Smith, and above all, in the poems of Ossian, whether composed by -James Macpherson or the son of Fingal, the intellect of the Scottish -Celt, in its various moods and qualities, finds its deepest and fullest -expression. Here we have humour, pathos, passion, vehemence, a rush of -feeling and emotion not always under restraint, and apt to run into -exaggeration and hyperbole--characteristics which enter largely into the -mental and spiritual organisation of the people. But above and beneath -all these, there is a touch of melancholy, a ‘cry of the weary,’ -pervading the spirit of the Celt. Ossian gives expression to this -sentiment in the touching line which Matthew Arnold, the most -sympathetic and penetrating critic of the Celtic imagination, with the -true instinct of genius, prefixes to his charming volume, ‘On the Study -of Celtic Literature’: - - “‘They went forth to the war, but they always fell.’” - -Professor Mackinnon goes on to adduce a familiar legend, which may again -be quoted, for we are all now waiting for that longed-for blast which -shall arouse the spell-bound trance wherein sleeps “Anima Celtica.” The -=Féinn=, he says, were laid spell-bound in a cave which no man knew of. At -the mouth of the cave hung a horn, which if ever any man should come and -blow three times, the spell would be broken, and the =Féinn= would arise, -alive and well. A hunter, one day wandering in the mist, came on this -cave, saw the horn, and knew what it meant. He looked in and saw the -=Féinn= lying asleep all round the cave. He lifted the horn and blew one -blast. He looked in again, and saw that the =Féinn= had wakened, but lay -still with their eyes staring, like those of dead men. He took the horn -again, blew another blast, and instantly the =Féinn= all moved, each -resting on his elbow. Terrified at their aspect, the hunter turned and -fled homewards. He told what he had seen, and, accompanied by friends, -went to search for the cave. They could not find it; it has never again -been found; and so there still sit, each resting on his elbow, waiting -for the final blast to rouse them into life, the spell-bound heroes of -the old Celtic world. - -Of the modern and larger section of “Lyra Celtica” I need say little -here. To avoid confusion, the Editor has refrained from representing -poets whose “Celtic strain” is more or less obviously disputable; hence -the wise ignoring of the claims even of Scott and Burns. Byron was more -Celtic in blood than in brain, and is represented really by virtue of -this accidental kinship. - -Ireland, Scotland, Wales, Man, Cornwall, and Brittany are all more or -less adequately represented; and among the poets are some whose voices -will be new to most readers. One or two writers, also, have been drawn -upon as representatives of the distinctively Anglo-Celtic section of -England. Finally, “greater Gaeldom”--the realm of the Irish and Scottish -Gaels in the United States, Canada, and Australasia--is also -represented; and one, at any rate, of these outlanders is a poet who has -won distinction on both sides of the Atlantic. - -If it be advisable to select one poet, still “with a future,” as -pre-eminently representative of the Celtic genius of to-day, I think -there can be little doubt that W. B. Yeats’ name is that which would -occur first to most lovers of contemporary poetry. He has grace of touch -and distinction of form beyond any of the younger poets of Great -Britain, and there is throughout his work a haunting beauty, and a -haunting sense of beauty everywhere perceived with joy and longing, that -make its appeal irresistible for those who feel it at all. He is equally -happy whether he deals with antique or with contemporary themes, and in -almost every poem he has written there is that exquisite remoteness, -that dream-like music, and that transporting charm which Matthew Arnold -held to be one of the primary tests of poetry, and, in particular, of -Celtic poetry. - -As an example of Mr Yeats’ narrative method, with legendary themes, I -may quote this from his beautiful “Wanderings of Oisìn” (rather -affectedly and quite needlessly altered to =Usheen= in the latest -version)-- - - “Fled foam underneath us, and round us a wandering and milky smoke, - High as the saddle-girth, covering away from our glances the tide; - And those that fled, and that followed, from the foampale distance broke; - The immortal desire of immortals we saw in their faces, and sighed. - - I mused on the chase with the Fenians, and Bran, Sgeolan, Lomair, - And never a song sang Neave, and over my fingertips - Came now the sliding of tears and sweeping of mist-cold hair, - And now the warmth of sighs, and after the quiver of lips. - - Were we days long or hours long in riding, when rolled in a grisly peace, - An isle lay level before us, with dripping hazel and oak? - And we stood on a sea’s edge we saw not; for whiter than new washed fleece - Fled foam underneath us, and round us a wandering and milky smoke. - - And we rode on the plains of the sea’s edge--the sea’s edge - barren and gray, - Gray sands on the green of the grasses and over the dripping trees, - Dripping and doubling landward, as though they would hasten away - Like an army of old men longing for rest from the moan of the seas. - - But the trees grew taller and closer, immense in their wrinkling bark; - Dropping--a murmurous dropping--old silence and that one sound; - For no live creatures lived there, no weasels moved in the dark-- - Long sighs arose in our spirits, beneath us bubbled the ground. - - And the ears of the horse went sinking away in the hollow night, - For, as drift from a sailor slow drowning the gleams of the - world and the sun, - Ceased on our hands and our faces, on hazel and oak leaf, the light, - And the stars were blotted above us, and the whole of the world was one.” - -Often, too, there occur in his verse new and striking imagery, as in the -superb epithetical value of the fourth line in the concluding stanza of -“The Madness of King Goll,” one of the most beautiful of his poems-- - - “And now I wander in the woods - When summer gluts the golden bees, - Or in autumnal solitudes - Arise the leopard-coloured trees; - Or when along the wintry strands - The cormorants shiver on their rocks; - I wander on, and wave my hands, - And sing, and shake my heavy locks. - The gray wolf knows me; by one ear - I lead along the woodland deer; - The hares ran by me growing bold. - =They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round me, - the beech leaves old.=” - -Indeed, through all his work, “They will not hush; the leaves a-flutter, -the beech leaves old”--the mystic leaves of life, touched by the wind of -old romance. We can imagine him hearing often that fairy lure which his -“Stolen Child” listed and yielded to-- - - “Come away, O human child! - To the waters and the wild - With a fairy, hand in hand, - For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.” - -For him always there is the Beauty of Beauty, the Passion of Passion: -the “Rose of the World.” - - - “Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream? - For these red lips, with all their mournful pride, - Mournful that no new wonder may betide, - Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam, - And Usna’s children died. - - We and the labouring world are passing by: - Amid men’s souls, that waver and give place, - Like the pale waters in their wintry race, - Under the passing stars, foam of the sky, - Lives on this lonely face.” - -It is the lonely face that haunts the dreams of poets of all races and -ages: that “Lady Beauty” enthroned - - “Under the arch of life, where love and death, - Terror and mystery, guard her shrine....” - -The vision of which we follow-- - - “How passionately, and irretrievably, - In what fond flight, how many ways and days!” - -And of all races, none has so worshipped the “Rose of the World” as has -the Celt. - -“No other human tribe,” says Renan, “has carried so much mystery into -love. No other has conceived with more delicacy the ideal of woman, nor -been more dominated by her. It is a kind of intoxication, a madness, a -giddiness. Read the strange =mabinogi= of ‘Pérédur,’ or its French -imitation, ‘Parceval le Gallois’; these pages are dewy, so to say, with -feminine sentiment. Woman appears there as a sort of vague vision -intermediate between man and the supernatural world. There is no other -literature which offers anything analogous to this. Compare Guinevere -and Iseult to those Scandinavian furies Gudruna and Chrimhilde, and you -will acknowledge that woman, as chivalry conceived her--that ideal of -sweetness and beauty set up as the supreme object of life--is a -creation neither classic, Christian, nor Germanic, but in reality -Celtic.” - -And having quoted from Ernest Renan, himself one of the greatest of -modern Celts, and a Celt in brain and genius as well as by blood, race, -and birth, let me interpolate here a paraphrase of some words of his in -that essay on “La Poesie de la Race Celtique,” which was to intellectual -France what Matthew Arnold’s essay was to intellectual England. - -If, he says, the eminence of races should be estimated according to the -purity of their blood and inviolability of national character, there -could be none able to dispute supremacy with the Celtic race. Never has -human family lived more isolated from the world, nor less affected by -foreign admixture. - -Restricted by conquest to forgotten isles and peninsulas, the Celtic -race has habitually striven to oppose an impassable barrier to all alien -influences. It has ever trusted in itself, and in itself alone, and has -drawn its mental and spiritual nurture from its own resources. - -Hence that powerful individuality, that hatred of the stranger, which up -to our day has formed the essential characteristic of the Celtic -peoples. The civilisation of Rome hardly reached them, and left among -them but few traces. The Germanic invasion flowed back on them, but it -did not affect them at all. At the present hour they still resist an -invasion, dangerous in quite another way, that of modern civilisation, -so destructive of local varieties and national types. Ireland in -particular (and there, perhaps, is the secret of her irremediable -weakness) is the sole country of Europe where the native can produce -authentic documents of his remote unbroken lineage, and designate with -certainty, up to pre-historic ages, the race from which he sprang. - -One does not enough reflect on how strange it is that an ancient race -should continue down to our day, and almost under our eyes, in some -islands and peninsulas of the West, its own life, more and more diverted -from it, it is true, by the noise from without, but still faithful to -its language, its memories, its ideals, and its genius. We are -especially apt to forget that this small race, contracted now to the -extreme confines of Europe, in the midst of those rocks and mountains -where its enemies have driven it, is in possession of a literature, -which in the Middle Ages exerted an immense influence, changed the -current of European imagination, and imposed upon almost the whole of -Christianity its poetical motifs. It is, however, only necessary to open -authentic monuments of Celtic genius to convince oneself that the race -which created these has had its own original method of thought and -feeling; and that nowhere does the eternal illusion dress itself in more -seductive colours. In the grand concert of the human species, no family -equals this, for penetrating voices which go to the heart. Alas! if it, -also, is condemned to disappear, this fading glory of the West! Arthur -will not return to his enchanted isle, and Saint Patrick was right in -saying to Ossian: “The heroes whom you mourn are dead; can they live -again?” - -A strange melancholy characterises the genius of the Celtic race. For -all the blithe songs and happy abandon of so many Irish singers, the -Irish themselves have given us the most poignant, the most -hauntingly-sad lyric cries in all modern literature. Renan fully -recognises this, and how, even in the heroic age, the melancholy of -inappeasible regret, of insatiable longing, is as obvious as in our own -day, when spiritual weariness is as an added crown of thorns. Whence -comes this sadness, he asks? Take the songs of the sixth century bards; -they mourn more defeats than they sing victories. The history of the -Celtic race itself is but a long complaint, the lament of exiles, the -grief of despairing flights beyond the seas. If occasionally it seems to -make merry, a tear ever lurks behind the smile; it rarely knows that -singular forgetfulness of the human state and of its destinies which is -called gaiety. But, if its songs of joy end in elegies, nothing equals -the delicious sadness of these national melodies. - -Nevertheless, concludes the most famous of modern Breton writers, we are -still far from believing that the Celtic race has said its last word. -After having exercised all the godly and worldly chivalries, sought with -Pérédur the Holy Graal and the Beautiful, dreamed with Saint Brandan of -mystical Atlantides, who knows what the Celtic genius would produce in -the domain of the intelligence if it should embolden itself to make its -entrance into the world, and if it subjected its rich and profound -nature to the conditions of modern thought? Few races have had a -poetical infancy as complete as the Celtic--mythology, lyricism, epic, -romanesque imagination, religious enthusiasm, nothing have they lacked. -Why should philosophic thought be lacking? Germany, which had begun by -science and criticism, has finished with poetry; why should not the -Celtic races, which began with poetry, not end with a new and vivid -criticism of actual life as it now is? It is not so far from the one to -the other as we are apt to suppose; the poetical races are the -philosophical races, and philosophy is at bottom but a manner of poetry -like any other. When one thinks that Germany fronted, less than a -century ago, the revelation of its genius; that everywhere national -idiosyncrasies, which seemed effaced, have suddenly risen again in our -day more alive than ever, one is persuaded that it is rash to set a law -for the discontinuances and awakenings of races. Modern civilisation, -which seemed made to absorb them, may, perhaps, be but the forcing-house -for a new and more superb efflorescence. - -No, it is no “disastrous end”: whether the Celtic peoples be slowly -perishing or are spreading innumerable fibres of life towards a richer -and fuller, if a less national and distinctive existence. From Renan, -the high priest of the Breton faith, to the latest of his kindred of the -Gael, there is a strange new uprising of hope. It is realised that the -Dream is nigh dreamed: and then ... - - “Till the soil--bid cities rise-- - Be strong, O Celt--be rich, be wise-- - But still, with those divine grave eyes, - Respect the realm of Mysteries.” - -Let me conclude, then, in the words of the most recent of those many -eager young Celtic writers whose songs and romances are charming the now -intent mind of the Anglo-Saxon. “A doomed and passing race. Yes, but not -wholly so. The Celt has at last reached his horizon. There is no shore -beyond. He knows it. This has been the burden of his song since Malvina -led the blind Oisìn to his grave by the sea. ‘Even the Children of Light -must go down into darkness.’ But this apparition of a passing race is no -more than the fulfilment of a glorious resurrection before our very -eyes. For the genius of the Celtic race stands out now with averted -torch, and the light of it is a glory before the eyes, and the flame of -it is blown into the hearts of the mightier conquering people. The Celt -falls, but his spirit rises in the heart and the brain of the -Anglo-Celtic peoples, with whom are the destinies of the generations to -come.” - - WILLIAM SHARP. - - _Read these faint runes of Mystery,_ - _O Celt, at home and o’er the sea;_ - _The bond is loosed--the poor are free--_ - _The world’s great future rests with thee!_ - - _Till the soil--bid cities rise--_ - _Be strong, O Celt--be rich, be wise--_ - _But still, with those divine grave eyes,_ - _Respect the realm of Mysteries._ - _The Book of Orm._ - - - - - I - - ANCIENT IRISH - AND SCOTTISH - - - - -The Mystery of Amergin. - - -[Sidenote: ANCIENT ERSE] - - I am the wind which breathes upon the sea, - I am the wave of the ocean, - I am the murmur of the billows, - I am the ox of the seven combats, - I am the vulture upon the rocks, - I am a beam of the sun, - I am the fairest of plants, - I am a wild boar in valour, - I am a salmon in the water, - I am a lake in the plain, - I am a word of science, - I am the point of the lance of battle, - I am the God who creates in the head [i.e. of man] - the fire [i.e. the thought]. - Who is it who throws light into the meeting on the mountain? - Who announces the ages of the moon [If not I]? - Who teaches the place where couches the sun [If not I]? - - - - -The Song of Fionn. - - - May-day, delightful time! How beautiful the colour! - The blackbirds sing their full lay. Would that Læg were here! - The cuckoos sing in constant strains. How welcome is the noble - Brilliance of the seasons ever! On the margin of the branching woods - The summer swallows skim the stream: the swift horses seek the pool: - The heather spreads out her long hair: the weak fair bog-down grows. - Sudden consternation attacks the signs; the planets, in - their courses running, exert an influence: - The sea is lulled to rest, flowers cover the earth. - - - - -Credhe’s Lament. - - -[Sidenote: ANCIENT ERSE] - -The haven roars, and O the haven roars, over the rushing race of -=Rinn-dá-bharc=! the drowning of the warrior of loch dá chonn, that is -what the wave impinging on the strand laments. Melodious is the crane, -and O melodious is the crane, in the marshlands of =Druim-dá-thrén=! ’tis -she that may not save her brood alive: the wild dog of two colours is -intent upon her nestlings. A woeful note, and O a woeful note, is that -which the thrush in Drumqueen emits! but not more cheerful is the wail -that the blackbird makes in Letterlee. A woeful sound, and O a woeful -sound, is that the deer utters in Drumdaleish! dead lies the doe of -=Druim Silenn=: the mighty stag bells after her. Sore suffering to me, and -O suffering sore, is the hero’s death--his death, that used to lie with -me!... Sore suffering to me is Cael, and O Cael is a suffering sore, -that by my side he is in dead man’s form! That the wave should have -swept over his white body--that is what hath distracted me, so great was -his delightfulness. A dismal roar, and O a dismal roar, is that the -shore-surf makes upon the strand! seeing that the same hath drowned the -comely noble man, to me it is an affliction that Cael ever sought to -encounter it. A woeful booming, and O a boom of woe, is that which the -wave makes upon the northward beach! beating as it does against the -polished rock, lamenting for Cael, now that he is gone. A woeful fight, -and O a fight of woe, is that the wave wages against the southern shore! -As for me my span is determined!... A woeful melody, and O a melody of -woe, is that which the heavy surge of Tullachleish emits! As for me: the -calamity that is fallen upon me having shattered me, for me prosperity -exists no more. Since now Crimthann’s son is drowned, one that I may -love after him there is not in being. Many a chief is fallen by his -hand, and in the battle his shield never uttered outcry! - - - - -Cuchullin in his Chariot. - - -“What is the cause of thy journey or thy story?” - - The cause of my journey and my story - The men of Erin, yonder, as we see them, - Coming towards you on the plain. - The chariot on which is the fold, figured and cerulean, - Which is made strongly, handy, solid; - Where were active, and where were vigorous; - And where were full-wise, the noble hearted folk; - In the prolific, faithful city;-- - Fine, hard, stone-bedecked, well-shafted; - Four large-chested horses in that splendid chariot; - Comely, frolicsome. - - -“What do we see in that chariot?” - - The white-bellied, white-haired, small-eared, - Thin-sided, thin-hoofed, horse-large, steed-large horses; - With fine, shining, polished bridles; - Like a gem; or like red sparkling fire;-- - Like the motion of a fawn, wounded; - Like the rustling of a loud wind in winter;-- - Coming to you in that chariot.-- - - -“What do we see in that chariot?” - - We see in that chariot, - The strong, broad-chested, nimble, gray horses,-- - So mighty, so broad-chested, so fleet, so choice;-- - Which would wrench the sea skerries from the rocks.-- - The lively, shielded, powerful horses;-- - So mettlesome, so active, so clear-shining;-- - Like the talon of an eagle ’gainst a fierce beast; - Which are called the beautiful Large-Gray-- - The fond, large =Meactroigh=. - -[Sidenote: ANCIENT ERSE] - - -“What do we see in that chariot?” - - We see in that chariot, - The horses; which are white-headed, white-hoofed, slender-legged, - Fine-haired, sturdy, imperious; - Satin-bannered, wide-chested; - Small-aged, small-haired, small-eared; - Large-hearted, large-shaped, large-nostriled; - Slender-waisted, long-bodied,--and they are foal-like; - Handsome, playful, brilliant, wild-leaping; - Which are called the =Dubh=-=Seimhlinn=. - - -“Who sits in that chariot?” - - He who sits in that chariot, - Is the warrior, able, powerful, well-worded, - Polished, brilliant, very graceful.-- - There are seven sights on his eye; - And we think that that is good vision to him; - There are six bony, fat fingers, - On each hand that comes from his shoulder; - There are seven kinds of fair hair on his head;-- - Brown hair next his head’s skin, - And smooth red hair over that; - And fair-yellow hair, of the colour of gold; - And clasps on the top, holding it fast;-- - Whose name is Cuchullin, =Seimh=-=suailte=, - Son of Aodh, son of Agh, son of other Aodh.-- - His face is like red sparkles;-- - Fast-moving on the plain like mountain fleet-mist; - Or like the speed of a hill hind; - Or like a hare on rented level ground.-- - It was a frequent step--a fast step--a joyful step;-- - The horses coming towards us:-- - Like snow hewing the slopes;-- - The panting and the snorting, - Of the horses coming towards thee. - - - - -Deirdrê’s Lament for the Sons of Usnach - - - The lions of the hill are gone, - And I am left alone--alone-- - Dig the grave both wide and deep, - For I am sick, and fain would sleep! - - The falcons of the wood are flown, - And I am left alone--alone-- - Dig the grave both deep and wide, - And let us slumber side by side. - - The dragons of the rock are sleeping, - Sleep that wakes not for our weeping-- - Dig the grave, and make it ready, - Lay me on my true-love’s body. - - Lay their spears and bucklers bright - By the warriors’ sides aright; - Many a day the three before me - On their linkèd bucklers bore me. - - Lay upon the low grave floor, - ’Neath each head, the blue claymore; - Many a time the noble three - Reddened their blue blades for me. - - Lay the collars, as is meet, - Of the greyhounds at their feet; - Many a time for me have they - Brought the tall red deer to bay. - - In the falcon’s jesses throw, - Hook and arrow, line and bow; - Never again, by stream or plain, - Shall the gentle woodsmen go. - - Sweet companions, were ye ever-- - Harsh to me, your sister, never; - -[Sidenote: ANCIENT ERSE] - - Woods and wilds, and misty valleys, - Were with you as good’s a palace. - - O, to hear my true-love singing, - Sweet as sounds of trumpets ringing; - Like the sway of ocean swelling - Rolled his deep voice round our dwelling. - - O! to hear the echoes pealing - Round our green and fairy shealing, - When the three, with soaring chorus, - Passed the silent skylark o’er us. - - Echo now, sleep, morn and even-- - Lark alone enchant the heaven! - Ardan’s lips are scant of breath, - Neesa’s tongue is cold in death. - - Stag, exult on glen and mountain-- - Salmon, leap from loch to fountain-- - Heron, in the free air warm ye-- - Usnach’s sons no more will harm ye! - - Erin’s stay no more you are, - Rulers of the ridge of war; - Never more ’twill be your fate - To keep the beam of battle straight! - - Woe is me! by fraud and wrong, - Traitors false and tyrants strong, - Fell Clan Usnach, bought and sold, - For Barach’s feast and Conor’s gold! - - Woe to Eman, roof and wall! - Woe to Red Branch, hearth and hall!-- - Tenfold woe and black dishonour - To the foul and false Clan Conor! - - Dig the grave both wide and deep, - Sick I am, and fain would sleep! - Dig the grave and make it ready, - Lay me on my true-love’s body. - - - - -The Lament of Queen Maev. - - - Raise the Cromlech high! - Mac Moghcorb is slain, - And other men’s renown - Has leave to live again. - - Cold at last he lies - ’Neath the burial stone. - All the blood he shed - Could not save his own. - - Stately, strong he went, - Through his nobles all, - When we paced together - Up the banquet-hall. - - Dazzling white as lime, - Was his body fair, - Cherry-red his cheeks, - Raven-black his hair. - - Razor-sharp his spear, - And the shield he bore, - High as champion’s head-- - His arm was like an oar. - - Never aught but truth - Spake my noble king; - Valour all his trust - In all his warfaring. - - As the forkèd pole - Holds the roof-tree’s weight, - So my hero’s arm - Held the battle straight. - - Terror went before him, - Death behind his back, - Well the wolves of Erinn - Knew his chariot’s track. -[Sidenote: ANCIENT ERSE] - - Seven bloody battles - He broke upon his foes, - In each a hundred heroes - Fell beneath his blows. - - Once he fought at Fossud, - Thrice at Ath-finn-fail. - ’Twas my king that conquered - At bloody Ath-an-Scaìl. - - At the Boundary Stream - Fought the Royal Hound, - And for Bernas battle - Stands his name renowned. - - Here he fought with Leinster-- - Last of all his frays-- - On the Hill of Cucorb’s Fate - High his Cromlech raise. - - - - -The March of the Faerie Host. - - - In well-devised battle array, - Ahead of their fair chieftain - They march amidst blue spears, - White curly-headed bands. - - They scatter the battalions of the foe, - They ravage every land I have attacked, - Splendidly they march to combat - An impetuous, distinguished, avenging host! - - No wonder though their strength be great: - Sons of kings and queens are one and all. - On all their heads are - Beautiful golden-yellow manes: - - With smooth, comely bodies, - With bright blue-starred eyes, - With pure crystal teeth, - With thin red lips: - - Good they are at man-slaying. - -[Sidenote: ANCIENT ERSE] - - - - -Vision of a Fair Woman. - -(Aisling air Dhreach Mna.) - - - Tell us some of the charms of the stars: - Close and well set were her ivory teeth; - White as the canna upon the moor - Was her bosom the tartan bright beneath. - - Her well-rounded forehead shone - Soft and fair as the mountain-snow; - Her two breasts were heaving full; - To them did the hearts of heroes flow. - - Her lips were ruddier than the rose; - Tender and tunefully sweet her tongue; - White as the foam adown her side - Her delicate fingers extended hung. - - Smooth as the dusky down of the elk - Appeared her shady eyebrows to me; - Lovely her cheeks were, like berries red; - From every guile she was wholly free. - - Her countenance looked like the gentle buds - Unfolding their beauty in early spring; - Her yellow locks like the gold-browed hills; - And her eyes like the radiance the sunbeams bring. - - - - -The Fian Banners. - - - The Norland King stood on the height - And scanned the rolling sea; - He proudly eyed his gallant ships - That rode triumphantly. - - And then he looked where lay his camp, - Along the rocky coast, - And where were seen the heroes brave - Of Lochlin’s famous host. - - Then to the land he turn’d, and there - A fierce-like hero came; - Above him was a flag of gold, - That waved and shone like flame. - - “Sweet bard,” thus spoke the Norland King, - “What banner comes in sight? - The valiant chief that leads the host, - Who is that man of might?” - - “That,” said the bard, “is young MacDoon, - His is that banner bright; - When forth the Féinn to battle go, - He’s foremost in the fight.” - - “Sweet bard, another comes; I see - A blood-red banner toss’d - Above a mighty hero’s head - Who waves it o’er a host?” - - “That banner,” quoth the bard, “belongs - To good and valiant Rayne; - Beneath it feet are bathed in blood - And heads are cleft in twain.” - - “Sweet bard, what banner now I see - A leader fierce and strong - Behind it moves with heroes brave - Who furious round him throng?” - - “That is the banner of Great Gaul: - That silken shred of gold, - Is first to march and last to turn, - And flight ne’er stained its fold.” - - “Sweet bard, another now I see, - High o’er a host it glows, - Tell whether it has ever shone - O’er fields of slaughtered foes?” - - “That gory flag is Cailt’s,” quoth he, - “It proudly peers in sight; - It won its fame on many a field - In fierce and bloody fight.” - - “Sweet bard, another still I see; - A host it flutters o’er; - Like bird above the roaring surge - That laves the storm-swept shore.” - - “The Broom of Peril,” quoth the bard, - “Young Oscur’s banner, see: - Amidst the conflict of dread chiefs - The proudest name has he.” - - The banner of great Fionn we raised; - The Sunbeam gleaming far, - With golden spangles of renown - From many a field of war. - - The flag was fastened to its staff - With nine strong chains of gold, - With nine times nine chiefs for each chain; - Before it foes oft rolled. - - “Redeem your pledge to me,” said Fionn; - “And show your deeds of might - To Lochlin as you did before - In many a gory fight.” - - Like torrents from the mountain heights - That roll resistless on; - So down upon the foe we rushed, - And victory won. - -[Sidenote: OLD GAELIC] - - - - -The Rune of St Patrick. - -“The Faedh Fiada”; or, “The Cry of the Deer.” - - - At Tara to-day in this fateful hour - I place all Heaven with its power, - And the sun with its brightness, - And the snow with its whiteness, - And fire with all the strength it hath, - And lightning with its rapid wrath, - And the winds with their swiftness along their path, - And the sea with its deepness, - And the rocks with their steepness, - And the earth with its starkness: - All these I place, - By God’s almighty help and grace, - Between myself and the powers of darkness. - - - - -Columcille cecenit. - - - O, Son of my God, what a pride, what a pleasure - To plough the blue sea! - The waves of the fountain of deluge to measure - Dear Eiré to thee. - - We are rounding Moy-n-Olurg, we sweep by its head, and - We plunge through Loch Foyle, - Whose swans could enchant with their music the dead, and - Make pleasure of toil. - - The host of the gulls come with joyous commotion - And screaming and sport, - I welcome my own “Dewy-Red” from the ocean - Arriving in port.[7] - - O Eiré, were wealth my desire, what a wealth were - To gain far from thee, - In the land of the stranger, but there even health were - A sickness to me! - - Alas for the voyage O high King of Heaven - Enjoined upon me, - For that I on the red plain of bloody Cooldrevin - Was present to see. - - How happy the son is of Dima; no sorrow - For him is designed, - He is having, this hour, round his own hill in Durrow - The wish of his mind. - - The sounds of the winds in the elms, like the strings of - A harp being played, - The note of the blackbird that claps with the wings of - Delight in the glade. - -[Sidenote: OLD GAELIC] - - With him in Ros-Grencha the cattle are lowing - At earliest dawn, - On the brink of the summer the pigeons are cooing - And doves in the lawn. - - Three things am I leaving behind me, the very - Most dear that I know, - Tir-Leedach I’m leaving, and Durrow and Derry, - Alas, I must go! - - Yet my visit and feasting with Comgall have eased me - At Cainneach’s right hand, - And all but thy government, Eiré, has pleased me, - Thou waterfall land. - - - - -Columcille fecit. - - - Delightful would it be to me to be in Uchd Ailiun - On the pinnacle of a rock, - That I might often see - The face of the ocean; - That I might see its heaving waves - Over the wide ocean, - When they chant music to their Father - Upon the world’s course; - That I might see its level sparkling strand, - It would be no cause of sorrow; - That I might hear the song of the wonderful birds, - Source of happiness; - That I might hear the thunder of the crowding waves - Upon the rocks; - That I might hear the roar by the side of the church - Of the surrounding sea; - That I might see its noble flocks - Over the watery ocean; - That I might see the sea-monsters, - The greatest of all wonders; - That I might see its ebb and flood - In their career; - That my mystical name might be, I say, - =Cul ri Erin=;[8] - That contrition might come upon my heart - Upon looking at her; - That I might bewail my evils all, - Though it were difficult to compute them; - That I might bless the Lord - Who conserves all, - Heaven with its countless bright orders, - Land, strand and flood; - That I might search the books all, - That would be good for my soul; - At times kneeling to beloved Heaven; - At times psalm singing; - At times contemplating the King of Heaven, - Holy the chief; - At times at work without compulsion, - This would be delightful. - At times plucking duilisc from the rocks; - At times at fishing; - At times giving food to the poor; - At times in a =carcair=:[9] - The best advice in the presence of God - To me has been vouchsafed. - The King whose servant I am will not let - Anything deceive me. - - - - -The Song of Murdoch the Monk. - - - Murdoch, whet thy knife, that we may shave our crowns to the Great King. - Let us sweetly give our vow, and the hair of both our - heads to the Trinity. - I will shave mine to Mary; this is the doing of a true heart: - To Mary shave thou these locks, well-formed, soft-eyed man. - Seldom hast thou had, handsome man, a knife on thy hair to shave it; - Oftener has a sweet, soft queen comb’d her hair beside thee. - Whenever it was that we did bathe, with Brian of the well-curled locks, - And once on a time that I did bathe at the well of the - fair-haired Boroimhe, - I strove in swimming with Ua Chais, on the cold waters of the Fergus. - When he came ashore from the stream, Ua Chais and I strove in a race: - These two knives, one to each, were given us by Duncan Cairbreach; - No knives were better: shave gently then, Murdoch. - Whet your sword, Cathal, which wins the fertile Banva; - Ne’er was thy wrath heard without fighting, brave, red-handed Cathal. - Preserve our shaved heads from cold and from heat, gentle - daughter of Iodehim, - Preserve us in the land of heat, softest branch of Mary. - -[Sidenote: DOMHNULL MAC FHIONNLAIDH] - - - - -The Aged Bard’s Wish. - -(Miann a’ Bhaird Aosda.) - - - O, lay me by the gentle stream - Which glides with stealing course; - Lay my head beneath the shady boughs, - And thou, O sun, be mild upon my rest. - - There, in the flowery grass, - Where the breeze sighs softly on the bank, - My feet shall be bathed with the dew - When it falls on the silent vale. - - There, on my lone green heap, - The primrose and the daisy shall bloom over my head, - And the wild bright star of St John - Shall bend beside my cheek. - - Above, on the steeps of the glen, - Green flowering boughs shall spread, - And sweet, from the still grey craigs, - The birds shall pour their songs. - - There, from the ivied craig, - The gushing spring shall flow, - And the son of the rock shall repeat - The murmur of its fall. - - The hinds shall call around my bed; - The hill shall answer to their voice, - When a thousand shall descend on the field, - And feed around my rest. - - The calves shall sport beside me - By the stream of the level plain, - And the little kids, weary of their strife, - Shall sleep beneath my arm. - - Far in the gentle breeze - The stag cries on the field; - The herds answer on the hill, - And descend to meet the sound. - - I hear the steps of the hunter! - His whistling darts--his dog upon the hill. - The joy of youth returns to my cheek - At the sound of the coming chase! - - My strength returns at the sounds of the wood; - The cry of hounds--the thrill of strings. - Hark! the death-shout--“=The deer has fallen!=” - I spring to life on the hill! - - I see the bounding dog, - My companion on the heath; - The beloved hill of our chase, - The echoing craig of woods. - - I see the sheltering cave - Which often received us from the night, - When the glowing tree and the joyful cup - Revived us with their cheer. - - Glad was the smoking feast of deer, - Our drink was from Loch Treig, our music its hum of waves; - Though ghosts shrieked on the echoing hills, - Sweet was our rest in the cave. - - I see the mighty mountain, - Chief of a thousand hills; - The dream of deer is in its locks, - Its head is the bed of clouds. - - I see the ridge of hinds, the steep of the sloping glen, - The wood of cuckoos at its foot, - The blue height of a thousand pines, - Of wolves, and roes, and elks. - -[Sidenote: DOMHNULL MAC FHIONNLAIDH] - - Like the breeze on the lake of firs - The little ducks skim on the pool, - At its head is the strath of pines, - The red rowan bends on its bank. - - There, on the gliding wave, - The fair swan spreads her wing, - The broad white wing which never fails - When she soars amidst the clouds. - - Far wandering over ocean - She seeks the cold dwelling of seals, - Where no sail bends the mast, - Nor prow divides the wave. - - Come to the woody hills - With the lament of thy love; - Return, O swan, from the isle of waves, - And sing from thy course on high. - - Raise thy mournful song-- - Pour the sad tale of thy grief; - The son of the rock shall hear the sound, - And repeat thy strain of woe. - - Spread thy wing over ocean, - Mount up on the strength of the winds; - Pleasant to my ear is thy sound, - The song of thy wounded heart. - - O youth! thou who hast departed, - And left my grey and helpless hairs, - What land has heard on its winds - Thy cry come o’er its rocks? - - Are the tears in thy eye, O maiden? - Thou of the lovely brow and lily hand; - Brightness be around thee for ever! - Thou shalt return no more from the narrow bed! - - Tell me, O winds! since now I see them not, - Where grow the murmuring reeds? - The reeds which sigh where rest the trout - On their still transparent fins. - - O raise and bear me on your hands, - Lay my head beneath the young boughs, - That their shade may veil my eyes - When the sun shall rise on high. - - And thou, O gentle sleep! - Whose course is with the stars of night; - Be near with thy dreams of song - To bring back my days of joy. - - My soul beholds the maid! - In the shade of the mighty oak, - Her white hand beneath her golden hair, - Her soft eye on her beloved. - - He is near--but she is silent, - His beating heart is lost in song, - Their souls beam from their eyes-- - Deer stand on the hill! - - The song has ceased!-- - Their bosoms meet;-- - Like the young and stainless rose - Her lips are pressed to his!-- - - Blessed be that commune sweet! - Recalling the joy which returns no more-- - Blessed be thy soul, my love! - Thou maid with the bright flowing locks. - - Hast thou forsaken me, O dream! - Once more return again! - Alas! thou art gone, and I am sad-- - Bless thee, my love--farewell! - -[Sidenote: DOMHNULL MAC FHIONNLAIDH] - - Friends of my youth, farewell! - Farewell, ye maids of love! - I see you now no more--with you is summer still, - With me--the winter night! - - O lay me by the roaring fall, - By the sound of the murmuring craig, - Let the cruit and the shell be near, - And the shield of my father’s wars. - - O breeze of Ocean come, - With the sound of thy gentle course, - Raise me on thy wings, O wind, - And bear me to the isle of rest; - - Where the heroes of old are gone, - To the sleep which shall wake no more - Open the hall of Ossian and Daol-- - The night is come--the bard departs! - - Behold my dim grey mist!-- - I go to the dwelling of bards on the hill! - Give me the airy cruit and shell for the way-- - And now--my own loved cruit and shell--farewell! - - - - -Ossian Sang. - - - Sweet is the voice in the land of gold, - And sweeter the music of birds that soar, - When the cry of the heron is heard on the wold, - And the waves break softly on Bundatrore. - - Down floats on the murmuring of the breeze - The call of the cuckoo from Cossahun, - The blackbird is warbling among the trees, - And soft is the kiss of the warming sun. - - The cry of the eagle of Assaroe - O’er the court of Mac Morne to me is sweet, - And sweet is the cry of the bird below - Where the wave and the wind and the tall cliff meet. - - Finn mac Cool is the father of me, - Whom seven battalions of Fenians fear: - When he launches his hounds on the open lea - Grand is their cry as they rouse the deer. - -[Sidenote: OLD GAELIC] - - - - -Fingal and Ros-crana. - - -ROS-CRANA. - -By night, came a dream to Ros-crana! I feel my beating soul. No vision -of the forms of the dead came to the blue eyes of Erin. But, rising from -the wave of the north, I beheld him bright in his locks. I beheld the -son of the king. My beating soul is high. I laid my head down in night: -again ascended the form. Why delayest thou thy coming, young rider of -stormy waves! - -But, there, far-distant, he comes; where seas roll their green ridges in -mist! Young dweller of my soul; why dost thou delay---- - - -FINGAL. - -It was the soft voice of Moi-lena! the pleasant breeze of the valley of -roes! But why dost thou hide thee in shades? Young love of heroes, rise. -Are not thy steps covered with light? In thy groves thou appearest, -Ros-crana, like the sun in the gathering of clouds. Why dost thou hide -thee in shades? Young love of heroes, rise. - - -ROS-CRANA. - -My fluttering soul is high! Let me turn from steps of the king. He has -heard my secret voice, and shall my blue eyes roll in his presence? Roe -of the hill of moss, toward thy dwelling I move. Meet me, ye breezes of -Mora! as I move through the valley of the winds. But why should he -ascend his ocean? Son of heroes, my soul is thine! my steps shall not -move to the desert; the light of Ros-crana is here. - - -FINGAL. - -It was the light tread of a ghost, the fair dweller of eddying winds. -Why deceivest thou me with thy voice? Here let me rest in shades. -Shouldst thou stretch thy white arm from thy grove, thou sunbeam of -Cormac of Erin---- - - -ROS-CRANA. - -He is gone; and my blue eyes are dim; faint-rolling, in all my tears. -But, there, I behold him, alone; king of Selma, my soul is thine. Ah me! -what clanging of armour! Colc-ulla of Atha is near! - -[Sidenote: OLD GAELIC] - - - - -The Night-Song of the Bards. - -[Five bards passing the night in the house of a chief, who was a poet -himself, went severally to make their observations on, and returned with -an extempore description of, night.] - - -FIRST BARD. - -Night is dull and dark. The clouds rest on the hills. No star with green -trembling beam; no moon looks from the sky. I hear the blast in the -wood, but I hear it distant far. The stream of the valley murmurs; but -its murmur is sullen and sad. From the tree at the grave of the dead the -long-howling owl is heard. I see a dim form on the plain! It is a ghost! -it fades, it flies. Some funeral shall pass this way: the meteor marks -the path. - -The distant dog is howling from the hut of the hill. The stag lies on -the mountain moss: the hind is at his side. She hears the wind in his -branchy horns. She starts, but lies again. - -The roe is in the cleft of the rock; the heath-cock’s head is beneath -his wing. No beast, no bird is abroad, but the owl and the howling fox: -she on a leafless tree; he in a cloud on the hill. - -Dark, panting, trembling, sad, the traveller has lost his way. Through -shrubs, through thorns, he goes, along the gurgling rill. He fears the -rock and the fen. He fears the ghost of night. The old tree groans to -the blast; the falling branch resounds. The wind drives the withered -burrs, clung together, along the grass. It is the light tread of a -ghost! He trembles amidst the night. - -Dark, dusky, howling, is night, cloudy, windy, and full of ghosts! The -dead are abroad! my friends, receive me from the night. - - -SECOND BARD. - -The wind is up, the shower descends. The spirit of the mountain shrieks. -Woods fall from high. Windows flap.[10] The growing river roars. The -traveller attempts the ford. Hark! that shriek! he dies! The storm -drives the horse from the hill, the goat, the lowing cow. They tremble -as drives the shower, beside the shouldering bank. - -The hunter starts from sleep, in his lonely hut; he wakes the fire -decayed. His wet dogs smoke around him. He fills the chinks with heath. -Loud roar two mountain streams which meet beside his booth.[11] - -Sad on the side of a hill the wandering shepherd sits. The tree resounds -above him. The stream roars down the rock. He waits for the rising moon -to guide him to his home. - -Ghosts ride on the storm to-night. Sweet is their voice between the -squalls of wind. Their songs are of other worlds. - -The rain is past. The dry wind blows. Streams roar, and windows flap. -Cold drops fall from the roof. I see the starry sky. But the shower -gathers again. The west is gloomy and dark. Night is stormy and dismal; -receive me, my friends, from night. - - -THIRD BARD. - -The wind still sounds between the hills, and whistles through the grass -of the rock. The firs fall from their place. The turfy hut is torn. The -clouds, divided, fly over the sky, and show the burning stars. The -meteor, token of death! flies sparkling through the gloom. It rests on -the hill. I see the withered fern, the dark-browed rock, the fallen oak. -Who is that in his shroud beneath the tree, by the stream? - -The waves dark-tumble on the lake, and lash its rocky sides. The boat is -brimful in the cove; the oars on the rocking tide. A maid sits sad -beside the rock, and eyes the rolling stream. Her lover promised to -come. She saw his boat, when yet it was light, on the lake. Is this his -broken boat on the shore? Are these his groans on the wind? - -Hark! the hail rattles around. The flaky snow descends. The tops of the -hills are white. The stormy winds abate. Various is the night and cold; -receive me, my friends, from night. - - -FOURTH BARD. - -Night is calm and fair; blue, starry, settled is night. The winds, with -the clouds, are gone. They sink behind the hill. The moon is up on the -mountain. Trees glister, streams shine on the rock. Bright rolls the -settled lake; bright the stream of the vale. - -I see the trees overturned; the shocks of corn on the plain. The wakeful -hind rebuilds the shocks, and whistles on the distant field. - -Calm, settled, fair is night! Who comes from the place of the dead? That -form with the robe of snow, white arms, and dark-brown hair! It is the -daughter of the chief of the people: she that lately fell! Come, let us -view thee, O maid! Thou that hast been the delight of heroes! The blast -drives the phantom away; white, without form, it ascends the hill. - -The breezes drive the blue mist, slowly, over the narrow vale. It rises -on the hill, and joins its head to heaven. Night is settled, calm, blue, -starry, bright with the moon. Receive me not, my friends, for lovely is -the night. - - -FIFTH BARD. - -Night is calm, but dreary. The moon is in a cloud in the west. Slow -moves that pale beam along the shaded hill. The distant wave is heard. -The torrent murmurs on the rock. The cock is heard from the booth.[12] -More than half the night is past. The house-wife, groping in the gloom, -re-kindles the settled fire. The hunter thinks that day approaches, and -calls his bounding dogs. He ascends the hill, and whistles on his way. A -blast removes the cloud. He sees the starry plough of the north. Much of -the night is to pass. He nods by the mossy rock. - -Hark! the whirlwind is in the wood! A low murmur in the vale! It is the -mighty army of the dead returning from the air. - -The moon rests behind the hill. The beam is still on that lofty rock. -Long are the shadows of the trees. Now it is dark over all. Night is -dreary, silent, and dark; receive me, my friends, from night. - - -THE CHIEF. - -Let clouds rest on the hills: spirits fly, and travellers fear. Let the -winds of the woods arise, the sounding storms descend. Roar streams and -windows flap, and green-winged meteors fly! Rise the pale moon from -behind her hills, or inclose her head in clouds! Night is alike to me, -blue, stormy, or gloomy the sky. Night flies before the beam, when it is -poured on the hill. The young day returns from his clouds, but we return -no more. - -Where are our chiefs of old? Where are our kings of mighty name? The -fields of their battles are silent. Scarce their mossy tombs remain. We -shall also be forgot. This lofty house shall fall. Our sons shall not -behold the ruins in grass. They shall ask of the aged, “Where stood the -walls of our fathers?” - -Raise the song, and strike the harp; send round the shells of joy. -Suspend a hundred tapers on high. Youths and maids begin the dance. Let -some grey bard be near me, to tell the deeds of other times; of kings -renowned in our land, of chiefs we behold no more. Thus let the night -pass until morning shall appear in our halls. Then let the bow be at -hand, the dogs, the youths of the chase. We shall ascend the hill with -day, and awake the deer. - -[Sidenote: OSSIAN] - - - - -Comala. - - - FINGAL - HYDALLAN - COMALA - MELILCOMA} Daughters of - DERSAGRENA} Morni - BARDS - - -DERSAGRENA. - -The chase is over. No noise on Ardven but the torrent’s roar! Daughter -of Morni, come from Crona’s banks. Lay down the bow and take the harp. -Let the night come on with songs, let our joy be great on Ardven. - - -MELILCOMA. - -Night comes apace, thou blue-eyed maid! Grey night grows dim along the -plain. I saw a deer at Crona’s stream; a mossy bank he seemed through -the gloom, but soon he bounded away. A meteor played round his branching -horns! The awful faces of other times looked from the clouds of Crona! - - -DERSAGRENA. - -These are the signs of Fingal’s death. The king of shields is fallen! -and Caracul prevails. Rise, Comala, from thy rock: daughter of Sarno, -rise in tears! The youth of thy love is low; his ghost is on our hills. - - -MELILCOMA. - -There Comala sits forlorn! two grey dogs near shake their rough ears, -and catch the flying breeze. Her red cheek rests upon her arm, the -mountain-wind is in her hair. She turns her blue eyes toward the fields -of his promise. Where art thou, O Fingal? The night is gathering around! - - -COMALA. - -O Carun of the streams! Why do I behold thy waters rolling in blood? Has -the noise of the battle been heard; and sleeps the King of Morven? -Rise, moon, thou daughter of the sky! Look from between thy clouds, rise -that I may behold the gleam of his steel, on the field of his promise. -Or rather let the meteor, that lights our fathers through the night, -come, with its red beam, to show me the way to my fallen hero. Who will -defend me from sorrow? Who from the love of Hydallan? Long shall Comala -look before she can behold Fingal in the midst of his host; bright as -the coming forth of the morning, in the cloud of an early shower. - - -HYDALLAN. - -Dwell, thou mist of gloomy Crona, dwell on the path of the king! Hide -his steps from mine eyes, let me remember my friend no more. The bands -of battle are scattered, no crowding tread is round the noise of his -steel. O Carun! roll thy streams of blood, the chief of the people is -low. - - -COMALA. - -Who fell on Carun’s sounding banks, son of the cloudy night? Was he -white as the snow of Ardven? Blooming as the bow of the shower? Was his -hair like the mist of the hill, soft and curling in the day of the sun? -Was he like the thunder of heaven in battle? Fleet as the roe of the -desert? - - -HYDALLAN. - -O that I might behold his love, fair leaning from her rock! Her red eye -dim in tears, her blushing cheek half hid in her locks! Blow, O gentle -breeze! Lift thou the heavy locks of the maid, that I may behold her -white arm, her lovely cheek in her grief. - - -COMALA. - -And is the son of Comhal fallen, chief of the mournful tale? The thunder -rolls on the hill! The lightning flies on wings of fire! They frighten -not Comala; for Fingal is low. Say, chief of the mournful tale, fell the -breaker of the shields? - - -HYDALLAN. - -The nations are scattered on their hills; they shall hear the voice of -the king no more. - - -COMALA. - -Confusion pursue thee over thy plains! Ruin overtake thee, thou king of -the world! Few be thy steps to thy grave; and let one virgin mourn thee! -Let her be like Comala, tearful in the days of her youth! Why hast thou -told me, Hydallan, that my hero fell? I might have hoped a little while -his return, I might have thought I saw him on the distant rock; a tree -might have deceived me with his appearance; the wind of the hill might -have been the sound of his horn in mine ear. O that I were on the banks -of Carun! that my tears might be warm on his cheek! - - -HYDALLAN. - -He lies not on the banks of Carun; on Ardven heroes raise his tomb. Look -on them, O moon! from thy clouds; be thy beam bright on his breast, that -Comala may behold him in the light of his armour! - - -COMALA. - -Stop, ye sons of the grave, till I behold my love! He left me at the -chase alone. I knew not that he went to war. He said he would return -with the night; the King of Morven is returned! Why didst thou not tell -me that he would fall, O trembling dweller of the rock? Thou sawest him -in the blood of his youth; but thou didst not tell Comala! - - -MELILCOMA. - -What sound is that on Ardven? Who is that, bright in the vale? Who comes -like the strength of rivers, when their crowded waters glitter to the -moon? - - -COMALA. - -Who is it but the foe of Comala, the son of the king of the world? Ghost -of Fingal! Do thou from thy cloud direct Comala’s bow. Let him fall like -the hart of the desert. It is Fingal in the crowd of his ghosts. Why -dost thou come, my love, to frighten and please my soul? - - -FINGAL. - -Raise, ye bards, the song; raise the wars of the streamy Carun! Caracul -has fled from our arms along the fields of his pride. He sets far -distant like a meteor, that incloses a spirit of night, when the winds -drive it over the heath, and the dark woods are gleaming around. I heard -a voice, or was it the breeze of my hills? Is it the huntress of Ardven, -the white-handed daughter of Sarno? Look from thy rocks, my love; let me -hear the voice of Comala! - - -COMALA. - -Take me to the cave of my rest, O lovely son of death! - - -FINGAL. - -Come to the cave of my rest. The storm is past, the sun is on our -fields. Come to the cave of my rest, huntress of echoing Ardven! - - -COMALA. - -He is returned with his fame. I feel the right hand of his wars. But I -must rest beside the rock till my soul returns from my fear. O let the -harp be near! Raise the song, ye daughters of Morni! - -[Sidenote: OSSIAN] - - -DERSAGRENA. - -Comala has slain three deer on Ardven, the fire ascends on the rock; go -to the feast of Comala, king of the woody Morven! - - -FINGAL. - -Raise, ye sons of song, the wars of the streamy Carun; that my -white-handed maid may rejoice: while I behold the feast of my love. - - -BARDS. - -Roll, streamy Carun, roll in joy, the sons of battle are fled! The steed -is not seen on our fields; the wings of their pride spread in other -lands. The sun will now rise in peace, and the shadows descend in joy. -The voice of the chase will be heard; the shields hang in the hall. Our -delight will be in the war of the ocean, our hands shall grow red in the -blood of Lochlin. Roll, streamy Carun, roll in joy, the sons of battle -fled! - - -MELILCOMA. - -Descend, ye light mists from high! Ye moonbeams, lift her soul! Pale -lies the maid at the rock. Comala is no more! - - -FINGAL. - -Is the daughter of Sarno dead, the white-bosomed maid of my love? Meet -me, Comala, on my heaths, when I sit alone at the streams of my hills! - - -HYDALLAN. - -Ceased the voice of the huntress of Ardven? Why did I trouble the soul -of the maid? When shall I see thee, with joy, in the chase of the -dark-brown hinds? - - -FINGAL. - -Youth of the gloomy brow! No more shalt thou feast in my halls. Thou -shalt not pursue my chase, my foes shall not fall by thy sword. Lead me -to the place of her rest that I may behold her beauty. Pale she lies at -the rock, cold winds lift her hair. Her bow-string sounds in the blast, -her arrow was broken in her fall. Raise the praise of the daughter of -Sarno! Give her name to the winds of Heaven! - - -BARDS. - -See! Meteors gleam around the maid! See! Moonbeams lift her soul! Around -her, from their clouds, bend the awful faces of her fathers; Sarno of -the gloomy brow! The red-rolling eyes of Fidallan! When shall thy white -hand arise? When shall thy voice be heard on our rocks? The maids shall -seek thee on the heath but they shall not find thee. Thou shalt come, at -times, to their dreams, to settle peace in their soul. Thy voice shall -remain in their ears, they shall think with joy on the dreams of their -rest. Meteors gleam around the maid, and moon-beams lift her soul. - -[Sidenote: OSSIAN] - - - - -The Death-Song of Ossian. - - -Such were the words of the bards in the days of song; when the king -heard the music of harps, the tales of other times! The chiefs gathered -from all their hills, and heard the lovely sound. They praised the Voice -of Cona! The first among a thousand bards! But age is now on my tongue; -my soul has failed! I hear, at times, the ghosts of the bards, and learn -their pleasant song. But memory fails on my mind. I hear the call of -years! They say, as they pass along, why does Ossian sing? Soon shall he -lie in the narrow house, and no bard shall raise his fame! Roll on, ye -dark-brown years; ye bring no joy on your course! Let the tomb open to -Ossian, for his strength has failed. The sons of song are gone to rest. -My voice remains, like a blast, that roars, lonely, on a sea-surrounded -rock, after the winds are laid. The dark moss whistles there; the -distant mariner sees the waving trees! - - - - -II - -ANCIENT CORNISH - - - - -_The Pool of Pilate._ - - - [_Wayfarer loq._ - - _Guel yv thy’mmo vy may fe - mos the wolhy ow dule - a Thesempes - me a vyn omma yn dour - may fons y guyn ha glan lour - a vostethes_ - - ...... - - _Ellas pan fema gynys - ancow sur yw dynythys - Scon thy’mmo vy - ny’m bus bywe na fella - an dour re wruk thy’m henna - yn pur deffry._ - -[Sidenote: ANCIENT CORNISH] - - - - -The Pool of Pilate. - - - [Wayfarer loq. - - It is best to me that it be so - Go to wash my hands - Immediately - I will, here in the water, - That they may be white, and clean enough - From dirt. - -[He washes his hands in the water and dies immediately.] - - Alas that I was born! - Death surely is come - Soon to me. - Life is no longer for me, - The water has done that to me - Very clearly. - - - - -Merlin the Diviner. - - - Merlin! Merlin! where art thou going - So early in the day, with thy black dog? - Oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! - Oi! oi! oi! ioi! oi! - - I have come here to search the way, - To find the red egg; - The red egg of the marine serpent, - By the sea-side in the hollow of the stone. - I am going to seek in the valley - The green water-cress, and the golden grass, - And the top branch of the oak, - In the wood by the side of the fountain. - - Merlin! Merlin! retrace your steps; - Leave the branch on the oak, - And the green water-cress in the valley, - As well as the golden grass; - And leave the red egg of the marine serpent, - In the foam by the hollow of the stone. - Merlin! Merlin! retrace thy steps, - There is no diviner but God. - -[Sidenote: ANCIENT CORNISH DRAMA] - - - - -The Vision of Seth. - - -[Adam bids Seth journey to the Gate of Paradise--the way to be known to -him because of the burnt imprints of the feet of himself and Eve on the -day they were driven forth, sere marks never grass-grown since--and, -after telling him to ask for the oil of mercy, blesses him, and sees him -go.] - -CHERUBIN. - - Seth, what is thy errand, - That thou wouldst come so long a way? - Tell me soon. - -SETH. - - O angel, I will tell thee: - My father is old and weary, - He would not wish to live longer; - - And through me he prayed thee - To tell the truth - Of the oil promised to him - Of mercy in the last day. - -CHERUBIN. - - Within the gate put thy head, - And behold it all, nor fear, - Whatever thou seest, - And look on all sides; - Examine well every particular; - Search out everything diligently. - -SETH. - - Very joyfully I will do it; - I am glad to have permission - To know what is there, - To tell it to my father. - -[And he looks, and turns round, saying:--] - - Fair field is this; - Unhappy he who lost the country: - And the tree, it is to me - A great wonder that it is dry; - But I believe that it is dry, - And all made bare, for the sin - Which my father and mother sinned. - Like the prints of their feet, - They are all dry, like herbs. - Alas, that the morsel was eaten. - -CHERUBIN. - - O Seth, thou art come - Within the Gate of Paradise; - Tell me what thou sawest. - -SETH. - - All the beauty that I saw - The tongue of no man in the world can - Tell it ever. - Of good fruit, and fair flowers, - Minstrels and sweet song, - A fountain bright as silver; - And four springs, large indeed, - Flowing from it, - That there is a desire to look at them. - - In it there is a tree, - High with many boughs; - But they are all bare, without leaves. - And around it, bark - There was none, from the stem to the head - All its boughs are bare. - - And at the bottom, when I looked, - I saw its roots - Even into hell descending, - In the midst of great darkness. - And its branches growing up, - Even to heaven high in light; - And it was without bark altogether, - Both the head and the boughs. - -CHERUBIN. - - Look yet again within, - And all else thou shalt see - Before thou come from it. - -SETH. - - I am happy that I have permission; - I will go to the gate immediately, - That I may see further good. - - [He goes, and looks, and returns. - -CHERUBIN. - - Dost thou see more now, - Than what there was just now? - -SETH. - - There is a serpent in the tree; - An ugly beast, without fail. - -CHERUBIN. - - Go yet a third time to it, - And look better at the tree. - Look, what you can see in it, - Besides roots and branches. - - [Again he goes up. - -SETH. - - Cherub, angel of the God of grace, - In the tree I saw, - High up on the branches, - A little child newly born; - And he was swathed in cloths, - And bound fast with napkins. - -CHERUBIN. - - The Son of God it was whom thou sawest, - Like a little child swathed. - He will redeem Adam, thy father, - With his flesh and blood too, - When the time is come, - And thy mother, and all the good people. - - He is the oil of mercy, - Which was promised to thy father; - Through his death, clearly, - All the world will be saved. - -SETH. - - Blessed be he: - O God, now I am happy; - Knowing the truth all plainly, - I will go from thee. - -CHERUBIN. - - Take three kernels of the apple, - Which Adam, thy father, ate. - When he dies, put them, without fail, - Between his teeth and tongue. - From them thou wilt see - Three trees grow presently; - For he will not live more than three days - After thou reachest home. - -SETH. - - Blessed be thou every day; - I honour thee ever very truly: - My father will be very joyful, - If he soon passes from life. - - - - -III - -ANCIENT ARMORICAN - -(Breton) - -[Sidenote: ANCIENT BRETON] - - - - -The Dance of the Sword. - -(Ha Korol ar C’Hleze.) - - - Blood, wine, and glee, - Sun, to thee,-- - Blood, wine, and glee! - Fire! fire! steel, Oh! steel! - Fire, fire! steel and fire! - Oak! oak, earth, and waves! - Waves, oak, earth and oak! - - Glee of dance and song, - And battle-throng,-- - Battle, dance, and song! - Fire! fire! steel, etc. - - Let the sword blades swing - In a ring,-- - Let the sword blades swing! - Fire! fire! steel, etc. - - Song of the blue steel, - Death to feel,-- - Song of the blue steel! - Fire! fire! steel, etc. - - Fight, whereof the sword - Is the Lord,-- - Fight of the fell sword! - Fire! fire! steel, etc. - - Sword, thou mighty king - Of battle’s ring,-- - Sword thou mighty king! - Fire! fire! steel, etc. - - With the rainbow’s light - Be thou bright,-- - With the rainbow’s light! - Fire! fire! steel, Oh! steel! - Fire, fire! steel and fire! - Oak! oak, earth and waves! - Waves, oak, earth, and oak! - -[Sidenote: ANCIENT BRETON] - - - - -The Lord Nann and the Fairy. - -(Aotron Nann Hag ar Gorrigan.) - - - The good Lord Nann and his fair bride - Were young when wedlock’s knot was tied-- - Were young when death did them divide. - - But yesterday that lady fair - Two babes as white as snow did bear; - A man-child and a girl they were. - - “Now, say what is thy heart’s desire, - For making me a man-child’s sire? - ’Tis thine, whate’er thou may’st require,-- - - “What food soe’er thee lists to take, - Meat of the woodcock from the lake, - Meat of the wild deer from the brake.” - - “Oh, the meat of the deer is dainty food! - To eat thereof would do me good, - But I grudge to send thee to the wood.” - - The Lord of Nann, when this he heard, - Hath gripp’d his oak spear with never a word; - His bonny black horse he hath leap’d upon, - And forth to the greenwood hath he gone. - - By the skirts of the wood as he did go, - He was ware of a hind as white as snow. - - Oh, fast she ran, and fast he rode, - That the earth it shook where his horse-hoofs trode. - - Oh, fast he rode, and fast she ran, - That the sweat to drop from his brow began-- - - That the sweat on his horse’s flank stood white; - So he rode and rode till the fall o’ the night. - - When he came to a stream that fed a lawn, - Hard by the grot of a Corrigaun. - - The grass grew thick by the streamlet’s brink, - And he lighted down off his horse to drink. - - The Corrigaun sat by the fountain fair, - A-combing her long and yellow hair. - - A-combing her hair with a comb of gold,-- - (Not poor, I trow, are those maidens cold).-- - - “Now who’s the bold wight that dares come here - To trouble my fairy fountain clear? - - “Either thou straight shall wed with me, - Or pine for four long years and three; - Or dead in three days’ space shall be.” - - “I will not wed with thee, I ween, - For wedded man a year I’ve been; - - “Nor yet for seven years will I pine, - Nor die in three days for spell of thine; - - “For spell of thine I will not die, - But when it pleaseth God on high. - - “But here, and now, I’d leave my life, - Ere take a Corrigaun to wife. - - * * * * * - - “O mother, mother! for love of me, - Now make my bed, and speedily, - For I am sick as a man can be. - - “Oh, never the tale to my lady tell; - Three days and ye’ll hear my passing bell; - The Corrigaun hath cast her spell.” - - Three days they pass’d, three days were sped, - To her mother-in-law the ladye said; - -[Sidenote: ANCIENT BRETON] - - “Now tell me, madam, now tell me, pray, - Wherefore the death-bells toll to-day? - - “Why chaunt the priests in the street below, - All clad in their vestments white as snow?” - - “A strange poor man, who harbour’d here, - He died last night, my daughter dear.” - - “But tell me, madam, my lord, your son-- - My husband--whither is he gone?” - - “But to the town, my child, he’s gone; - And at your side he’ll be back anon.” - - “What gown for my churching were’t best to wear,-- - My gown of grain, or of watchet fair?” - - “The fashion of late, my child, hath grown, - That women for churching black should don.” - - As through the churchyard porch she stept, - She saw the grave where her husband slept. - - “Who of our blood is lately dead, - That our ground is new raked and spread?” - - “The truth I may no more forbear, - My son--your own poor lord--lies there!” - - She threw herself on her knees amain, - And from her knees ne’er rose again. - - That night they laid her, dead and cold, - Beside her lord, beneath the mould; - When, lo!--a marvel to behold!-- - - Next morn from the grave two oak-trees fair, - Shot lusty boughs high up in air; - - And in their boughs--oh wondrous sight!-- - Two happy doves, all snowy white-- - - That sang, as ever the morn did rise, - And then flew up--into the skies! - - - - -Alain the Fox. - - - The bearded fox is yelping, yelp, yelping through the glades; - Woe to the foreign rabbits! His eyes are two keen blades. - - His teeth are keen; his feet are swift; his nails are red with blood. - Alain the fox is yelping war: yelp, yelping in the wood. - - The Bretons making sharp their arms of terror I did see, - It was on cuirasses of Gaul, not stones of Brittany. - - The Bretons reaping did I see, upon the fields of war; - It was not notched reaping-hooks, but swords of steel they bore. - - They reapt no wheat of our own land, they reaped not our rye; - But the beardless ears, the beardless ears of Gaul and Saxony. - - I saw upon the threshing-floor the Bretons threshing corn: - I saw the beaten chaff fly out from beardless ears off-torn. - - It was not with their wooden flails the Bretons thresht the wheat; - But with their iron boar-spears and with their horses’ feet. - - I heard the cry when threshing’s done, the joy-cry onward borne - Far, far from Mont-Saint-Michel to the valleys of Elorn: - - From the abbey of Saint Gildas far on to the Land’s-End rocks. - In Brittany’s four corners give a glory to the Fox! - -[Sidenote: ANCIENT BRETON] - - From age to age give glory to the Fox a thousand times! - But weep ye for the rhymer, though he recollect his rhymes! - - For he that sang this song the first since then hath never sung: - Ah me, alas! Unhappy man! The Gauls cut out his tongue. - - But though no more he hath a tongue, a heart is always his: - He has both hand and heart to shoot his arrowy melodies. - - - - -Bran. - -(The Crow.) - - - Wounded full sore is Bran the knight; - For he was at Kerloan fight; - At Kerloan fight, by wild seashore - Was Bran-Vor’s grandson wounded sore; - And, though we gained the victory, - Was captive borne beyond the sea. - He when he came beyond the sea, - In the close keep wept bitterly. - “They leap at home with joyous cry - While, woe is me, in bed I lie. - Could I but find a messenger, - Who to my mother news would bear!” - They quickly found a messenger; - His best thus gave the warrior: - “Heed thou to dress in other guise, - My messenger, dress beggar-wise! - Take thou my ring, my ring of gold, - That she thy news as truth may hold! - Unto my country straightway go, - It to my lady mother show! - Should she come free her son from hold, - A flag of white do thou unfold! - But if with thee she come not back, - Unfurl, ah me, a pennon black!” - - So, when to Leon-land he came, - At supper table sat the dame, - At table with her family, - The harpers playing as should be. - “Dame of the castle, hail! I bring - From Bran your son this golden ring, - His golden ring and letter too; - Read it, oh read it, straightway through!” - “Ye harpers, cease ye, play no more, - For with great grief my heart is sore! - My son (cease harpers, play no more!) - In prison, and I did not know! - Prepare to-night a ship for me! - To-morrow I go across the sea.” - - The morning of the next, next day - The Lord Bran question’d, as he lay: - “Sentinel, sentinel, soothly say! - Seest thou no vessel on its way?” - “My lord the knight, I nought espy - Except the great sea and the sky.” - The Lord Bran askt him yet once more, - Whenas the day’s course half was o’er; - “Sentinel, sentinel, soothly say! - Seest thou no vessel on its way?” - “I can see nothing, my lord the knight, - Except the sea-birds i’ their flight.” - The Lord Bran askt him yet again, - Whenas the day was on the wane; - “Sentinel, sentinel, soothly say! - Seest thou no vessel on its way?” - Then that false sentinel, the while - Smiling a mischief-working smile; - “I see afar a misty form-- - A ship sore beaten by the storm.” - “The flag? Quick give the answer back! - The banner? Is it white or black?” - “Far as I see, ’tis black, Sir knight, - I swear it by the coal’s red light.” - When this the sorrowing knight had heard - Again he never spoke a word; - But turn’d aside his visage wan; - And then the fever fit began. - - Now of the townsmen askt the dame, - When at the last to shore she came, - “What is the news here, townsmen, tell! - That thus I hear them toll the bell?” - An aged man the lady heard, - And thus he answer’d to her word: - “We in the prison held a knight; - And he hath died here in the night.” - Scarcely to end his words were brought, - When the high tower that lady sought; - Shedding salt tears and running fast, - Her white hair scatter’d in the blast, - So that the townsmen wonderingly - Full sorely marvell’d her to see; - Whenas they saw a lady strange, - Through their streets so sadly range - Each one in thought did musing stand; - “Who is the lady, from what land?” - Soon as the donjon’s foot she reacht, - The porter that poor dame beseecht; - “Ope, quickly ope, the gate for me! - My son! My son! Him would I see!” - Slowly the great gate open drew; - Herself upon her son she threw, - Close in her arms his corpse to strain, - The lady never rose again. - - There is a tree, that doth look o’er - From Kerloan’s battle-field to th’ shore; - An oak. Before great Evan’s face - The Saxons fled in that same place. - Upon that oak in clear moonlight, - Together come the birds at night; - Black birds and white, but sea birds all; - On each one’s brow a blood-stain small, - With them a raven gray and old; - With her a crow comes young and bold. - Both with soil’d wings, both wearied are; - They come beyond the seas from far: - And the birds sing so lovelily - That silence comes on the great sea. - All sing in concert sweet and low - Except the raven and the crow. - Once was the crow heard murmuring: - “Sing, little birds, ye well may sing! - Sing, for this is your own countrie! - Ye died not far from Brittany!” - - - - -IV - -EARLY CYMRIC AND MEDIÆVAL WELSH - - - - -The Soul. - -(From “The Black Book of Caermarthen.”) - - -[Sidenote: EARLY CYMRIC] - - Soul, since I was made in necessity blameless - True it is, woe is me that thou shouldst have come to my design, - Neither for my own sake, nor for death, nor for end, nor for beginning. - It was with seven faculties that I was thus blessed, - With seven created beings I was placed for purification; - I was gleaming fire when I was caused to exist; - I was dust of the earth, and grief could not reach me; - I was a high wind, being less evil than good; - I was a mist on a mountain seeking supplies of stags; - I was blossoms of trees on the face of the earth. - If the Lord had blessed me, He would have placed me on matter. - Soul, since I was made---- - - - - -The Gorwynion. - - - The tops of the ash glisten, that are white and stately, - When growing on the top of the dingle: - The breast rackt with pain, longing is its complaint. - - Brightly glitters the top of the cliff at the long midnight hour; - Every ingenious person will be honoured: - ’Tis the duty of the fair, to afford sleep to him that is in pain. - - Brightly glistens the willow tops; the fish are merry in the lakes, - Blustering is the wind over the tops of the small branches: - Nature over learning doth prevail. - - Brightly glisten the tops of the furze; have confidence with the wise, - But from the unwise tear thyself afar; - Besides God there is none that sees futurity. - - Brightly glisten the clover tops: the timid has no heart; - Wearied out are the jealous ones: - Cares attend the weak. - - Brightly glisten the tops of reed-grass; furious is the jealous, - If any should perchance offend him: - ’Tis the maxim of the prudent to love with sincerity. - - Brightly glare the tops of the mountains from the blustering of winter, - Full are the stalks of reeds; heavy is oppression: - Against famine bashfulness will vanish. - - Brightly glare the tops of mountains assail’d by winter cold; - Brittle are the reeds; the mead is incrusted over; - Playful is the heedless in banishment. - -[Sidenote: LLYWARC’H HEN] - - Bright are the tops of the oaks, bitter are the ash branches; - Before the duck, the dividing waves are seen: - Confident is deceit; care is deeply rooted in my heart. - - Brightly glisten the tops of the oaks, bitter are the ash branches; - Sweet is the sheltering hedge; the wave is a noisy grinner; - The cheek cannot conceal the trouble of the heart. - - Bright is the top of the eglantine; hardship dispenses with forms, - Let everyone keep his fire-side: - The greatest blemish is ill-manners. - - Brightly glitters the top of the broom; may the lover have a home; - Very yellow seem the clustered branches; - Shallow is the ford; sleep visits the contented mind. - - Brightly glitters the top of the apple-tree; - the prosperous is circumspect. - In the long day the stagnant pool is warm; - Thick is the veil on the light of the blind prisoner. - - Very glittering are the hazel-tops by the hill of Dig; - Every prudent one will be free from harm; - ’Tis the act of the mighty to keep a treaty. - - Glittering are the tops of the reeds; the fat are drowsy - And the young imbibe instruction; - None but the foolish will break faith. - - Glittering is the top of the lily; let every bold one be a drinker; - The word of a tribe is superior; - ’Tis usual for the unjust to break his word. - - Bright are the tops of heath; miscarriage attends the timid; - Boldly laves the water on its banks. - Tis the maxim of the just to keep his word. - - The tops of the rushes glitter; the kine are gentle; - Running are my tears this day, - Social comfort from man there is not. - - Glittering are the tops of fern, yellow is the wild marygold; - The sea is a fence for blind ones: - Swift and active are the young men. - - Glittering are the tops of the service-tree; care attends the old; - The bees frequent the wilds; - Vengeance only to God belongs. - - Brightly glitters the tops of the oak; incessant is the tempest; - The bees are high in their flight, brittle is the charr’d brushwood, - The wanton is apt to laugh too frequently. - - The hazel grove brightly glitters, even and uniform seem the brakes; - And with leaves the oaks envelop themselves; - Happy is he who sees the one he loves! - - Glittering seems the top of the oak; coolly purls the stream; - I wish to obtain the top of the birchen grove; - Abruptly goes the arrow of the haughty to give pain. - - Brightly glitters the top of the hard holly, that opens its golden leaves; - When all are asleep on the surrounding walls, - God slumbers not when He means to give deliverance. - -[Sidenote: LLYWARC’H HEN] - - Glittering are the tops of the willows, brittle and tender; - In the long day of summer the war-horse flags, - Those that have mutual friendships will not offend. - - Glittering are the tops of rushes, the stems are full of prickles; - When drawn under the pillow; - The wanton mind will be haughty. - - Bright is the top of the hawthorn; confident is the fight of the steed; - It behoves the dependant to be grateful; - May it be good what the speedy messenger brings. - - Glittering are the tops of cresses; warlike is the steed; - Trees are fair ornaments of the ground; - Joyful is the soul with the one it loves. - - Brightly glares the top of the bush, valuable is the steed; - Reason joined with strength is effectual; - Let the unskilful be void of strength. - - Glittering are the tops of the brakes, birds are their fair jewels; - The long day is the gift of the radiant light, - Mercy was formed by God, the most beneficent. - - Glittering are the elmwood tops, sweet the music of the grove; - Boisterous among the trees the wind doth whistle; - Interceding with the obdurate will not avail. - - Glittering are the tops of elder-trees; bold is the solitary songster; - Accustomed is the violent to oppress; - By want of care the food in hand may be lost. - - - - -The Tercets of Llywarc’h. - - - Entangling is the snare, clustered is the ash; - The ducks are in the pond; white breaks the wave; - More powerful than a hundred is the counsel of the heart. - - Long the night, boisterous is the sea-shore; - Usual a tumult in a congregation; - The vicious will not agree with the good. - - Long the night, boisterous is the mountain, - The wind whistles over the tops of trees; - Ill-nature will not deceive the discreet. - - The saplings of the green-topped birch - Will extricate my foot from the shackle; - Disclose not thy secret to a youth. - - The saplings of oaks in the grove - Will extricate my foot from the chain; - Disclose no secret to a maid. - - The saplings of the leafy oaks - Will extricate my foot from the prison; - Divulge no secret to a babbler. - - The saplings of bramble have berries on them; - The thrush is on her nest; - The liar will never be silent. - - Rain without, the fern is drenched; - White the gravel of the sea; there is spray on the margin; - Reason is the fairest lamp for man. - - Rain without, near is the shelter, - The furze yellow; the cow-parsnip withered and dry; - God the Creator! why hast thou made me a coward? - - Rain without, my hair is drenched; - Full of complaint is the feeble; steep the cliff; - Pale white is the sea; salt is the brine. - - Rain without, the ocean is drenched; - The wind whistles over the tops of the reeds; - After every feat, still without the genius. - - - - -Song to the Wind. - - -[Sidenote: TALIESIN] - - Discover thou what is - The strong creature from before the flood, - Without flesh, without bone, - Without vein, without blood, - Without head, without feet; - It will neither be older nor younger - Than at the beginning; - For fear of a denial, - These are no rude wants - With creatures. - Great God! how the sea whitens - When first it comes! - Great are its gusts - When it comes from the south; - Great are its evaporations - When it strikes on coasts. - It is in the field, it is in the wood, - Without hand and without foot, - Without signs of old age, - Though it be co-eval - With the five ages or periods; - And older still, - Though they be numberless years. - It is also so wide; - As the surface of the earth; - And it was not born, - Nor was it seen. - It will cause consternation - Wherever God willeth. - On sea, and on land, - It neither sees, nor is seen. - Its course is devious, - And will not come when desired - On land and on sea - It is indispensable. - It is without an equal, - It is four-sided; - It is not confined, - It is incomparable; - It comes from four quarters; - It will not be advised, - It will not be without advice. - It commences its journey - Above the marble rock. - It is sonorous, it is dumb, - It is mild, - It is strong, it is bold, - When it glances over the land. - It is silent, it is vocal, - It is clamorous, - It is the most noisy - On the face of the earth. - It is good, it is bad, - It is extremely injurious. - It is concealed, - Because sight cannot perceive it. - It is noxious, it is beneficial; - It is yonder, it is here; - It will discompose, - But will not repair the injury; - It will not suffer for its doings, - Seeing it is blameless. - It is wet, it is dry, - It frequently comes, - Proceeding from the heat of the sun, - And the coldness of the moon. - The moon is less beneficial, - Inasmuch as her heat is less. - One Being has prepared it, - Out of all creatures, - By a tremendous blast, - To wreak vengeance - On Maelgwn Gwynedd. - - - - -Odes of the Months. - - -[Sidenote: ANEURIN] - - Month of January--smoky is the vale; - Weary the wine-bearer; strolling the minstrel; - Lean the cow; seldom the hum of the bee; - Empty the milking fold; void of meat the kiln; - Slender the horse; very silent the bird; - Long to the early dawn; short the afternoon; - Justly spoke Cynfelyn, - “Prudence is the best guide for man.” - - Month of February--scarce are the dainties; - Wakeful the adder to generate its poison; - Habitual is reproach from frequent acknowledgment; - The hired ox has not skill to complain; - Three things produce dreadful evils, - A woman’s counsel, murder, and way-laying; - Best is the dog upon a morning in spring; - Alas! to him who murders his maid! - - Month of March--great is the forwardness of the birds, - Severe is the cold wind upon the headlands; - Serene weather will be longer than the crops; - Longer continues anger than grief; - Every one feels dread; - Every bird wings to its mate. - Every thing springs through the earth; - But the dead, strong is his prison! - - Month of April--aerial is the horizon; - Fatigued the oxen; bare the land; - Common is the visitor without an invitation; - Poor the deer; blithesome the hare; - Everyone claims his labour; - Happy his state who governs himself; - Common is separation with virtuous children; - Common, after presumption, is a long cessation. - - Month of May--wanton is the lascivious; - Sheltering the ditch to everyone who loves it; - Joyous the aged in his robes; - Loquacious the cuckoo in the rural vales; - Easy is society where there is affection; - Covered with foliage are the woods, sportive the amorous, - There comes as often to the market, - The skin of the lamb as the skin of the sheep. - - Month of June--beautiful are the fields; - Smooth the sea, pleasing the strand; - Beautifully long the day, playful the ladies; - Full the flocks, apt to be firm the bog; - God loves all tranquillity; - The devil loves all mischief; - Every one covets honour; - Every mighty one, feeble his end. - - Month of July--the hay is apt to smoke; - Ardent the heat, dissolved the snow; - The vagrant does not love a long confederacy; - There is no success to the progeny of an unchaste person; - Bare the farm-yard--partly empty the circular eminence; - Clean the perfect person, disgraceful the boasting word; - Justly spoke the foster-son of Mary, - “God judges, though man may prate.” - - Month of August--covered with foam is the beach; - Blithesome the bee, full the hive; - Better the work of the sickle than the bow; - Fuller the stack than the theatre. - He that will neither work nor pray, - Is not worthy to have bread; - Justly spoke Saint Breda, - “Evil will not be approached less than good.” - -[Sidenote: ANEURIN] - - Month of September--benign are the planets; - Tending to please, the sea and the hamlet; - Common is it for steeds and men to be fatigued; - Common is it to possess all kinds of fruit:-- - A princely girl was born, - To be our leader from painful slavery;-- - Justly spake Saint Berned, - “God does not sleep when he gives deliverance.” - - Month of October--penetrable is the shelter; - Yellow the tops of the birch, solitary the summer dwelling; - Full of fat the birds and the fish; - Less and less the milk of the cow and the goat; - Alas! to him who merits disgrace by sin! - Death is better than frequent extravagance; - Three things follow every crime, - Fasting, prayer, and charity. - - Month of November--very fat are the swine; - Let the shepherd go; let the minstrel come; - Bloody the blade, full the barn; - Pleased the sea, tasteless the caldron; - Long the night, active the prisoner; - Respected is every one who possesses property; - For three things men are not often concerned, - Sorrow, angry look, and an illiberal miser. - - Month of December--the shoe is covered with dirt: - Heavy the land, flagging the sun; - Bare are the trees, still is the muscle; - Cheerful the cock, and determined the thief; - Whilst the twelve months proceed so sprightly, - Round the youthful mind, is the spoiler Satan; - Justly spoke Yscolan, - “God is better than an evil prophecy.” - - - - -The Summer. - - - Thou Summer! father of delight, - With thy dense spray and thickets deep; - Gemm’d monarch, with thy rapt’rous light. - Rousing thy subject glens from sleep! - Proud has thy march of triumph been, - Thou prophet, prince of forest green! - Artificer of wood and tree, - Thou painter of unrivalled skill, - Who ever scatters gems like thee, - And gorgeous webs on park and hill? - Till vale and hill with radiant dyes - Become another Paradise! - And thou hast sprinkled leaves and flow’rs, - And goodly chains of leafy bow’rs; - And bid thy youthful warblers sing - On oak and knoll, the song of spring, - And black-birds’ note of ecstacy - Burst loudly from the woodbine tree, - Till all the world is thronged with gladness-- - Her multitudes have done with sadness! - O Summer! do I ask in vain? - Thus in thy glory wilt thou deign - My messenger to be? - Hence from the bowels of the land - Of wild, wild Gwyneth to the strand - Of fair Glamorgan--ocean’s band-- - Sweet margin of the sea! - To dear Glamorgan, when we part, - Oh bear a thousand times my heart! - My blessing give a thousand times, - And crown with joy her glowing climes? - Take on her lovely vales thy stand, - And tread and trample round the land, - The beauteous shore whose harvest lies - All sheltered from inclement skies. - Radiant with corn and vineyards sweet, - The lakes of fish and mansions neat, - With halls of stone where kindness dwells, - And where each hospitable lord - Heaps for the stranger guest his board! - And where the generous wine cup swells; - With trees that bear a luscious pear, - So thickly clustering everywhere, - That the fair country of my love - Looks dense as one continuous grove! - Her lofty woods with warblers teem, - Her fields with flow’rs that love the stream; - Her valleys varied crops display, - Eight kinds of corn, and three of hay; - Bright parlour, with her trefoiled floor! - Sweet garden, spread on ocean’s shore! - Glamorgan’s bounteous knights award - Bright mead and burnished gold to me: - Glamorgan boasts of many a bard, - Well skilled in harp and vocal glee: - The districts round her border spread - From her have drawn their daily bread-- - Her milk, her meat, her varied stores, - Have been the life of distant shores! - And court and hamlet food have found - From the rich soil of Britain’s southern bound. - And wilt thou then obey my power, - Thou Summer, in thy brightest hour? - To her thy glorious hues unfold - In one rich embassy of gold! - Her morns with bliss and splendour light, - And fondly kiss her mansions white; - Fling wealth and verdure o’er her bow’rs! - And for her gather all thy flow’rs! - Glance o’er her castles, white with lime, - With genial glimmerings sublime; - Plant on the verdant coast thy feet, - Her lofty hills, her woodlands greet. - Oh! lavish blossoms with thy hand - O’er all the forests of the land; - And let thy gifts like floods descending, - O’er every hill and glen be blending; - Let orchard, garden, vine express - Thy fulness and thy fruitfulness-- - O’er all the land of beauty fling - The costly traces of thy wing! - And thus ’mid all thy radiant flowers, - Thy thickening leaves and glossy bowers, - The poet’s task shall be to glean - Roses and flowers that softly bloom - (The jewel of the forest’s gloom!), - And trefoils wove in pavement green, - With sad humility to grace - His golden Ivor’s resting-place. - - - - -To the Lark. - -T’R Ehedydd. - - -[Sidenote: DAVYDD AB GWILYM] - - Sentinel of the morning light! - Reveller of the spring! - How sweetly, nobly wild thy flight, - Thy boundless journeying: - Far from thy brethren of the woods, alone, - A hermit chorister before God’s throne! - - Oh! wilt thou climb yon heavens for me, - Yon rampart’s starry height, - Thou interlude of melody - ’Twixt darkness and the light, - And seek with heav’n’s first dawn upon thy crest, - My lady love, the moonbeam of the west? - - No woodland caroller art thou; - Far from the archer’s eye, - Thy course is o’er the mountain’s brow, - Thy music in the sky: - Then fearless float thy path of cloud along, - Thou earthly denizen of angel song. - - - - -To the Fox. - - - The wretch my starry bird who slew, - Beast of the flameless ember hue, - Assassin, glutton of the night, - Mixed of all creatures that defile, - Land lobster, fugitive of light, - Thou coward mountain crocodile; - With downcast eye and ragged tail, - That haunt’st the hollow rocks, - Thief, ever ready to assail - The undefended flocks, - Thy brass-hued breast and tattered locks - Shall not protect thee from the hound, - When with unbaffled eye he mocks - Thy mazy fortress underground, - Whilst o’er my peacock’s shattered plumes shall shine - A pretty bower of faery eglantine. - - - - -The Song of the Thrush. - - -[Sidenote: RYHS GOCH] - - I was on the margin of a plain, - Under a wide spreading tree, - Hearing the song - Of the wild birds; - Listening to the language - Of the thrush cock, - Who from the wood of the valley - Composed a verse-- - From the wood of the steep, - He sang exquisitely. - Speckled was his breast - Amongst the green leaves, - As upon branches - Of a thousand blossoms - On the bank of a brook, - All heard - With the dawn the song, - Like a silver bell; - Performing a sacrifice, - Until the hour of forenoon; - Upon the green altar - Ministering Bardism. - From the branches of the hazel - Of green broad leaves - He sings an ode - To God the Creator; - With a carol of love - From the green glade, - To all in the hollow - Of the glen, who love him; - Balm of the heart - To those who love. - I had from his beak - The voice of inspiration, - A song of metres - That gratified me; - Glad was I made - By his minstrelsy. - Then respectfully - Uttered I an address - From the stream of the valley - To the bird. - I requested urgently - His undertaking a message - To the fair one - Where dwells my affection. - Gone is the bard of the leaves - From the small twigs - To the second Lunet, - The sun of the maidens! - To the streams of the plain - St Mary prosper him, - To bring to me, - Under the green woods - The hue of the snow of one night, - Without delay. - - - - -PART II - - - - -I - -IRISH - -(Modern and Contemporary) - - - - -Sacrifice. - - -[Sidenote: “A. E.”] - - Those delicate wanderers, - The wind, the star, the cloud, - Ever before mine eyes, - As to an altar bowed, - Light and dew-laden airs - Offer in sacrifice. - - The offerings arise: - Hazes of rainbow light, - Pure crystal, blue, and gold, - Through dreamland take their flight; - And ’mid the sacrifice - God moveth as of old. - - In miracles of fire - He symbols forth His days, - In gleams of crystal light - Reveals what pure pathways - Lead to the soul’s desire, - The silence of the height. - - - - -The Great Breath. - - - Its edges foamed with amethyst and rose, - Withers once more the old blue flower of day: - There where the ether like a diamond glows - Its petals fade away. - - A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air; - Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows; - The great deep thrills, for through it everywhere - The breath of Beauty blows. - - I saw how all the trembling ages past, - Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath, - Neared to the hour when Beauty breathes her last - And knows herself in death. - - - - -Mystery. - - -[Sidenote: “A. E”] - - Why does this sudden passion smite me? - I stretch my hands all blind to see: - I need the lamp of the world to light me, - Lead me and set me free. - - Something a moment seemed to stoop from - The night with cool cool breath on my face: - Or did the hair of the twilight droop from - Its silent wandering ways? - - About me in the thick wood netted - The wizard glow looks human-wise; - And over the tree-tops barred and fretted - Ponders with strange old eyes. - - The tremulous lips of air blow by me - And hymn their time-old melody: - Its secret strain comes nigh and nigh me: - “Ah, brother, come with me; - - “For here the ancient mother lingers - To dip her hands in the diamond dew, - And lave thine ache with cloud-cool fingers - Till sorrow die from you.” - - - - -By the Margin of the Great Deep. - - - When the breath of twilight blows to flame the misty skies, - All its vaporous sapphire, violet glow and silver gleam, - With their magic flood me through the gateway of the eyes; - I am one with the twilight’s dream. - - When the trees and skies and fields are one in dusky mood, - Every heart of man is rapt within the mother’s breast: - Full of peace and sleep and dreams in the vasty quietude, - I am one with their hearts at rest. - - From our immemorial joys of hearth and home and love - Strayed away along the margin of the unknown tide, - All its reach of soundless calm can thrill me far above - Word or touch from the lips beside. - - Aye, and deep and deep and deeper let me drink and draw - From the olden fountain more than light or peace or dream, - Such primeval being as o’erfills the heart with awe, - Growing one with its silent stream. - - - - -The Breath of Light. - - -[Sidenote: “A. E.”] - - From the cool and dark-lipped furrows breathes a dim delight - Through the woodland’s purple plumage to the diamond night. - Aureoles of joy encircle every blade of grass - Where the dew-fed creatures silent and enraptured pass: - And the restless ploughman pauses, turns, and wondering - Deep beneath his rustic habit finds himself a king; - For a fiery moment looking with the eyes of God - Over fields a slave at morning bowed him to the sod. - Blind and dense with revelation every moment flies, - And unto the Mighty Mother, gay, eternal, rise - All the hopes we hold, the gladness, dreams of things to be. - One of all thy generations, Mother, hails to thee! - Hail! and hail! and hail for ever: though I turn again - From thy joy unto the human vestiture of pain. - I, thy child, who went forth radiant in the golden prime - Find thee still the mother-hearted through my night in time; - Find in thee the old enchantment, there behind the veil - Where the Gods my brothers linger, Hail! for ever, Hail! - - - - -Æolian Harp. - - -[Sidenote: WILLIAM ALLINGHAM] - - O pale green sea, - With long pale purple clouds above-- - What lies in me like weight of love? - What dies in me - With utter grief, because there comes no sign - Through the sun-raying West, or the dim sea-line? - - O salted air, - Blown round the rocky headlands chill-- - What calls me there from cove and hill? - What calls me fair - From Thee, the first-born of the youthful night? - Or in the waves is coming through the dusk twilight? - - O yellow Star, - Quivering upon the rippling tide-- - Sendest so far to one that sigh’d? - Bendest thou, Star, - Above where shadows of the dead have rest - And constant silence, with a message from the blest? - - - - -The Fairies. - - -[Sidenote: WILLIAM ALLINGHAM] - - Up the airy mountain, - Down the rushy glen, - We daren’t go a-hunting - For fear of little men; - Wee folk, good folk, - Trooping all together; - Green jacket, red cap, - And white owl’s feather! - - Down along the rocky shore - Some make their home, - They live on crispy pancakes - Of yellow tide-foam; - Some in the reeds - Of the black mountain lake, - With frogs for their watch-dogs, - All night awake. - - High on the hill-top - The old king sits; - He is now so old and gray - He’s nigh lost his wits. - With a bridge of white mist - Columbkill he crosses, - On his stately journeys - From Slieveleague to Rosses; - Or going up with music - On cold starry nights, - To sup with the Queen - Of the gay Northern Lights. - - They stole little Bridget - For seven years long; - When she came down again - Her friends were all gone. - - They took her lightly back, - Between the night and morrow, - They thought that she was fast asleep, - But she was dead with sorrow. - They have kept her ever since - Deep within the lake, - On a bed of flag-leaves, - Watching till she wake. - - By the craggy hill-side, - Through the mosses bare, - They have planted thorn-trees - For pleasure here and there. - Is any man so daring - As dig up them in spite, - He shall find their sharpest thorns - In his bed at night. - - Up the airy mountain, - Down the rushy glen, - We daren’t go a-hunting - For fear of little men; - Wee folk, good folk, - Trouping all together; - Green jacket, red cap, - And white owl’s feather. - - - - -To the Lianhaun Shee. - - -[Sidenote: THOMAS BOYD] - - Where is thy lovely perilous abode? - In what strange phantom-land - Glimmer the fairy turrets whereto rode - The ill-starred poet band? - - Say, in the Isle of Youth hast thou thy home, - The sweetest singer there, - Stealing on wingëd steed across the foam - Through the moonlit air? - - And by the gloomy peaks of Erigal, - Haunted by storm and cloud, - Wing past, and to thy lover there let fall - His singing robe and shroud? - - Or, where the mists of bluebell float beneath - The red stems of the pine, - And sunbeams strike thro’ shadow, dost thou breathe - The word that makes him thine? - - Or, is thy palace entered thro’ some cliff - When radiant tides are full, - And round thy lover’s wandering starlit skiff - Coil in luxurious lull? - - And would he, entering on the brimming flood, - See caverns vast in height, - And diamond columns, crowned with leaf and bud, - Glow in long lanes of light. - - And there the pearl of that great glittering shell - Trembling, behold thee lone, - Now weaving in slow dance an awful spell, - Now still upon thy throne? - - Thy beauty! ah, the eyes that pierce him thro’ - Then melt as in a dream; - The voice that sings the mysteries of the blue - And all that Be and Seem! - - Thy lovely motions answering to the rhyme - That ancient Nature sings, - That keeps the stars in cadence for all time, - And echoes through all things! - - Whether he sees thee thus, or in his dreams, - Thy light makes all lights dim; - An aching solitude from henceforth seems - The world of men to him. - - Thy luring song, above the sensuous roar, - He follows with delight, - Shutting behind him Life’s last gloomy door, - And fares into the Night. - - - - -Remembrance. - - -[Sidenote: EMILY BRONTË] - - Cold in the earth--and the deep snow piled above thee, - Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave! - Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee, - Severed at last by Time’s all-severing wave? - - Now, when alone, my thoughts no longer hover - Over the mountains, on that northern shore, - Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover - Thy noble heart for ever, ever more. - - Cold in the earth--and fifteen wild Decembers, - From these brown hills, have melted into Spring! - Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers - After such years of change and suffering! - - Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, - While the world’s tide is bearing me along; - Other desires and other hopes beset me, - Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong. - - No later light has lighted up my heaven, - No second morn has ever shone for me; - All my life’s bliss from thy dear life was given, - All my life’s bliss is in the grave with thee. - - But, when the days of golden dreams had perished, - And even despair was powerless to destroy; - Then did I learn how existence could be cherished, - Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy. - - Then did I check the tears of useless passion-- - Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine; - Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten - Down to that tomb already more than mine. - - And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, - Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain; - Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, - How could I seek the empty world again? - - - - -The Earth and Man. - - -[Sidenote: STOPFORD A. BROOKE] - - A little sun, a little rain, - A soft wind blowing from the west-- - And woods and fields are sweet again, - And warmth within the mountain’s breast. - - So simple is the earth we tread, - So quick with love and life her frame, - Ten thousand years have dawned and fled, - And still her magic is the same. - - A little love, a little trust, - A soft impulse, a sudden dream-- - And life as dry as desert dust - Is fresher than a mountain stream. - - So simple is the heart of man - So ready for new hope and joy; - Ten thousand years since it began - Have left it younger than a boy. - - - - -Song. - -(From “Six Days.”) - - -[Sidenote: STOPFORD A. BROOKE] - - Come, where on the moorland steep - Silent sunlight dreams of sleep, - And in this high morning air - Love me, my companion fair! - All the clouds that high in Heaven - Rest and rove from morn to even, - All the beauty that doth live - By the winds--to thee I give. - - See below deep meadow lands, - Misty moors and shining sands, - And blue hills so far and dim - They melt on the horizon’s rim. - O how fresh the air, and sweet, - And with what a footfall fleet - O’er the grasses’ ebb and flow - The light winds to the eastward go. - - Noon is now with us. Farewell - To this mountain citadel. - Come, and with your footing fine - Thread the scented paths of pine, - Till we see the Druid carn - Shadowed in the haunted tarn. - There the water blue and deep - Lies, like wearied thought, asleep. - - While we watch, the storm awakes; - Flash on flash the ripple breaks, - Purple, with a snow-white crest, - On the meadow’s golden breast. - Roods of tinkling sedge are kissed - By the waves of amethyst: - Trouble knows the place, they say, - But we laugh at that to-day. - - Onward to the glen below; - Every nook and turn we know - Where the passion-haunted stream - Laughs and lingers in its dream, - Making where its pebbles shine - Naiad music, clear and fine, - But not sweeter than the song - Love sings as we rove along. - - At the last the grassy seat, - Where of old we used to meet, - Holds us in its close embrace. - Hallowed ever be the place! - Here we kissed our hearts away - In a lovers’ holiday! - Shall I dream a greater bliss - Than the memory of this? - - - - -Maire, my Girl. - - -[Sidenote: JOHN K. CASEY] - - Over the dim blue hills - Strays a wild river, - Over the dim blue hills - Rests my heart ever. - Dearer and brighter than - Jewels and pearl, - Dwells she in beauty there, - =Maire=, my girl. - - Down upon Claris heath - Shines the soft berry, - On the brown harvest tree - Droops the red cherry. - Sweeter thy honey lips, - Softer the curl - Straying adown thy cheeks, - =Maire=, my girl. - - ’Twas on an April eve - That I first met her; - Many an eve shall pass - Ere I forget her. - Since, my young heart has been - Wrapped in a whirl, - Thinking and dreaming of - =Maire=, my girl. - - She is too kind and fond - Ever to grieve me, - She has too pure a heart - E’er to deceive me. - Were I Tryconnell’s chief - Or Desmond’s earl, - Life would be dark, wanting - =Maire=, my girl! - - Over the dim blue hills - Strays a wild river, - Over the dim blue hills - Rests my heart ever. - Dearer and brighter than - Jewels or pearl, - Dwells she in beauty there, - =Maire=, my girl. - - - - -Gracie Og Machree.[13] - -(Song of the “Wild Geese.”) - - -[Sidenote: JOHN K. CASEY] - - I placed the silver in her palm, - By Inny’s smiling tide, - And vowed, ere summer time came on, - To claim her as a bride. - But when the summer time came on - I dwelt beyond the sea; - Yet still my heart is ever true - To =Gracie Og Machree=. - - O bonnie are the woods of Targ, - And green thy hills, Rathmore, - And soft the sunlight ever falls - On Darre’s sloping shore; - And there the eyes I love--in tears - Shine ever mournfully, - While I am far, and far away - From =Gracie Og Machree=. - - When battle-steeds were neighing loud, - With bright blades in the air, - Next to my inmost heart I wore - A bright tress of her hair. - When stirrup-cups were lifted up - To lips, with soldier glee, - One toast I always fondly pledged, - ’Twas =Gracie Og Machree=. - - - - -Dirge. - -(From “The Sea Bride.”) - - -[Sidenote: GEORGE DARLEY] - - Prayer unsaid, and mass unsung, - Deadman’s dirge must still be rung: - Dingle-dong, the dead-bells sound! - Mermen chant his dirge around! - - Wash him bloodless, smooth him fair, - Stretch his limbs, and sleek his hair: - Dingle-dong, the dead-bells go! - Mermen swing them to and fro! - - In the wormless sand shall he - Feast for no foul glutton be: - Dingle-dong, the dead-bells chime! - Mermen keep the tone and time! - - We must with a tombstone brave - Shut the shark out from his grave: - Dingle-dong, the dead-bells toll! - Mermen dirgers ring his knoll! - - Such a slab will we lay o’er him - All the dead shall rise before him! - Dingle-dong, the dead-bells boom! - Mermen lay him in his tomb! - - - - -The Little Black Rose. - - -[Sidenote: AUBREY DE VERE] - - The Little Black Rose shall be red at last; - What made it black but the March wind dry, - And the tear of the widow that fell on it fast? - It shall redden the hills when June is nigh. - - The Silk of the Kine shall rest at last; - What drove her forth but the dragon-fly? - In the golden vale she shall feed full fast, - With her mild gold horn and slow, dark eye. - - The wounded wood-dove lies dead at last! - The pine long bleeding, it shall not die! - This song is secret. Mine ear it passed - In a wind o’er the plains at Athenry. - - - - -Epitaph. - - - He roamed half round the world of woe, - Where toil and labour never cease; - Then dropped one little span below - In search of peace. - - And now to him mild beams and showers, - All that he needs to grace his tomb, - From loneliest regions at all hours, - Unsought for come. - - - - -Killiney Far Away. - - -[Sidenote: FRANCIS FAHY] - - To Killiney far away flies my fond heart night and day, - To ramble light and happy through its fields and dells; - For here life smiles in vain, and earth’s a land of pain, - While all that’s bright in Erin in Killiney dwells. - - In Killiney in the West has a linnet sweet her nest, - And her song makes all the wild birds in the green wood dumb; - To the captive without cheer, it were freedom but to hear - Such sorrow-soothing music from her fair throat come. - - In Killiney’s bower blows a blushing, budding rose, - With perfume of the rarest that the June day yields; - And none who pass the way, but sighing wish that they - Might cull that fragrant flower of the dewy fields. - - Through Killiney’s meadows pass, on their way to early Mass, - Like twin-stars ’mid the grass, two small feet bare; - And angel-pure the heart, where the murmured Aves start - On their wingèd way to Heaven from the chapel there. - - And the pride of Irish girls is the dear brown head of curls, - The pearl white of pearls, =stoirin bàn mo chridhe=; - As bright-browed as the dawn, and as meek-eyed as the fawn, - And as graceful as the swan gliding on to sea. - - Not for jewels nor for gold, nor for hoarded wealth untold, - Not for all that mortals hold most desired and dear, - Would I my share forego in the loving heart aglow, - That beats beneath the snow of her bosom fair. - - Soon Killiney will you weep--for I know not rest nor sleep, - Till swiftly o’er the deep I with white sails come, - To win the linnet sweet, and the two white twinkling feet, - And the heart with true love beating, to my far-off home. - - And O! farewell to care, when the rose of perfume rare, - And the dear brown curling hair on my proud breast lie; - Then Killiney far away, never more by night or day, - To thy skies, or dark or grey, shall my fond heart fly. - - - - -Cean Dubh Deelish.[14] - - -[Sidenote: SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON] - - Put your head, darling, darling, darling, - Your darling black head my heart above; - Oh, mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance, - Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love? - - Oh, many and many a young girl for me is pining, - Letting her locks of gold to the cold wind free, - For me, the foremost of our gay young fellows; - But I’d leave a hundred, pure love, for thee! - - Then put your head, darling, darling, darling, - Your darling black head my heart above; - Oh, mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance, - Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love? - - - - -Molly Asthore. - - - O Mary dear! O Mary fair! - O branch of generous stem! - White blossom of the banks of Nair, - Though lilies grow on them; - You’ve left me sick at heart for love, - So faint I cannot see; - The candle swims the board above, - I’m drunk for love of thee! - O stately stem of maiden pride, - My woe it is and pain - That I thus severed from thy side - The long night must remain. - - Through all the towns of Innisfail - I’ve wandered far and wide, - But from Downpatrick to Kinsale, - From Carlow to Kilbride, - Many lords and dames of high degree - Where’er my feet have gone, - My Mary, one to equal thee - I never looked upon: - I live in darkness and in doubt - When’er my love’s away; - But were the gracious sun put out, - Her shadow would make day. - - ’Tis she, indeed, young bud of bliss, - As gentle as she’s fair. - Though lily-white her bosom is, - And sunny bright her hair, - And dewy azure her blue eye, - And rosy red her cheek, - Yet brighter she in modesty, - Most beautifully meek: - The world’s wise men from north to south - Can never cure my pain; - But one kiss from her honey mouth - Would make me well again. - - - - -The Fair Hills of Ireland. - -(From the Irish.) - - - A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer, - =Uileacan dubh O!= - Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear; - =Uileacan dubh O!= - There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand, - And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fanned; - There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i’ the yellow sand, - On the fair hills of holy Ireland. - - Curled is he and ringleted, and plaited to the knee, - =Uileacan dubh O!= - Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea; - =Uileacan dubh O!= - And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand, - Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand, - And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command, - For the fair hills of holy Ireland. - - Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground; - =Uileacan dubh O!= - The butter and the cream do wondrously abound, - =Uileacan dubh O!= - The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand, - And the cuckoo’s calling daily his note of music bland, - And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song i’ the forest grand, - On the fair hills of holy Ireland. - - - - -Herring is King. - - -[Sidenote: ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES] - - Let all the fish that swim the sea, - Salmon and turbot, cod and ling, - Bow down the head and bend the knee - To herring, their king! to herring, their king! - - Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin’, - ’Tis we have brought the summer in.[15] - - The sun sank down so round and red - Upon the bay, upon the bay; - The sails shook idly overhead, - Becalmed we lay, becalmed we lay; - - Sing, Hugamar, etc. - - Till Shawn the eagle dropped on deck, - The bright-eyed boy, the bright-eyed boy; - ’Tis he has spied your silver track, - Herring, our joy, herring, our joy; - - Sing, Hugamar, etc. - - It is in with the sails and away to shore, - With the rise and swing, the rise and swing - Of two stout lads at each smoking oar, - After herring, our king! herring, our king. - - Sing, Hugamar, etc. - - The Manx and Cornish raised the shout, - And joined the chase, and joined the chase; - But their fleets they fouled as they went about, - And we won the race, we won the race; - - Sing, Hugamar, etc. - - For we turned and faced you full to land, - Down the góleen[16] long, the góleen long, - And after you slipped from strand to strand - Our nets so strong, our nets so strong; - - Sing, Hugamar, etc. - - Then we called to our sweethearts and our wives, - “Come welcome us home, welcome us home,” - Till they ran to meet us for their lives - Into the foam, into the foam; - - Sing, Hugamar, etc. - - O kissing of hands and waving of caps - From girl and boy, from girl and boy, - While you leapt by scores in the lasses’ laps, - Herring our joy, herring our joy! - - Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin’, - ’Tis we have brought the summer in! - - - - -The Rose of Kenmare. - - -[Sidenote: ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES] - - I’ve been soft in a small way - On the girleens of Galway, - And the Limerick lasses have made me feel quare; - But there’s no use denyin’, - No girl I’ve set eye on - Could compate wid Rose Ryan of the town of Kenmare. - - O, where - Can her like be found? - No where, - The country round, - Spins at her wheel - Daughter as true, - Sets in the reel, - Wid a slide of the shoe - a slinderer, - tinderer, - purtier, - wittier colleen than you, - Rose, aroo! - - Her hair mocks the sunshine, - And the soft, silver moonshine - Neck and arm of the colleen completely eclipse; - Whilst the nose of the jewel - Slants straight as Carran Tual - From the heaven in her eye to her heather-sweet lip. - - O, where, etc. - - Did your eyes ever follow - The wings of the swallow - Here and there, light as air, o’er the meadow field glance? - For if not you’ve no notion - Of the exquisite motion - Of her sweet little feet as they dart in the dance. - - O, where, etc. - - If y’ inquire why the nightingale - Still shuns th’ invitin’ gale - That wafts every song-bird but her to the West, - Faix she knows, I suppose, - Ould Kenmare has a Rose - That would sing any Bulbul to sleep in her nest - - O, where, etc. - - When her voice gives the warnin’ - For the milkin’ in the mornin’ - Ev’n the cow known for hornin’, comes runnin’ to her pail; - The lambs play about her - And the small bonneens[17] snout her - Whilst their parints salute her wid a twisht of the tail. - - O, where, etc. - - When at noon from our labour - We draw neighbour wid neighbour - From the heat of the sun to the shelter of the tree, - Wid spuds[18] fresh from the bilin’, - And new milk, you come smilin’, - All the boys’ hearts beguilin’, alannah machree![19] - - O, where, etc. - - But there’s one sweeter hour - When the hot day is o’er, - And we rest at the door wid the bright moon above, - And she’s sittin’ in the middle, - When she’s guessed Larry’s riddle, - Cries, “Now for your fiddle, Shiel Dhuv, Shiel Dhuv.” - -[Sidenote: ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES] - - O, where - Can her like be found? - No where - The country round, - Spins at her wheel - Daughter as true, - Sets in the reel, - Wid a slide of the shoe - a slinderer, - tinderer, - purtier, - wittier colleen than you, - Rose, aroo! - - - - -The Song of the Pratee. - - - When after the Winter alarmin’, - The Spring steps in so charmin’, - So fresh and arch - In the middle of March, - Wid her hand St Patrick’s arm on, - Let us all, let us all be goin’, - Agra, to assist at your sowin’, - The girls to spread - Your iligant bed, - And the boys to set the hoe in. - - -Chorus-- - - Then good speed to your seed! God’s grace and increase. - Never more in our need may you blacken wid the blight; - But when summer is o’er, in our gardens, asthore, - May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight. - - So rest and sleep, my jewel, - Safe from the tempest cruel; - Till violets spring - And skylarks sing - From Mourne to Carran Tual. - Then wake and build your bower, - Through April sun and shower, - To bless the earth - That gave you birth, - Through many a sultry hour. - - -Chorus-- - - Then good luck to your leaf. And ochone, ologone, - Never more to our grief may it blacken wid the blight; - But when summer is o’er, in our gardens, asthore, - May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight. - -[Sidenote: ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES] - - Thus smile with glad increasin’, - Till to St John we’re raisin’, - Through Erin’s isle - The pleasant pile - That sets the bonfire blazin’. - O ’tis then that the midsummer fairy, - Abroad on his sly vagary, - Wid purple and white, - As he passes by night, - Your emerald leaf shall vary. - - -Chorus-- - - Then more power to your flower, and your merry green leaf! - Never more to our grief may they blacken wid the blight; - But when summer is o’er, in our gardens, asthore, - May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight. - - And once again Mavourneen, - Some yellow autumn mornin’, - At red sunrise - Both girls and boys - To your garden ridge we’re turnin’, - Then under your foliage fadin’ - Each man of us sets his spade in, - While the colleen bawn - Her brown kishane[20] - Full up wid your fruit is ladin’. - - -Chorus-- - - Then good luck to your leaf! more power to your flower! - Never more to our grief may they blacken wid the blight; - But when summer is o’er, in our gardens, asthore, - May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight. - - - - -Irish Lullaby. - - -[Sidenote: ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES] - - I’d rock my own sweet childie to rest in a cradle - of gold on a bough of the willow, - To the =shoheen ho= of the wind of the west and the - =lulla lo= of the soft sea billow. - Sleep, baby dear, - Sleep without fear, - Mother is here beside your pillow. - - I’d put my own sweet childie to sleep in a silver boat - on the beautiful river, - Where a =shoheen= whisper the white cascades, and a - =lulla lo= the green flags shiver. - Sleep, baby dear, - Sleep without fear, - Mother is here with you for ever. - - =Lulla lo!= to the rise and fall of mother’s bosom - ’tis sleep has bound you, - And O, my child, what cosier nest for rosier rest - could love have found you? - Sleep, baby dear, - Sleep without fear, - Mother’s two arms are clasped around you. - - - - -Eileen Aroon. - - -[Sidenote: GERALD GRIFFIN] - - When, like the early rose, - Eileen Aroon! - Beauty in childhood blows, - Eileen Aroon! - When, like a diadem, - Buds blush around the stem, - Which is the fairest gem? - Eileen Aroon! - - Is it the laughing eye, - Eileen Aroon! - Is it the timid sigh, - Eileen Aroon! - Is it the tender tone, - Soft as the stringed harp’s moan? - Oh! it is truth alone, - Eileen Aroon! - - When, like the rising day, - Eileen Aroon! - Love sends his early ray, - Eileen Aroon! - What makes his dawning glow, - Changeless through joy or woe? - Only the constant know-- - Eileen Aroon! - - I know a valley fair, - Eileen Aroon! - I knew a cottage there, - Eileen Aroon! - Far in that valley’s shade - I knew a gentle maid, - Flower of a hazel glade, - Eileen Aroon! - - Who in the song so sweet? - Eileen Aroon! - Who in the dance so fleet? - Eileen Aroon! - Dear were her charms to me, - Dearer her laughter free, - Dearest her constancy, - Eileen Aroon! - - Were she no longer true, - Eileen Aroon! - What should her lover do? - Eileen Aroon! - Fly with his broken chain - Far o’er the sounding main, - Never to love again, - Eileen Aroon! - - Youth must with time decay, - Eileen Aroon! - Beauty must fade away, - Eileen Aroon! - Castles are sacked in war, - Chieftains are scattered far, - Truth is a fixèd star, - Eileen Aroon! - - - - -The Dark Man. - - -[Sidenote: NORA HOPPER] - - Rose o’ the world, she came to my bed - And changed the dreams of my heart and head: - For joy of mine she left grief of hers - And garlanded me with the prickly furze. - - Rose o’ the world, they go out and in, - And watch me dream and my mother spin: - And they pity the tears on my sleeping face - While my soul’s away in a fairy place. - - Rose o’ the world, they have words galore, - For wide’s the swing of my mother’s door: - And soft they speak of my darkened brain, - But what do they know of my heart’s dear pain? - - Rose o’ the world, the grief you give - Is worth all days that a man may live: - Is worth all prayers that the colleens say - On the night that darkens the wedding-day. - - Rose o’ the world, what man would wed - When he might remember your face instead? - Might go to his grave with the blessed pain - Of hungering after your face again? - - Rose o’ the world, they may talk their fill, - But dreams are good, and my life stands still - While the neighbours talk by their fires astir: - But my fiddle knows: and _I_ talk to her. - - - - -April in Ireland. - - - She hath a woven garland all of the sighing sedge, - And all her flowers are snowdrops grown on the winter’s edge: - The golden looms of Tir na n’ Og wove all the winter through - Her gown of mist and raindrops shot with a cloudy blue. - - Sunlight she holds in one hand, and rain she scatters after, - And through the rainy twilight we hear her fitful laughter. - She shakes down on her flowers the snows less white than they, - Then quicken with her kisses the folded “knots o’ May.” - - She seeks the summer-lover that never shall be hers, - Fain for gold leaves of autumn she passes by the furze, - Though buried gold it hideth: she scorns her sedgy crown, - And pressing blindly sunwards she treads her snowdrops down. - - Her gifts are all a fardel of wayward smiles and tears, - Yet hope she also holdeth, this daughter of the years-- - A hope that blossoms faintly set upon sorrow’s edge: - She hath a woven garland of all the sighing sedge. - - - - -The Wind Among the Reeds. - - -[Sidenote: NORA HOPPER] - - Mavrone, Mavrone! the wind among the reeds. - It calls and cries, and will not let me be; - And all its cry is of forgotten deeds - When men were loved of all the Daoine-Sidhe. - - O Shee that have forgotten how to love, - And Shee that have forgotten how to hate, - Asleep ’neath quicken boughs that no winds move, - Come back to us ere yet it be too late. - - Pipe to us once again, lest we forget - What piping means, till all the Silver Spears - Be wild with gusty music, such as met - Carolan once, amid the dusty years. - - Dance in your rings again: the yellow weeds - You used to ride so far, mount as of old-- - Play hide-and-seek with wind among the reeds, - And pay your scores again with fairy gold. - - - - -My Grief on the Sea. - - -[Sidenote: DOUGLAS HYDE] - - My grief on the sea, - How the waves of it roll! - For they heave between me - And the love of my soul! - - Abandoned, forsaken, - To grief and to care, - Will the sea ever waken - Relief from despair? - - My grief, and my trouble! - Would he and I wear, - In the province of Leinster, - Or County of Clare. - - Were I and my darling-- - O, heart-bitter wound!-- - On the board of the ship - For America bound. - - On a green bed of rushes - All last night I lay, - And I flung it abroad - With the heat of the day. - - And my love came behind me-- - He came from the South; - His breast to my bosom - His mouth to my mouth. - - - - -The Cooleen. - - -[Sidenote: DOUGLAS HYDE] - - A honey mist on a day of frost, in a dark oak wood, - And love for thee in my heart in me, thou bright, white, and good; - Thy slender form, soft and warm, thy red lips apart, - Thou hast found me, and hast bound me, and put grief in my heart. - - In fair-green and market, men mark thee, bright, young, and merry, - Though thou hurt them like foes with the rose of thy blush of the berry: - Her cheeks are a poppy, her eye it is Cupid’s helper, - But each foolish man dreams that its beams for himself are. - - Whoe’er saw the Cooleen in a cool, dewy meadow - On a morning in summer in sunshine and shadow; - All the young men go wild for her, my childeen, my treasure, - But now let them go mope, they’ve no hope to possess her. - - Let us roam, O my darling, afar through the mountains, - Drink milk of the goat, wine and bulcaun in fountains; - With music and play every day from my lyre, - And leave to come rest on my breast when you tire. - - - - -The Breedyeen. - - - ’Tis the Breedyeen I love, - All dear ones above, - Like a star from the start - Round my heart she did move. - Her breast like a dove, - Or the foam in the cove, - With her gold locks apart, - In my heart she put love. - - ’Tis not Venus, I say, - Who grieved me this day, - But the white one, the bright one, - Who slighted my stay. - For her I shall pray-- - I confess it--for aye, - She’s my sister, I missed her, - When all men were gay. - - To the hills let us go, - Where the raven and crow - In dark dismal valleys - Croak death-like and low; - By this volume I swear, - O bright Cool of fair hair, - That though solitude shrieked - I should seek for thee there. - - To the hills let us go, - Where the raven and crow - In the dark dismal valleys - Wing silent and slow. - There’s no Joy in men’s fate - But Grief grins in the gate; - There’s no Fair without Foul, - Without Crooked no Straight. - -[Sidenote: DOUGLAS HYDE] - - Her neck like the lime - And her breath like the thyme, - And her bosom untroubled - By care or by time. - Like a bird in the night, - At a great blaze of light, - Astounded and wounded - I swoon at her sight. - - Since I gave thee my love, - I gave thee my love, - I gave thee my love, - O thou berry so bright; - The sun in her height - Looked on with delight, - And between thy two arms, may - I die on the night. - - And I would that I were - In the glens of the air, - Or in dark dismal valleys - Where the wildwood is bare, - What a kiss from her there - I should coax without care, - From my star of the morning, - My fairer than fair! - - Like a Phœnix of flame, - Or like Helen of fame, - Is the pearl of all pearls - Of girls who came, - And who kindled a flame, - In my bosom. Thy name - I shall rhyme thee in Irish - And heighten thy fame. - - - - -Nelly of the Top-Knots. - - - Dear God! were I fisher and - Back in Binédar, - And Nelly a fish who - Would swim in the bay there, - I would privately set there - My net there to catch her, - In Erin no maiden - Is able to match her. - - And Nelly, dear God! - Why! you should not thus flee me, - I long to be near thee - And hear thee and see thee, - My hand on the Bible - And I swearing and kneeling - And giving thee part - Of the heart you are stealing. - - I’ve a fair yellow casket - And it fastened with crystal, - And the lock opens not - To the shot of a pistol. - To Jesus I pray - And to Columbkill’s Master, - That Mary may guide thee - Aside from disaster. - - We may be, O maiden - Whom none may disparage, - Some morning a-hearing - The sweet mass of marriage, - But if fate be against us, - To rend us and push us, - I shall mourn as the blackbird - At eve in the bushes. - -[Sidenote: DOUGLAS HYDE] - - O God, were she with me - Where the gull flits and tern, - Or in Paris the smiling, - Or an Isle in Loch Erne, - I would coax her so well, - I would tell her my story, - And talk till I won her, - My sunshine of glory. - - - - -I shall not Die for Thee. - - -[Sidenote: DOUGLAS HYDE] - - For thee I shall not die, - Woman high of fame and name; - Foolish men thou mayest slay - I and they are not the same. - - Why should I expire - For the fire of any eye, - Slender waist or swan-like limb, - Is’t for them that I should die? - - The round breasts, the fresh skin, - Cheeks crimson, hair so long and rich; - Indeed, indeed, I shall not die, - Please God, not I, for any such. - - The golden hair, the forehead thin, - The chaste mien, the gracious ease, - The rounded heel, the languid tone, - Fools alone find death from these. - - Thy sharp wit, thy perfect calm, - Thy thin palm like foam o’ the sea; - Thy white neck, thy blue eye, - I shall not die for thee. - - Woman, graceful as the swan, - A wise man did nurture me, - Little palm, white neck, bright eye, - I shall not die for ye. - - - - -The Red Wind. - - -[Sidenote: LIONEL JOHNSON] - - Red Wind from out the East: - Red Wind of blight and blood! - Ah, when wilt thou have ceased - Thy bitter, stormy flood? - - Red Wind from over sea, - Scourging our holy land! - What angel loosened thee - Out of his iron hand? - - Red Wind! whose word of might - Winged thee with wings of flame? - O fire of mournful night! - What is thy Master’s name? - - Red Wind! who bade thee burn, - Branding our hearts? Who bade - Thee on and never turn - Till waste our souls were laid? - - Red Wind! from out the West - Pour Winds of Paradise: - Winds of eternal rest, - That weary souls entice. - - Wind of the East! Red Wind! - Thou scorchest the soft breath - Of Paradise the kind: - Red Wind of burning death! - - O Red Wind! hear God’s voice: - Hear thou, and fall, and cease. - Let Innisfail rejoice - In her Hesperian peace. - - - - -To Morfydd. - - -[Sidenote: LIONEL JOHNSON] - - A voice on the winds, - A voice on the waters, - Wanders and cries: - _O what are the winds? - And what are the waters? - Mine are your eyes._ - - Western the winds are, - And western the waters, - Where the light lies: - _O what are the winds? - And what are the waters? - Mine are your eyes._ - - Cold, cold grow the winds, - And dark grow the waters, - Where the sun dies: - _O what are the winds? - And what are the waters? - Mine are your eyes._ - - And down the night winds, - And down the night waters - The music flies: - _O what are the winds? - And what are the waters? - Cold be the winds, - And wild be the waters, - So mine be your eyes._ - - - - -A Lament. - - -[Sidenote: DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY] - - Youth’s bright palace - Is overthrown, - With its diamond sceptre - And golden throne; - As a time-worn stone - Its turrets are humbled,-- - All hath crumbled - But grief alone! - - Whither, oh! whither - Have fled away - The dreams and hopes - Of my early day? - Ruined and grey - Are the towers I builded; - And the beams that gilded-- - Ah! where are they? - - Once this world - Was fresh and bright, - With its golden noon - And its starry night; - Glad and light, - By mountain and river, - Have I blessed the Giver - With hushed delight. - - Youth’s illusions, - One by one, - Have passed like clouds - That the sun looked on. - While morning shone, - How purple their fringes! - How ashy their tinges - When that was gone! - - As fire-flies fade - When the nights are damp-- - As meteors are quenched - In a stagnant swamp-- - Thus Charlemagne’s camp, - Where the Paladins rally, - And the Diamond Valley, - And the Wonderful Lamp, - - And all the wonders - Of Ganges and Nile, - And Haroun’s rambles, - And Crusoe’s isle, - And Princes who smile - On the Genii’s daughters - ’Neath the Orient waters - Full many a mile, - - And all that the pen - Of Fancy can write, - Must vanish - In manhood’s misty light-- - Squire and Knight, - And damosels’ glances, - Sunny romances - So pure and bright! - - These have vanished, - And what remains? - Life’s budding garlands - Have turned to chains-- - Its beams and rains - Feed but docks and thistles, - And sorrow whistles - O’er desert plains! - - - - -The Fair Hills of Eiré, O! - -(After the Irish of DONOGH MAC CON-MARA.) - - -[Sidenote: JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN] - - Take a blessing from my heart to the land of my birth, - And the fair Hills of Eiré, O! - And to all that yet survive of Eibhear’s tribe on earth, - On the fair Hills of Eiré, O! - In that land so delightful the wild thrush’s lay-- - Seems to pour a lament forth for Eiré’s delay-- - Alas! alas! why pine I a thousand miles away - From the fair Hills of Eiré, O! - - The soil is rich and soft--the air is mild and bland, - Of the fair Hills of Eiré, O! - Her barest rock is greener to me than this rude land-- - O! the fair Hills of Eiré, O! - Her woods are tall and straight, grove rising over grove; - Trees flourish in her glens below, and on her heights above; - O, in heart and in soul, I shall ever, ever love - The fair Hills of Eiré, O! - - A noble tribe, moreover, are the now hapless Gael, - On the fair Hills of Eiré, O! - A tribe in Battle’s hour unused to shrink or fail - On the fair Hills of Eiré, O! - For this is my lament in bitterness outpoured, - To see them slain or scattered by the Saxon sword. - Oh, woe of woes, to see a foreign spoiler horde - On the fair Hills of Eiré, O! - - Broad and tall rise the =cruachs= in the golden morning’s glow - On the fair Hills of Eiré, O! - O’er her smooth grass for ever sweet cream and honey flow - On the fair Hills of Eiré, O! - O, I long, I am pining, again to behold - The land that belongs to the brave Gael of old; - Far dearer to my heart than a gift of gems or gold - Are the fair Hills of Eiré, O! - - The dewdrops lie bright ’mid the grass and yellow corn - On the fair Hills of Eiré, O! - And the sweet-scented apples blush redly in the morn - On the fair Hills of Eiré, O! - The water-cress and sorrel fill the vales below; - The streamlets are hushed, till the evening breezes blow; - While the waves of the Suir, noble river! ever flow - Near the fair Hills of Eiré, O! - - A fruitful clime is Eiré’s, through valley, meadow, plain, - And the fair land of Eiré, O! - The very “Bread of Life” is in the yellow grain - On the fair Hills of Eiré, O! - Far dearer unto me than the tones music yields, - Is the lowing of her kine and the calves in her fields, - And the sunlight that shone long ago on the shields - Of the Gaels, on the fair Hills of Eiré, O! - - - - -Dark Rosaleen. - - -[Sidenote: JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN] - - O my dark Rosaleen, - Do not sigh, do not weep! - The priests are on the ocean green, - They march along the Deep. - There’s wine ... from the royal Pope, - Upon the ocean green; - And Spanish ale shall give you hope, - My dark Rosaleen! - My own Rosaleen! - Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, - Shall give you health, and help, and hope, - My dark Rosaleen. - - Over hills, and through dales, - Have I roamed for your sake; - All yesterday I sailed with sails - On river and on lake. - The Erne ... at its highest flood, - I dashed across unseen, - For there was lightning in my blood, - My dark Rosaleen! - My own Rosaleen! - Oh! there was lightning in my blood, - Red lightning lightened through my blood, - My dark Rosaleen! - - All day long in unrest, - To and fro do I move, - The very soul within my breast - Is wasted for you, love! - The heart ... in my bosom faints - To think of you my Queen, - My life of life, my saint of saints, - My dark Rosaleen! - My own Rosaleen! - To hear your sweet and sad complaints, - My life, my love, my saint of saints, - My dark Rosaleen! - - Woe and pain, pain and woe, - Are my lot, night and noon, - To see your bright face clouded so, - Like to the mournful moon. - But yet ... will I rear your throne - Again in golden sheen; - ’Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, - My dark Rosaleen! - My own Rosaleen! - ’Tis you shall have the golden throne, - ’Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, - My dark Rosaleen! - - Over dews, over sands, - Will I fly, for your weal: - Your holy delicate white hands - Shall girdle me with steel. - At home ... in your emerald bowers, - From morning’s dawn till e’en, - You’ll pray for me, my flower of flowers, - My dark Rosaleen! - My fond Rosaleen! - You’ll think of me through Daylight’s hours, - My virgin flower, my flower of flowers, - My dark Rosaleen! - - I could scale the blue air, - I could plough the high hills, - Oh, I could kneel all night in prayer, - To heal your many ills! - And one ... beamy smile from you - Would float the light between - My toils and me, my own, my true, - My dark Rosaleen! - My fond Rosaleen! - Would give me life and soul anew, - A second life, a soul anew, - My dark Rosaleen! - - O! the Erne shall run red - With redundance of blood, - The earth shall rock beneath our tread, - And flames wrap hill and wood, - And gun-peal, and slogan cry, - Wake many a glen serene, - Ere you shall fade, ere you can die, - My dark Rosaleen! - My own Rosaleen! - The Judgment Hour must first be nigh - Ere you can fade, ere you can die, - My dark Rosaleen! - - - - -The One Mystery. - - - ’Tis idle! we exhaust and squander - The glittering mine of thought in vain - All-baffled reason cannot wander, - Beyond her chain. - The flood of life runs dark--dark clouds - Make lampless night around its shore: - The dead, where are they? In their shrouds-- - Man knows no more. - - Evoke the ancient and the past, - Will one illumining star arise? - Or must the film, from first to last, - O’erspread thine eyes? - When life, love, glory, beauty, wither, - Will wisdom’s page, or science chart, - Map out for thee the region whither - Their shades depart? - - Supposest thou the wondrous powers, - To high imagination given, - Pale types of what shall yet be ours, - When earth is heaven? - When this decaying shell is cold, - Oh! sayest thou the soul shall climb - What magic mount she trod of old, - Ere childhood’s time? - - And shall the sacred pulse that thrilled, - Thrill once again to glory’s name? - And shall the conquering love that filled - All earth with flame, - Re-born, revived, renewed, immortal, - Resume his reign in prouder might, - A sun beyond the ebon portal, - Of death and night? - -[Sidenote: JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN] - - No more, no more--with aching brow, - And restless heart, and burning brain, - We ask the When, the Where, the How, - And ask in vain. - And all philosophy, all faith, - All earthly--all celestial lore, - Have but one voice, which only saith - Endure--adore! - - - - -The Wild Geese. - - -[Sidenote: ROSA MULHOLLAND] - - I had no sail to cross the sea, - A brave white bird went forth from me, - My heart was hid beneath his wing: - O strong white bird, come back in spring! - - I watched the Wild Geese rise and cry - Across the flaring western sky; - Their winnowing pinions clove the light, - Then vanished, and came down the night. - - I laid me low, my day was done, - I longed not for the morrow’s sun, - But closely swathed in swoon of sleep, - Forgot to hope, forgot to weep. - - The moon, through veils of gloomy red, - A warm yet dusky radiance shed - All down our valley’s golden stream - And flushed my slumber with a dream. - - Her mystic torch lit up my brain; - My spirit rose and lived amain, - And follow through the windy spray - That bird upon its watery way. - - “O wild white bird, O wail for me! - My soul hath wings to fly with thee: - On foam waves, lengthening out afar, - We’ll ride toward the western star. - - “O’er glimmering plains, through forest gloom, - To track a wanderer’s feet I come; - ’Mid lonely swamp, by haunted brake, - I’ll pass unfrighted for his sake. - - “Alone, afar, his footsteps roam, - The stars his roof, the tent his home. - Saw’st thou what way the Wild Geese flew - To sunward through the thick night dew? - -[Sidenote: ROSA MULHOLLAND] - - “Carry my soul where he abides, - And pierce the mystery that hides - His presence, and through time and space - Look with mine eyes upon his face.” - - “Beside his prairie fire he rests, - All feathered things are in their nests: - ‘What strange wild bird is this,’ he saith, - ‘Still fragrant with the ocean’s breath? - - “‘Perch on my hand, thou briny thing, - And let me stroke thy shy wet wing; - What message in thy soft eye thrills? - I see again my native hills - - “‘And vale, the river’s silver streak, - The mist upon the blue, blue peak, - The shadows grey, the golden sheaves, - The mossy walls, the russet eaves. - - “‘I greet the friends I’ve loved and lost, - Do all forget? No, tempest-tost, - That braved for me the ocean’s foam, - Some heart remembers me at home. - - “‘Ere spring’s return I will be there, - Thou strange sea-fragrant messenger! - I wake and weep; the moon shines sweet, - O dream too short! O bird too fleet!’” - - - - -Lament for a Little Child. - - -[Sidenote: RODEN NOEL] - - I am lying in the tomb, love, - Lying in the tomb, - Tho’ I move within the gloom, love, - Breathe within the gloom! - Men deem life not fled, dear, - Deem my life not fled, - Tho’ I with thee am dead, dear, - I with thee am dead, - O my little child! - - What is the grey world, darling, - What is the grey world, - Where the worm lies curled, darling, - The death-worm lies curled? - They tell me of the spring, dear! - Do I want the spring? - Will she waft upon her wing, dear, - The joy-pulse of her wing, - Thy songs, thy blossoming, - O my little child! - - For the hallowing of thy smile, love, - The rainbow of thy smile, - Gleaming for a while, love, - Gleaming to beguile, - Re-plunged me in the cold, dear, - Leaves me in the cold, - And I feel so very old, dear, - Very, very old! - - Would they put me out of pain, dear, - Out of all my pain, - Since I may not live again, dear, - Never live again! - - I am lying in the grave, love, - In thy little grave, - Yet I hear the wind rave, love, - And the wild wave! - I would lie asleep, darling, - With thee lie asleep, - Unhearing the world weep, darling, - Little children weep! - O my little child! - - - - -The Swimmer. - - - Yonder, lo! the tide is flowing; - Clamber, while the breeze is blowing, - Down to where a soft foam flusters - Dulse and fairy feathery clusters! - While it fills the shelly hollows, - A swift sister-billow follows, - Leaps in hurrying with the tide, - Seems the lingering wave to chide; - Both push on with eager life, - And a gurgling show of strife. - O the salt, refreshing air - Shrilly blowing in the hair! - A keen, healthful savour haunts - Sea-shell, sea-flower, and sea-plants. - Innocent billows on the strand - Leave a crystal over sand, - Whose thin ebbing soon is crossed - By a crystal foam-enmossed, - Variegating silver-grey - Shell-empetalled sand in play: - When from sand dries off the brine, - Vanishes swift shadow fine; - But a wet sand is a glass - Where the plumy cloudlets pass, - Floating islands of the blue, - Tender, shining, fair, and true. - - Who would linger idle, - Dallying would lie, - When wind and wave, a bridal - Celebrating, fly? - Let him plunge among them, - Who hath wooed enough, - Flirted with them, sung them, - In the salt sea-trough - He may win them, onward - On a buoyant crest, - Far to seaward, sunward, - Ocean-borne to rest! - Wild wind will sing over him, - And the free foam cover him, - Swimming seaward, sunward, - On a blithe sea-breast! - On a blithe sea-bosom - Swims another too, - Swims a live sea-blossom, - A grey-winged sea-mew! - Grape-green all the waves are, - By whose hurrying line - Half of ships and caves are - Buried under brine; - Supple, shifting ranges - Lucent at the crest, - With pearly surface-changes - Never laid to rest: - Now a dipping gunwale - Momently he sees, - Now a fuming funnel, - Or red flag in the breeze; - Arms flung open wide, - Lip the laughing sea; - For playfellow, for bride, - Claim her impetuously! - Triumphantly exult with all the free, - Buoyant, bounding splendour of the sea! - And if while on the billow - Wearily he lay, - His awful wild playfellow - Filled his mouth with spray, - Reft him of his breath, - To some far realms away - He would float with Death; - Wild wind would sing over him, - And the free foam cover him, - Waft him sleeping onward, - Floating seaward, sunward, - All alone with Death; - In a realm of wondrous dreams, - And shadow-haunted ocean gleams! - - - - -The Dance. - - -[Sidenote: RODEN NOEL] - - The dance! the dance! - Maidens advance - Your undulating charm! - A line deploys - Of gentle boys, - Waving the light arm, - Bronze, alive and warm; - Reed flute and drum - Sound as they come, - Under your eyelight warm! - - Many a boy, - A dancing joy, - Many a mellow maid, - With fireflies in the shade, - Mingle and glide, - Appear and hide, - Here in a fairy glade: - Ebb and flow - To a music low, - Viol, and flute and lyre, - As melody mounts higher: - With a merry will, - They touch and thrill, - Beautiful limbs of fire! - - Red berries, shells, - Over bosom-dells, - And girdles of light grass, - May never hide - The youthful pride - Of beauty, ere it pass: - Yet, ah! sweet boy and lass, - Refrain, retire! - Love is a fire! - Night will pass! - - - - -From “The Water-Nymph and the Boy.” - - - I flung me round him, - I drew him under; - I clung, I drowned him, - My own white wonder.... - - Father and mother, - Weeping and wild, - Came to the forest, - Calling the child, - Came from the palace, - Down to the pool, - Calling my darling, - My beautiful! - - Under the water, - Cold and so pale! - Could it be love made - Beauty to fail? - - Ah me! for mortals: - In a few moons, - If I had left him, - After some Junes - He would have faded, - Faded away, - He, the young monarch, whom - All would obey, - Fairer than day; - Alien to springtime, - Joyless and grey, - He would have faded, - Faded away, - Moving a mockery, - Scorned of the day! - - Now I have taken him - All in his prime, - Saved from slow poisoning - Pitiless Time, - Filled with his happiness, - One with the prime, - Saved from the cruel - Dishonour of Time, - Laid him, my beautiful, - Laid him to rest, - Loving, adorable, - Softly to rest, - Here in my crystalline, - Here in my breast! - - - - -A Casual Song. - - - She sang of lovers met to play - “Under the may bloom, under the may,” - But when I sought her face so fair, - I found the set face of Despair. - - She sang of woodland leaves in spring, - And joy of young love dallying; - But her young eyes were all one moan, - And Death weighed on her heart like stone. - - I could not ask, I know not now, - The story of that mournful brow; - It haunts me as it haunted then, - A flash from fire of hell-bound men. - - - - -“The Pity of it.” - - -[Sidenote: RODEN NOEL] - - If our love may fail, Lily, - If our love may fail, - What will mere life avail, Lily, - Mere life avail? - - Seed that promised blossom, - Withered in the mould, - Pale petals overblowing, - Failing from the gold! - - When the fervent fingers - Listlessly unclose, - May the life that lingers - Find repose, Lily, - Find repose! - - Who may dream of all the music - Only a lover hears, - Hearkening to hearts triumphant - Bearing down the years? - Ah! may eternal anthems dwindle - To a low sound of tears? - - Room in all the ages - For our love to grow, - Prayers of both demanded - A little while ago: - - And now a few poor moments, - Between life and death, - May be proven all too ample - For love’s breath! - - Seed that promised blossom, - Withered in the mould! - Pale petals overblowing, - Failing from the gold! - - I well believe the fault lay - More with me than you, - But I feel the shadow closing - Cold about us two. - - An hour may yet be yielded us, - Or a very little more-- - Then a few tears, and silence - For evermore, Lily, - For evermore! - - - - -The Old. - - -[Sidenote: RODEN NOEL] - - They are waiting on the shore - For the bark to take them home; - They will toil and grieve no more; - The hour for release hath come. - - All their long life lies behind, - Like a dimly blending dream; - There is nothing left to bind - To the realms that only seem. - - They are waiting for the boat, - There is nothing left to do; - What was near them grows remote, - Happy silence falls like dew; - Now the shadowy bark is come, - And the weary may go home. - - By still water they would rest, - In the shadow of the tree; - After battle sleep is best, - After noise tranquillity. - - - - -Maura Du of Ballyshannon. - -[Sidenote: CHARLES P. O’CONOR] - - -I. - - =Maura du=[21] of Ballyshannon! - =Maura du=, my flower of flowers! - Can you hear me there out seaward, - Calling back the bygone hours? - =Maura du=, my own, my honey! - With wild passion still aglow, - I am singing you the old songs - That I sung you long ago. - And you mind, love, how it ran on-- - “In your eyes =asthore machree=![22] - All my Heaven there I see, - And that’s true! - =Maura du=! - =Maura du= of Ballyshannon!” - - -II. - - =Maura du= of Ballyshannon! - =Maura du=, my soul’s one queen! - Big with love my heart is flying, - Where the grass is growing green. - =Maura du=, my own, my honey! - That I love you, well you know, - And still sing for you the old song, - That I sung you long ago. - And you mind, love, how it ran on-- - “In your eyes =asthore machree=! - All my Heaven there I see, - And that’s true! - =Maura du=! - =Maura du= of Ballyshannon!” - - -[Sidenote: CHARLES P. O’CONOR] - -III. - - =Maura du= of Ballyshannon, - =Maura du=, the day is drear! - Ah, the night is long and weary, - Far away from you, my dear! - =Maura du=, my own, my honey! - Still let winds blow high or low, - I must sing to you the old song, - That I sung you long ago, - And you mind, love, how it ran on-- - “In your eyes =asthore machree=! - All my Heaven there I see, - And that’s true! - =Maura du=! - =Maura du= of Ballyshannon!” - - -IV. - - =Maura du= of Ballyshannon! - =Maura du=, when winds blow south, - I will with the birds fly homeward, - There to kiss your Irish mouth. - =Maura du=, my own, my honey! - When time is no longer foe, - By your side I’ll sing the old song, - That I sung you long ago, - And you mind, love, how it ran on-- - “In your eyes =asthore machree=! - All my Heaven there I see, - And that’s true! - =Maura du=! - =Maura du= of Ballyshannon!” - - - - -A Spinning Song. - - -[Sidenote: JOHN FRANCIS O’DONNELL] - - My love to fight the Saxon goes, - And bravely shines his sword of steel, - A heron’s feather decks his brows, - And a spur on either heel; - His steed is blacker than a sloe, - And fleeter than the falling star; - Amid the surging ranks he’ll go - And shout for joy of war. - - Twinkle, twinkle, pretty spindle, let the white wool drift and dwindle, - Oh! we weave a damask doublet for my love’s coat of steel. - Hark! the timid, turning treadle, crooning soft old-fashioned ditties - To the low, slow murmur of the brown, round wheel. - - My love is pledged to Ireland’s fight; - My love would die for Ireland’s weal, - To win her back her ancient right, - And make her foemen reel. - Oh, close I’ll clasp him to my breast - When homeward from the war he comes; - The fires shall light the mountain’s crest, - The valley peal with drums. - - Twinkle, twinkle, pretty spindle, let the white wool drift and dwindle, - Oh! we weave a damask doublet for my love’s coat of steel. - Hark! the timid, turning treadle, crooning soft old-fashioned ditties - To the low, slow murmur of the brown, round wheel. - - - - -A White Rose. - - -[Sidenote: JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY] - - The red rose whispers of passion, - And the white rose breathes of love; - Oh, the red rose is a falcon, - And the white rose is a dove. - - But I send you a cream-white rosebud - With a flush on its petal tips; - For the love that is purest and sweetest - Has a kiss of desire on the lips. - - - - -The Fountain of Tears. - - -[Sidenote: ARTHUR O’SHAUGHNESSY] - - If you go over desert and mountain, - Far into the country of Sorrow, - To-day and to-night and to-morrow, - And maybe for months and for years; - You shall come with a heart that is bursting - For trouble and toiling and thirsting, - You shall certainly come to the fountain - At length,--to the Fountain of Tears. - - Very peaceful the place is, and solely - For piteous lamenting and sighing, - And those who come living or dying - Alike from their hopes and their fears; - Full of Cyprus-like shadows the place is, - And statues that cover their faces: - But out of the gloom springs the holy - And beautiful Fountain of Tears. - - And it flows and it flows with a motion, - So gentle and lovely and listless, - And murmurs a tune so resistless - To him who hath suffered and hears-- - You shall surely--without a word spoken, - Kneel down there and know your heart broken, - And yield to the long-curb’d emotion - That day by the Fountain of Tears. - - For it grows and it grows, as though leaping - Up higher the more one is thinking; - And even its tunes go on sinking - More poignantly into the ears: - Yea, so blessèd and good seems that fountain, - Reached after dry desert and mountain, - You shall fall down at length in your weeping - And bathe your sad face in the tears. - -[Sidenote: ARTHUR O’SHAUGHNESSY] - - Then, alas! while you lie there a season, - And sob between living and dying, - And give up the land you were trying - To find ’mid your hopes and your fears; - --O the world shall come up and pass o’er you, - Strong men shall not stay to care for you, - Nor wonder indeed for what reason - Your way should seem harder than theirs. - - But perhaps, while you lie, never lifting - Your cheek from the wet leaves it presses, - Nor caring to raise your wet tresses - And look how the cold world appears,-- - O perhaps the mere silences round you - All things in that place grief hath found you, - Yea, e’en to the clouds o’er you drifting - May soothe you somewhat through your tears. - - You may feel, when a falling leaf brushes - Your face, as though someone had kissed you; - Or think at least some one who missed you - Hath sent you a thought,--if that cheers; - Or a bird’s little song faint and broken, - May pass for a tender word spoken: - --Enough, while around you there rushes - That life-drowning torrent of tears. - - And the tears shall flow faster and faster, - Brim over, and baffle resistance, - And roll down bleared roads to each distance - Of past desolation and years; - Till they cover the place of each sorrow, - And leave you no Past and no Morrow: - For what man is able to master - And stem the great Fountain of Tears? - - But the floods of the tears meet and gather; - The sound of them all grows like thunder: - --O into what bosom, I wonder, - Is poured the whole sorrow of years? - For Eternity only seems keeping - Account of the great human weeping: - May God then, the Maker and Father-- - May he find a place for the tears! - - - - -After Death. - - -[Sidenote: FANNY PARNELL] - - Shall mine eyes behold thy glory, O my country? Shall mine - eyes behold thy glory? - Or shall the darkness close around them, ere the sun-blaze - break at last upon thy story? - - When the nations ope for thee their queenly circle, as a sweet - new sister hail thee, - Shall these lips be sealed in callous death and silence, that - have known but to bewail thee? - - Shall the ear be deaf that only loved thy praises, when all men - their tribute bring thee? - Shall the mouth be clay that sang thee in thy squalor, when all - poets’ mouths shall sing thee? - - Ah! the harpings and the salvos and the shouting of thy exiled - sons returning! - I should hear, tho’ dead and mouldered, and the grave-damps - should not chill my bosom’s burning. - - Ah! the tramp of feet victorious! I should hear them ’mid the - shamrocks and the mosses, - And my heart should toss within the shroud and quiver as a - captive dreamer tosses. - - I should turn and rend the cere-clothes round me, giant sinews - I should borrow-- - Crying, “O my brothers, I have also loved her in her loneliness - and sorrow. - - “Let me join with you the jubilant procession: let me chant - with you her story; - Then contented I shall go back to the shamrocks, now mine eyes - have seen her glory!” - - - - -The Dead at Clonmacnois. - -(From the Irish of Enoch o’ Gillan.) - - -[Sidenote: T. W. ROLLESTON] - - In a quiet watered land, a land of roses, - Stands Saint Kieran’s City fair; - And the warriors of Erin in their famous generations - Slumber there. - - There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the noblest of the - Clan of Conn, - Each below his stone with name in branching Ogham - And the sacred knot thereon. - - There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara, - There the sons of Cairbrè sleep-- - Battle banners of the Gael, that in Kieran’s plain of crosses - Now their final posting keep. - - And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia, - And right many a lord of Breagh; - Deep the sod above Clan Creidè and Clan Conaill, - Kind in hall and fierce in fray. - - Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-Fighter - In the red earth lies at rest; - Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers, - Many a swan-white breast. - - - - -Unknown Ideal. - - -[Sidenote: DORA SIGERSON] - - Whose is the voice that will not let me rest? - I hear it speak. - Where is the shore will gratify my quest, - Show what I seek? - Not yours, weak Muse, to mimic that far voice, - With halting tongue; - No peace, sweet land, to bid my heart rejoice - Your groves among. - - Whose is the loveliness I know is by, - Yet cannot place? - Is it perfection of the sea or sky, - Or human face? - Not yours, my pencil, to delineate - The splendid smile! - Blind in the sun, we struggle on with Fate - That glows the while. - - Whose are the feet that pass me, echoing - On unknown ways? - Whose are the lips that only part to sing - Through all my days? - Not yours, fond youth, to fill mine eager eyes - That still adore - Beauty that tarries not, nor satisfies - For evermore. - - - - -Mo Cáilin Donn. - - -[Sidenote: GEORGE SIGERSON] - - The blush is on the flower, and the bloom is on the tree, - And the bonnie, bonnie sweet birds are carolling their glee; - And the dews upon the grass are made diamonds by the sun, - All to deck a path of glory for my own =Cáilin Donn=![23] - - O, fair she is! O, rare she is! O, dearer still to me! - More welcome than the green leaf to winter-stricken tree, - More welcome than the blossom to the weary, dusty bee, - Is the coming of my true love--my own =Cáilin Donn=! - - O Sycamore! O Sycamore! wave, wave your banners green-- - Let all your pennons flutter, O Beech! before my queen! - Ye fleet and honied breezes, to kiss her hand ye run; - But my heart has passed before ye to my own =Cáilin Donn=! - - O, fair she is! O, rare she is! O, dearer still to me! - - Ring out, ring out, O Linden! your merry leafy bells! - Unveil your brilliant torches, O Chestnut! to the dells; - Strew, strew the glade with splendour, for morn it cometh on! - Oh, the morn of all delight to me--my own =Cáilin Donn=! - - O, fair she is! O, rare she is! O, dearer still to me! - -[Sidenote: GEORGE SIGERSON] - - She is coming, where we parted, where she wanders every day; - There’s a gay surprise before her who thinks me far away; - O, like hearing bugles triumph when the fight of Freedom’s won, - Is the joy around your footsteps, my own =Cáilin Donn=! - - O, fair she is! O, rare she is! O, dearer still to me! - More welcome than the green leaf to winter-stricken tree, - More welcome than the blossom to the weary, dusty bee, - Is your coming, O my true love--my own =Cáilin Donn=! - - - - -An Irish Love Song. - - -[Sidenote: JOHN TODHUNTER] - - O, you plant the pain in my heart with your wistful eyes, - Girl of my choice, Maureen! - Will you drive me mad for the kisses your shy sweet mouth denies, - Maureen! - - Like a walking ghost I am, and no words to woo, - White rose of the West, Maureen; - For it’s pale you are, and the fear that’s on you is over me too, - Maureen! - - Sure it’s our complaint that’s on us, =asthore=, this day, - Bride of my dreams, Maureen; - The smart of the bee that stung us, his honey must cure, they say, - Maureen! - - I’ll coax the light to your eyes, and the rose to your face, - =Mavourneen=, my own Maureen, - When I feel the warmth of your breast, and your nest is my arms’ embrace, - Maureen! - - O where was the King o’ the World that day--only me, - My one true love, Maureen, - And you the Queen with me there, and your throne in my heart, =machree=, - Maureen! - - - - -The Sunburst. - - -[Sidenote: JOHN TODHUNTER] - - Through the midnight of despair, I heard one making moan - For her dead, her victors fall’n to gain all battles but her own; - I heard the voice of Ireland, wailing for her dead - With wailing unavailing, and sobbing as she said: - “In vain in many a battle have my heroes fought and bled, - Like water, in vain slaughter, my sons’ best blood been shed, - For my house is desolate, discrowned my head! - - “In vain my daughters bear their babes--babes with the mournful eyes - Of children without father that hear strange lullabies, - Rocked in their lonely cradles by mothers crooning low, - And weeping o’er their sleeping, sad songs of long ago; - Whose eyes, as they remember, while the wailing night-winds blow, - Their nation’s desolation, in their singing overflow - With the overflowing of an ancient woe!” - - O Mother, mournful Mother, turn from wailing for thy dead, - Grey Sibyl, still unvanquished, lift up thy dauntless head, - O thou Swan among the nations, enchanted long, so long - That the story of thy glory is a half-forgotten song, - Lift thy voice and bless the living, thy sons who round thee throng! - In the hour of their power they shall right thine ancient wrong; - In thyself is thy salvation, let thy heart be strong! - - The Leaf of many Sorrows, wet with thy tears for dew, - Emblem of thy long patience; that hearts, as brave and true - As those united hearts of green, through infamy and scorn, - Through the nation’s tribulations, like Saints the cross, have worn, - We’ll blazon with the Sunburst, star of thy destined morn, - Set in hope’s hue, our ancient blue on royal banners borne; - And green the Shamrock long shall shine, no more forlorn! - - - - -Song. - - -[Sidenote: JOHN TODHUNTER] - - Bring from the craggy haunts of birch and pine. - Thou wild wind, bring - Keen forest odours from that realm of thine, - Upon thy wing! - - O wind, O mighty, melancholy wind, - Blow through me, blow! - Thou blowest forgotten things into my mind, - From long ago. - - - - -Winter Sunset. - - -[Sidenote: KATHERINE TYNAN] - - Roses in the sky, - Roses in the sea; - Bowers of scarlet sky-roses; - Take my heart and me. - - God was good to make, - This December weather, - All this sky a rose-garden, - Rose and fire together. - - To the East are burning - Roses in a garden, - Roses in a rosy field, - Hesper for their warden. - - Yonder to the West - Roses all afire, - Mirror now some rare splendid - Rose of their desire. - - Pulsing deeper, deeper, - Waves of fire throb on, - Never were such red roses - At sunset or dawn. - - Roses on the hills, - Roses in the hollow, - Roses on the wet hedges, - In the shining fallow. - - West wind, blow and blow! - That has blown ajar - Gates of God’s great rose-garden, - Where His Angels are, - - Gathering up the rose-leaves - For a shower of roses - On the night the Lord Babe - His sweet eye uncloses. - -[Sidenote: KATHERINE TYNAN] - - All the sky is scarlet - Flaming on the azure. - O, there’s fire in Heaven! - My heart aches with pleasure. - - Leagues of rose and scarlet, - Roses red as blood: - All the world’s a rose-garden. - God is good, is good. - - - - -Shamrock Song. - - - O, the red rose may be fair, - And the lily statelier; - But my shamrock, one in three, - Takes the very heart of me! - - Many a lover hath the rose - When June’s musk-wind breathes and blows: - And in many a bower is heard - Her sweet praise from bee and bird. - - Through the gold hours dreameth she, - In her warm heart passionately, - Her fair face hung languid-wise: - O, her breath of honey and spice! - - Like a fair saint virginal - Stands your lily, silver and tall; - Over all the flowers that be - Is my shamrock dear to me. - - Shines the lily like the sun, - Crystal-pure, a cold, sweet nun; - With her austere lip she sings - To her heart of heavenly things. - - Gazeth through a night of June - To her sister-saint, the moon; - With the stars communeth long - Of the angels and their song. - - But when summer died last year - Rose and lily died with her; - Shamrock stayeth every day, - Be the winds or gold or grey. - - Irish hills, as grey as the dove, - Know the little plant I love; - Warm and fair it mantles them - Stretching down from throat to hem. - -[Sidenote: KATHERINE TYNAN] - - And it laughs o’er many a vale, - Sheltered safe from storm and gale; - Sky and sun and stars thereof - Love the gentle plant I love. - - Soft it clothes the ruined floor - Of many an abbey, grey and hoar, - And the still home of the dead - With its green is carpeted. - - Roses for an hour of love, - With the joy and pain thereof: - Stand my lilies white to see - All for prayer and purity. - - These are white as the harvest moon, - Roses flush like the heart of June; - But my shamrock, brave and gay, - Glads the tired eyes every day. - - O, the red rose shineth rare, - And the lily saintly fair; - But my shamrock, one in three, - Takes the inmost heart of me! - - - - -Wild Geese. - -(A Lament for the Irish Jacobites.) - - -[Sidenote: KATHERINE TYNAN] - - I have heard the curlew crying - On a lonely moor and mere; - And the sea-gull’s shriek in the gloaming - Is a lonely sound in the ear: - And I’ve heard the brown thrush mourning - For her children stolen away;-- - But it’s O for the homeless Wild Geese - That sailed ere the dawn of day! - - For the curlew out on the moorland - Hath five fine eggs in the nest; - And the thrush will get her a new love - And sing her song with the best. - As the swallow flies to the Summer - Will the gull return to the sea: - But never the wings of the Wild Geese - Will flash over seas to me. - - And ’tis ill to be roaming, roaming - With homesick heart in the breast! - And how long I’ve looked for your coming, - And my heart is the empty nest! - O sore in the land of the stranger - They’ll pine for the land far away! - But day of Aughrim, my sorrow, - It was you was the bitter day! - - - - -Dreams. - - -[Sidenote: CHARLES WEEKES] - - I troubled in my dream. I knew - The silent gates and walls. - Around me out of shadow grew - The steady waterfalls. - Afar the raven spot-like flew - Where nothing wakes or calls. - - I fell on deeper trance. I was - Where all the dead are hid. - They dreamed. They did not sleep, because - They saw with lifted lid. - They worked with neither word nor pause: - I knew not what they did. - - I stood there with the dead in hell - Dreaming, and heard no moan. - The light died, and the darkness fell - About me like a stone. - I woke upon the midnight bell - In God’s dream here alone. - - - - -Poppies. - - -[Sidenote: CHARLES WEEKES] - - The sudden night is here at once: - The lost lamb cries and runs and stands, - For all the poppy cups are hands - To seize and take him when he runs. - - The dusky cups are blood colour; - And like a cup of blood this one - To drink, and be with Babylon, - And love and kiss the lips of her.-- - - =Thy sins as snow!=--just then it burned - The dark--a flaming face and bust; - And just beneath here in the dust - The Scarlet Woman laughed and turned. - - - - -They went forth to the Battle, but they always fell. - - -[Sidenote: W. B. YEATS] - - Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World, - The tall thought-woven sails that flap unfurled - Above the tide of hours, rise on the air, - And God’s bell buoyed to be the waters’ care, - And pressing on, or lingering slow with fear, - The throngs with blown wet hair are gathering near - “Turn if ye may,” I call out to each one, - “From the grey ships and battles never won. - Danger no refuge holds, and war no peace, - For him who hears Love sing and never cease - Beside her clean swept hearth, her quiet shade; - But gather all for whom no Love hath made - A woven silence, or but came to cast - A song into the air, and singing past - To smile upon her stars; and gather you, - Who have sought more than is in rain or dew, - Or in the sun and moon, or on the earth, - Or sighs amid the wandering, starry mirth, - Or comes in laughter from the sea’s sad lips, - And wage God’s battles in the long grey ships. - The sad, the lonely, the insatiable, - To these Old Night shall all her mystery tell, - God’s bell has claimed them by the little cry - Of their sad hearts that may not live nor die.” - - Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World, - You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled - Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring - The bell that calls us on--the sweet far thing. - Beauty grown sad with its eternity, - Made you of us and of the dim grey sea. - Our long ships loose thought-woven sails and wait, - For God has bid them share an equal fate; - And when at last defeated in His wars, - They have gone down under the same white stars, - We shall no longer hear the little cry - Of our sad hearts that may not live nor die. - - - - -The White Birds. - - -[Sidenote: W. B. YEATS] - - I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea, - We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can pass by and flee; - And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the - rim of the sky, - Has awaked in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that never may die. - - A weariness comes from those dreamers, dew dabbled, the lily and rose, - Ah, dream not of them, my beloved, the flame of the meteor that goes, - Or the flame of the blue star that lingers hung low in the fall - of the dew: - For I would we were changed to white birds on the wandering - foam--I and you. - - I am haunted by numberless islands, and many a Danaan shore, - Where Time would surely forget us, and Sorrow come near us no more, - Soon far from the rose and the lily, and the fret of the - flames would we be, - Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoyed out on the foam of the sea. - - - - -The Lake of Innisfree. - - -[Sidenote: W. B. YEATS] - - I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, - And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; - Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, - And live alone in the bee-loud glade. - - And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, - Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; - There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, - And evening full of the linnet’s wings. - - I will arise and go now, for always night and day - I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; - While I stand on the roadway or on the pavements gray, - I hear it in the deep heart’s core. - - - - -II - -SCOTO-CELTIC - -(Middle Period) - - - - -From the “Sean Dana.” - -Prologue to Gaul. - - -[Sidenote: LATER GAELIC] - - How mournful is the silence of Night - When she pours her dark clouds over the valleys! - Sleep has overcome the youth of the chase: - He slumbers on the heath, and his dog at his knee. - The children of the mountain he pursues - In his dream, while sleep forsakes him. - - Slumber, ye children of fatigue; - Star after star is now ascending the height. - Slumber! thou swift dog and nimble,-- - Ossian will arouse thee not from thy repose. - Lonely I keep watch,-- - And dear to me is the gloom of night - When I travel from glen to glen, - With no hope to behold a morning or brightness. - - Spare thy light, O Sun! - Waste not thy lamps so fast. - Generous is thy soul, as the King of Morven’s: - But thy renown shall yet fade;-- - Spare thy lamps of a thousand flames - In thy blue hall, when thou retirest - Under thy dark-blue gates to sleep, - Beneath the dark embraces of the storm. - Spare them, ere thou art forsaken for ever, - As I am, without one whom I may love! - Spare them,--for there is not a hero now - To behold the blue flame of the beautiful lamps! - - Ah, Cona of the precious lights, - Thy lamps burn dimly now: - Thou art like a blasted oak: - Thy dwellings and thy people are gone - East or west, on the face of thy mountain, - There shall no more be found of them but the trace! - In Selma, Tara, or Temora - There is not a song, a shell, or a harp; - They have all become green mounds; - Their stones have fallen into their own meadows; - The stranger from the deep or the desert - Will never behold them rise above the clouds. - - And, O Selma! home of my delight, - Is this heap my ruin, - Where grows the thistle, the heather, and the wild grass? - - - - -In Hebrid Seas. - - -[Sidenote: LATER GAELIC] - - We turned her prow into the sea, - Her stern into the shore, - And first we raised the tall tough masts, - And then the canvas hoar; - - Fast filled our towering cloud-like sails, - For the wind came from the land, - And such a wind as we might choose - Were the winds at our command: - - A breeze that rushing down the hill - Would strip the blooming heather, - Or, rustling through the green-clad grove, - Would whirl its leaves together. - - But when it seized the aged saugh, - With the light locks of grey, - It tore away its ancient root, - And there the old trunk lay! - - It raised the thatch too from the roof, - And scattered it along; - Then tossed and whirled it through the air, - Singing a pleasant song. - - It heaped the ruins on the land: - Though sire and son stood by - They could no help afford, but gaze - With wan and troubled eye! - - A flap, a flash, the green roll dashed, - And laughed against the red; - Upon our boards, now here, now there, - It knocked its foamy head. - - The dun bowed whelk in the abyss, - As on the galley bore, - Gave a tap upon her gunwale - And a slap upon her floor. - - She could have split a slender straw-- - So clean and well she went-- - As still obedient to the helm - Her stately course she bent. - - We watched the big beast eat the small-- - The small beast nimbly fly, - And listened to the plunging eels-- - The sea-gull’s clang on high. - - We had no other music - To cheer us on our way: - Till round those sheltering hills we passed - And anchored in this bay. - - - - -Cumha Ghriogair Mhic Griogair. - -(The Lament of Gregor MacGregor.) - - -[Sidenote: LATER GAELIC] - - Early on a Lammas morning, - With my husband was I gay; - But my heart got sorely wounded - Ere the middle of the day. - - Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri - Though I cry, my child, with thee-- - Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, - Now he hears not thee nor me! - - Malison on judge and kindred, - They have wrought me mickle woe; - With deceit they came about us,-- - Through deceit they laid him low. - - Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc. - - Had they met but twelve MacGregors, - With my Gregor at their head; - Now my child had not been orphaned, - Nor these bitter tears been shed. - - Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc. - - On an oaken block they laid him, - And they spilt his blood around; - I’d have drunk it in a goblet - Largely, ere it reached the ground. - - Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc. - - Would my father then had sickened-- - Colin, with the plague been ill; - Though Rory’s daughter, in her anguish, - Smote her palms, and cried her fill. - - Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc. - - I could Colin shut in prison, - And black Duncan put in ward,-- - Every Campbell now in Bealach, - Bind with handcuffs, close and hard. - - Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc. - - When I reached the plain of Bealach, - I got there no rest, nor calm; - But my hair I tore in pieces,-- - Wore the skin from off each palm! - - Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc. - - Oh! could I fly up with the skylark-- - Had I Gregor’s strength in hand; - The highest stone that’s in yon castle - Should lie lowest on the land. - - Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc. - - Would I saw Finlarig blazing, - And the smoke of Bealach smelled, - So that fair, soft-handed Gregor - In these arms once more I held. - - Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc. - - While the rest have all got lovers - Now a lover have I none; - My fair blossom, fresh and fragrant, - Withers on the ground alone. - - Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc. - - While all other wives the night-time - Pass in slumber’s balmy bands, - I upon my bedside weary, - Never cease to wring my hands. - - Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc. - -[Sidenote: LATER GAELIC] - - For, far better be with Gregor - Where the heather’s in its prime, - Than with mean and Lowland barons - In a house of stone and lime. - - Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc. - - Greatly better be with Gregor - In a mantle rude and torn, - Than with little Lowland barons - Where fine silk and lace are worn. - - Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc. - - Though it rained and roared together, - All throughout the stormy day, - Gregor, in a crag, could find me - A kind shelter where to stay. - - Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc. - - Bahu, bahu, little nursling-- - Oh! so tender now and weak; - I fear the day will never brighten - When revenge for him you’ll seek. - - Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, - Though I cry, my child, with thee-- - Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, - Yet he hears not thee nor me! - - - - -Drowned. - - -[Sidenote: LATER GAELIC] - - No wonder my heart it is sore, - No wonder the tears that I weep; - My true love I’ll see him no more, - He lies fathoms down in the deep. - - He lies fathoms down in the deep, - Where the cold clammy seaweeds abound. - How cruel thy wild waves to me, - O sea that my true love hast drowned! - - O sea that my true love hast drowned, - Thou hast reft me of joy evermore; - Thy waves make me shudder with fear - As I listen and hear their wild roar. - - My true love and I, hand in hand, - Often wandered the uplands among, - Where the wild flowers are freshest to see, - And the wild birds are freest of song; - - But alas for the days that are gone, - Alas for my sorrow and me! - Alas that my true love is drowned - Fathoms down in the depths of the sea! - - - - -The Manning of the Birlinn. - -The Sailing. - - -[Sidenote: ALEXANDER MACDONALD] - - The sun had opened golden yellow, - From his case, - Though still the sky wore dark and drumly - A scarr’d and frowning face: - Then troubled, tawny, dense, dun-bellied, - Scowling and sea-blue, - Every dye that’s in the tartan - O’er it grew. - Far away to the wild westward - Grim it lowered, - Where rain-charged clouds on thick squalls wandering - Loomed and towered. - Up they raised the speckled sails through - Cloud-like light, - And stretched them on the mighty halyards, - Tense and tight. - High on the mast so tall and stately-- - Dark-red in hue-- - They set them firmly, set them surely, - Set them true. - Round the iron pegs the ropes ran, - Each its right ring through; - Thus having ranged the tackle rarely, - Well and carefully, - Every man sat waiting bravely, - Where he ought to be. - For now the airy windows opened, - And from spots of bluish grey - Let loose the keen and crabbed wild winds-- - A fierce band were they-- - ’Twas then his dark cloak the ocean - Round him drew. - Dusky, livid, ruffling, whirling, - Round at first it flew, - Till up he swell’d to mountains, or to glens, - Dishevelled, rough, sank down-- - While the kicking, tossing waters - All in hills had grown. - Its blue depth opened in huge maws, - Wild and devouring, - Down which, clasped in deadly struggles, - Fierce strong waves were pouring. - It took a man to look the storm-winds - Right in the face-- - As they lit up the sparkling spray on every surge-hill, - In their fiery race. - The waves before us, shrilly yelling, - Raised their high heads hoar, - While those behind, with moaning trumpets, - Gave a bellowing roar. - When we rose up aloft, majestic, - On the heaving swell, - Need was to pull in our canvas - Smart and well: - When she sank down with one huge swallow - In the hollow glen, - Every sail she bore aloft - Was given to her then. - The drizzling surges high and roaring - Rush’d on us louting, - Long ere they were near us come, - We heard their shouting:-- - They roll’d sweeping up the little waves - Scourging them bare, - Till all became one threatening swell, - Our steersman’s care. - When down we fell from off the billows’ - Towering shaggy edge, - Our keel was well-nigh hurled against - The shells and sedge; - The whole sea was lashing, dashing, - All through other: - It kept the seals and mightiest monsters - In a pother! - The fury and the surging of the water, - And our good ship’s swift way - Spatter’d their white brains on each billow, - Livid and grey. - With piteous wailing and complaining - All the storm-tossed horde, - Shouted out “We’re now your subjects; - Drag us on board.” - And the small fish of the ocean - Turn’d over their white breast-- - Dead, innumerable, with the raging - Of the furious sea’s unrest. - The stones and shells of the deep channel - Were in motion; - Swept from out their lowly bed - By the tumult of the ocean; - Till the sea, like a great mess of pottage, - Troubled, muddy grew - With the blood of many mangled creatures, - Dirty red in hue-- - When the horn’d and clawy wild beasts, - Short-footed, splay, - With great wailing gumless mouths - Huge and wide open lay. - But the whole deep was full of spectres, - Loose and sprawling - With the claws and with the tails of monsters, - Pawing, squalling. - It was frightful even to hear them - Screech so loudly; - The sound might move full fifty heroes - Stepping proudly. - Our whole crew grew dull of hearing - In the tempest’s scowl, - So sharp the quavering cries of demons - And the wild beasts’ howl. - With the oaken planks the weltering waves were wrestling - In their noisy splashing; - While the sharp beak of our swift ship - On the sea-pigs came dashing. - The wind kept still renewing all its wildness - In the far West, - Till with every kind of strain and trouble - We were sore distress’d. - We were blinded with the water - Showering o’er us ever; - And the awful night like thunder, - And the lightning ceasing never. - The bright fireballs in our tackling - Flamed and smoked; - With the smell of burning brimstone - We were well-nigh choked. - All the elements above, below, - Against us wrought; - Earth and wind and fire and water, - With us fought. - But when the evil one defied the sea - To make us yield, - At last, with one bright smile of pity, - Peace with us she seal’d: - Yet not before our yards were injured, - And our sails were rent, - Our poops were strained, our oars were weaken’d, - All our masts were bent. - Not a stay but we had started, - Our tackling all was wet and splashy, - Nails and couplings, twisted, broken. - Feeshie, fashie, - All the thwarts and all the gunwale - Everywhere confess’d, - And all above and all below, - How sore they had been press’d. - Not a bracket, not a rib, - But the storm had loosed; - Fore and aft from stem to stern, - All had got confused. - Not a tiller but was split, - And the helm was wounded; - Every board its own complaint - Sadly sounded. - Every trennel, every fastening - Had been giving way; - Not a board remain’d as firm - As at the break of day. - Not a bolt in her but started, - Not a rope the wind that bore, - Not a part of the whole vessel - But was weaker than before. - The sea spoke to us its peace prattle - At the cross of Islay’s Kyle, - And the rough wind, bitter boaster! - Was restrained for one good while. - The tempest rose from off us into places - Lofty in the upper air, - And after all its noisy barking - Ruffled round us fair. - Then we gave thanks to the High King, - Who rein’d the wind’s rude breath, - And saved our good Clan Ranald - From a bad and brutal death. - Then we furl’d up the fine and speckled sails - Of linen wide, - And we took down the smooth red dainty masts, - And laid them by the side-- - On our long and slender polish’d oars - Together leaning-- - They were all made of the fir cut by Mac Barais - In Eilean Fionain-- - We went with our smooth, dashing rowing, - And steady shock, - Till we reach’d the good port round the point - Of Fergus’ Rock. - There casting anchor peacefully - We calmly rode; - We got meat and drink in plenty, - And there we abode. - - - - -The Lament of the Deer. - -(Cumha nam Fiadh.) - - -[Sidenote: ANGUS MACKENZIE] - - O for my strength! once more to see the hills! - The wilds of Strath-Farar of stags, - The blue streams, and winding vales, - Where the flowering tree sends forth its sweet perfume. - - My thoughts are sad and dark!-- - I lament the forest where I loved to roam, - The secret corries, the haunt of hinds, - Where often I watched them on the hill! - - Corrie-Garave! O that I was within thy bosom - Scuir-na-Làpaich of steeps, with thy shelter, - Where feed the herds which never seek for stalls, - But whose skin gleams red in the sunshine of the hills. - - Great was my love in youth, and strong my desire, - Towards the bounding herds; - But now, broken, and weak, and hopeless, - Their remembrance wounds my heart. - - To linger in the laich[24] I mourn, - My thoughts are ever in the hills; - For there my childhood and my youth was nursed-- - The moss and the craig in the morning breeze was my delight. - - Then was I happy in my life, - When the voices of the hill sung sweetly; - More sweet to me, than any string, - It soothed my sorrow or rejoiced my heart. - - My thoughts wandered to no other land - Beyond the hill of the forest, the shealings of the deer, - Where the nimble herds ascended the hill,-- - As I lay in my plaid on the dewy bed. - - The sheltering hollows, where I crept towards the hart, - On the pastures of the glen, or in the forest wilds-- - And if once more I may see them as of old, - How will my heart bound to watch again the pass! - - Great was my joy to ascend the hills - In the cause of the noble chief, - Mac Shimé of the piercing eye--never to fail at need, - With all his brave Frasers, gathered beneath his banner. - - When they told of his approach, with all his ready arms, - My heart bounded for the chase-- - On the rugged steep, on the broken hill, - By hollow, and ridge, many were the red stags which he laid low. - - He is the pride of hunters; my trust was in his gun, - When the sound of its shot rung in my ear, - The grey ball launched in flashing fire, - And the dun stag fell in the rushing speed of his course. - - When evening came down on the hill, - The time for return to the star of the glen, - The kindly lodge where the noble gathered, - The sons of the tartan and the plaid, - - With joy and triumph they returned - To the dwelling of plenty and repose; - The bright blazing hearth--the circling wine-- - The welcome of the noble chief! - - - - -Ben Dorain. - - -[Sidenote: DUNCAN BAN MACINTYRE] - - The honour o’er each hill - Hath Ben Dorain; - Scene, to me, the sweetest still - That day dawns upon: - Its long moor’s level way, - And its nooks whence wild deer stray, - To the lustre on the brae - Oft I’ve lauded them. - - Dear to me its dusky boughs, - In the wood where green grass grows, - And the stately herd repose, - Or there wander slow; - But the troops with bellies white, - When the chase comes into sight, - Then I love to watch their flight, - Going nosily. - - The stag is airy, brisk, and light, - And no pomp has he; - Though his garb’s the fashion quite, - Never haughty he: - Yet a mantle’s round him spread, - Not soon threadbare, then shed, - And its hue as wax is red-- - Fairly clothing him. - - The delight I felt to rise - At the morning’s call! - And to see the troops I prize - The hills thronging all: - Ten score with stately tread, - And with light uplifted head, - Quite unpampered there that fed, - Fond and fawning all. - - Lightsomely there came - From each clean and shapely frame, - Through their murmuring lips, a tame - Chant, with drawling fall. - In the pool one rolled a low-- - With the hind one played the beau, - As she trotted to and fro, - Looking saucily. - - I would rather have the deer - Gasping moaningly, - Than all Erin’s songs to hear - Sung melodiously; - For above the finest bass - Hath the stag’s sweet voice a grace, - As he bellows on the face - Of Ben Dorain. - - Loud and long he gives a roar - From his very inmost core, - Which is heard behind, before, - Far and fallingly; - But the hind of softer notes, - With her calf that near her trots, - Match each other’s tuneful throats, - Crying longingly. - - Her eye’s soft and tender ray - With no flaw in it, - O’er whose lid the brow is gray, - Guides her wandering feet: - Very well she walks, and bold, - Lively o’er the russet wold, - Tripping from her desert hold - Most undauntingly. - - Faultless is her pace, - And her leap is full of grace-- - Ha! the last when in the race - Never saw I her: - - When she takes yon startled stride, - Nor once turns her head aside, - Aught to match her hasty pride - Is not known to me. - - But now she’s on the heath, - As she ought to be, - Where the tender grass she seeth, - Growing dawtily; - The dry bent, the moor grass bare, - With the sappy herbs are there, - That make fat, and full, and fair, - Her plump quarters all. - - And those little wells are nigh, - Where the water-cresses lie, - Above wine she likes to try - Their waves’ solacing; - Of the rye-grass, twisted rows, - On the rude hill side it grows, - Than of rarest festal shows, - Is she fonder far. - - The choice increase of the earth - Forms her joyous treat; - The primrose, St John’s wort, - Tops of gowans sweet, - The new buds of the groves, - The soft heath o’er which she roves, - Are the tit-bits that she loves, - With good cause too. - - For speckled, spotted, rare, - Tall, and fine, and fair, - From such food before her there - She grows sonsily; - And it is still the surest mean - To cure the weak ones and the lean, - Who for any time have been - Wasted, wan, and low. - - Soon it would clothe their back - With the garb which most they lack-- - That rich fat, which they can pack - Most commodiously. - - She’s a flighty young hind - When leaves ward her, - Nearer her haunts where they bind - The brae border: - Lightsome and urbane - Is her gay heart, free of stain, - Tho’ rash head and somewhat vain-- - Somewhat thoughtless. - - Yet her form, so full of grace, - She keeps hiding in a place, - Where the green glen shows no trace - Of a falling off; - But she’s so healthy, and so clean-- - So chaste where’er she’s seen-- - Should you kiss her lips, I ween - ’Twould not cause you shame. - - Greatly prized is she, I know, - By the stag with crested brow, - Whose thundering hoofs around him throw - Such a saucy sound; - When with him she meets the view - Red and yellow in her hue, - And of virtues not a few - That belong to her, - Then too is she free of fear, - And in speed without a peer, - And the primest ear to hear - In all Europe’s hers. - - Oh! how sweetly they embrace, - Young and fawning, - When they gather to their place - In the gloaming; - - There, till silent night is by, - Never terror comes them nigh, - While beneath the bush they lie-- - Their known haunt of old. - - Let the wild herd seek their bed, - Let them slumber, free of dread, - Where yon mighty moor is spread, - Broad and brawly; - Where, with joy, I’ve often spied - The sun colour their red hide, - As they wandered in their pride - O’er Ben Dorain. - - - - -The Hill-Water. - - - From the rim it trickles down - Of the mountain’s granite crown - Clear and cool; - Keen and eager though it go - Through your veins with lively flow, - Yet it knoweth not to reign - In the chambers of the brain - With misrule; - - Where dark water-cresses grow - You will trace its quiet flow, - With mossy border yellow, - So mild, and soft, and mellow, - In its pouring. - With no shiny dregs to trouble - The brightness of its bubble - As it threads its silver way - From the granite shoulders grey - Of Ben Dorain. - - Then down the sloping side - It will slip with glassy slide - Gently welling, - Till it gather strength to leap, - With a light and foamy sweep, - To the corrie broad and deep - Proudly swelling; - - Then bends amid the boulders, - ’Neath the shadow of the shoulders - Of the Ben, - Through a country rough and shaggy, - So jaggy and so knaggy, - Full of hummocks and of hunches, - Full of stumps and tufts and bunches, - Full of bushes and of rushes, - In the glen, - - Through rich green solitudes, - And wildly hanging woods - With blossom and with bell, - In rich redundant swell, - And the pride - Of the mountain daisy there, - And the forest everywhere, - With the dress and with the air - Of a bride. - - - - -Song for Macleod of Macleod. - - -[Sidenote: MARY MACLEOD] - - Alone on the hill-top, - Sadly and silently, - Downward on Islay - And over the sea-- - I look and I wonder - How time hath deceived me: - A stranger in Muile[25] - Who ne’er thought to be. - - Ne’er thought it, my island! - Where rests the deep dark shade - Thy grand mossy mountains - For ages have made-- - God bless thee, and prosper! - Thy chief of the sharp blade, - All over these islands, - His fame never fade! - - Never fade it, Sir Norman! - For well ’tis the right - Of thy name to win credit - In council or fight; - By wisdom, by shrewdness, - By spirit, by might, - By manliness, courage, - By daring, by sleight. - - In council or fight, thy kindred - Know these should be thine-- - Branch of Lochlin’s wide-ruling - And king-bearing line! - And in Erin they know it-- - Far over the brine: - No Earl would in Albin - Thy friendship decline. - -[Sidenote: MARY MACLEOD] - - Yes! the nobles of Erin - Thy titles well know, - To the honour and friendship - Of high and of low. - Born the deed-marks to follow, - Thy father did show,-- - That friend of the noble-- - That manliest foe. - - That friend of the noble-- - From him art thou heir - To virtues which Albin - Was proud to declare: - Crown’d the best of her chieftains - Long, long may’st thou wear - The blossoms paternal - His broad branches bare! - - O banner’d Clan Ruari! - Whose loss is my woe, - Of this chief who survives - May I ne’er hear he’s low; - But, darling of mortals! - From him though I go, - Long the shapeliest, comeliest - Form may he show! - - The shapeliest, comeliest, - Faultless in bearing-- - Cheerful, cordial, and kind, - The red and white wearing, - Well looks the blue-eyed chief; - Blue, bright, and daring, - His eye o’er his red cheek shines, - Blue, bright, calmly daring. - - His red cheek shines, - Like hip on the brier-tree, - ’Neath the choicest of curly hair - Waving and free. - A warm hearth, a drinking cup, - Meet shall he see, - And a choice of good armour - Whoe’er visits thee. - - Drinking-horns, trenchers bright, - And arms old and new; - Long, narrow-bladed swords, - Cold, clear, and blue-- - These are seen in thy mansion, - With rifles and carbines, too; - And hempen-strung long-bows, - Of hard, healthy yew. - - Long-bows and cross-bows, - With strings that well wear; - Arrows, with polish’d heads, - In quivers full and fair, - From the eagle’s wing feather’d, - With silk fine and rare; - And guns dear to purchase-- - Long slender--are there. - - My heart’s with thee, hero! - May Mary’s son keep - My stripling who loves - The lone forest to sweep; - Rejoicing to feel there - The solitude deep - Of the long moor and valley, - And rough mountain steep. - - The mountain steep searching - And rough rocky chains; - The old dogs he caresses, - The young dogs he restrains: - Then, soon from my chieftain’s spear - The life-blood rains - Of the red-hided deer or doe - And the green heather stains. - -[Sidenote: MARY MACLEOD] - - Fall the red stag, the white-bellied doe; - Then stand on the heather, - Thy gentle companions, - Well arm’d altogether, - Well taught on the hunter’s craft, - Well skill’d in the weather; - They know the rough sea as well - As the green heather! - - - - -III - -MODERN AND CONTEMPORARY SCOTO-CELTIC - - - - -Monaltri. - - -[Sidenote: ANON.] - - There’s a sound on the hill, - Not of joy but of ailing; - Dark-hair’d women mourn-- - Beat their hands, with loud wailing. - - They cry out, Ochon! - For the young Monaltri, - Who went to the hill; - But home came not he. - - Without snood, without plaid - Katrina’s gone roaming. - O Katrina, my dear! - Homeward be coming. - - Och! hear, on the castle - Yon pretty bird singing, - “Snoodless and plaidless, - Her hands she is ringing.” - - - - -An Coineachan--A Highland Lullaby. - - - Hó-bhan, hó-bhan, Goiridh òg O, - Goiridh òg O, Goiridh òg O; - Hó-bhan, hó-bhan, Goiridh òg O, - I’ve lost my darling baby O! - - I left my darling lying here, - A-lying here, a-lying here; - I left my darling lying here, - To go and gather blaeberries. - - I’ve found the wee brown otter’s track, - The otter’s track, the otter’s track; - I’ve found the wee brown otter’s track, - But ne’er a trace of baby O! - - I found the track of the swan on the lake, - The swan on the lake, the swan on the lake; - I found the track of the swan on the lake, - But not the track of baby O! - - I found the track of the yellow fawn, - The yellow fawn, the yellow fawn; - I found the track of the yellow fawn, - But could not trace my baby O! - - I’ve found the trail of the mountain mist, - The mountain mist, the mountain mist; - I’ve found the trail of the mountain mist, - But ne’er a trace of baby O! - - - - -A Boat Song. - - -[Sidenote: ANON.] - - Ho, my bonnie boatie, - Thou bonnie boatie mine! - So trim and tight a boatie - Was never launched on brine. - Ho, my bonnie boatie, - My praise is justly thine - Above all bonnie boaties - Were builded on Loch Fyne! - _Hò mo bhàta laghach, - ’S tu mo bhàta grinn; - Hò mo bhàta laghach, - ’S tu mo bhàta grinn. - Hò mo bhàta laghach, - ’S tu mo bhàta grinn: - Mo bhàta boidheach laghach, - Thogadh taobh Loch Fin._ - - To build thee up so firmly, - I knew the stuff was good; - Thy keel of stoutest elm-tree, - Well fixed in oaken wood; - Thy timbers ripely seasoned - Of cleanest Norway pine - Well cased in ruddy copper, - To plough the deep were thine! - _Hò mo bhàta, etc._ - - How lovely was my boatie - At rest upon the shore, - Before my bonnie boatie - Had known wild ocean’s roar. - Thy deck so smooth and stainless, - With such fine bend thy rim, - Thy seams that know no gaping, - Thy masts so tall and trim. - _Hò mo bhàta, etc._ - - And bonnie was my boatie - Afloat upon the bay, - When smooth as mirror round her - The heaving ocean lay; - While round the cradled boatie - Light troops of plumy things - To praise the bonnie boatie - Made music with their wings. - _Hò mo bhàta, etc._ - - How eager was my boatie - To plough the swelling seas, - When o’er the curling waters - Full sharply blew the breeze! - O, ’twas she that stood to windward, - The first among her peers, - When shrill the blasty music - Came piping round her ears! - _Hò mo bhàta, etc._ - - And where the sea came surging - In mountains from the west, - And reared the racing billow - Its high and hissing crest; - She turned her head so deftly, - With skill so firmly shown, - The billows they went their way - The boatie went her own. - _Hò mo bhàta, etc._ - - And when the sudden squall came - Black swooping from the Ben, - And white the foam was spinning - Around thy topmast then, - O never knew my boatie - A thought of ugly dread, - But dashed right through the billow, - With the spray-shower round her head! - _Hò mo bhàta, etc._ - -[Sidenote: ANON.] - - Yet wert thou never headstrong - To stand with forward will, - When yielding was thy wisdom - And caution was my skill. - How neatly and how nimbly - Thou turned thee to the wind, - With thy leeside in the water - And a swirling trail behind! - _Hò mo bhàta, etc._ - - What though a lonely dwelling - On barren shore I own, - My kingdom is the blue wave, - My boatie is my throne! - I’ll never want a dainty dish - To breakfast or to dine, - While men may man my boatie - And fish swim in Loch Fyne! - _Hò mo bhàta laghach, - ’S tu mo bhàta grinn. - Hò mo bhàta laghach, - ’S tu mo bhàta grinn. - Hò mo bhàta laghach, - ’S tu mo bhàta grinn: - Mo bhàta boidheach laghach, - Thogadh taobh Loch Fin._ - - - - -The Old Soldier of the Gareloch Head. - - -[Sidenote: JOHN STUART BLACKIE] - - I’ve wander’d east and west, - And a soldier I hae been; - The scars upon my breast - Tell the wars that I have seen. - But now I’m old and worn, - And my locks are thinly spread, - And I’m come to die in peace, - By the Gareloch Head. - - When I was young and strong, - Oft a wandering I would go, - By the rough shores of Loch Long, - Up to lone Glencroe. - But now I’m fain to rest, - And my resting-place I’ve made, - On the green and gentle bosom - Of the Gareloch Head. - - ’Twas here my Jeanie grew, - Like a lamb amid the flocks, - With her eyes of bonnie blue, - And her gowden locks. - And here we often met, - When with lightsome foot we sped, - O’er the green and grassy knolls - At the Gareloch Head. - - ’Twas here she pined and died-- - O! the salt tear in my e’e - Forbids my heart to hide - What Jeanie was to me! - ’Twas here my Jeanie died, - And they scoop’d her lowly bed, - ’Neath the green and grassy turf - At the Gareloch Head. - -[Sidenote: JOHN STUART BLACKIE] - - Like a leaf in leafy June, - From the leafy forest torn, - She fell, and I’ll fall soon - Like a sheaf of yellow corn. - For I’m sere and weary now, - And I soon shall make my bed - With my Jeanie ’neath the turf - At the Gareloch Head. - - - - -Flower of the World. - - -[Sidenote: ROBERT BUCHANAN] - - Wherever men sinned and wept, - I wandered in my quest; - At last in a Garden of God - I saw the Flower of the World. - - This Flower had human eyes, - Its breath was the breath of the mouth; - Sunlight and starlight came, - And the Flower drank bliss from both. - - Whatever was base and unclean, - Whatever was sad and strange, - Was piled around its roots; - It drew its strength from the same. - - Whatever was formless and base - Pass’d into fineness and form; - Whatever was lifeless and mean - Grew into beautiful bloom. - - Then I thought “O Flower of the World, - Miraculous Blossom of things, - Light as a faint wreath of snow - Thou tremblest to fall in the wind: - - “O beautiful Flower of the World, - Fall not nor wither away; - He is coming--He cannot be far-- - The Lord of the Flow’rs and the Stars.” - - And I cried, “O Spirit divine! - That walkest the Garden unseen, - Come hither, and bless, ere it dies, - The beautiful Flower of the World.” - - - - -The Strange Country. - - -[Sidenote: ROBERT BUCHANAN] - - I have come from a mystical Land of Light - To a Strange Country; - The Land I have left is forgotten quite - In the Land I see. - - The round Earth rolls beneath my feet, - And the still Stars glow, - The murmuring Waters rise and retreat, - The Winds come and go. - - Sure as a heart-beat all things seem - In this Strange Country; - So sure, so still, in a dazzle of dream, - All things flow free. - - ’Tis life, all life, be it pleasure or pain, - In the Field and the Flood, - In the beating Heart, in the burning Brain, - In the Flesh and the Blood. - - Deep as Death is the daily strife - Of this Strange Country: - All things thrill up till they blossom in Life, - And flutter and flee. - - Nothing is stranger than the rest, - From the pole to the pole, - The weed by the way, the eggs in the nest, - The Flesh and the Soul. - - Look in mine eyes, O Man I meet - In this Strange Country! - Lie in my arms, O Maiden sweet, - With thy mouth kiss me! - - Go by, O King, with thy crownèd brow - And thy sceptred hand-- - Thou art a straggler too, I vow, - From the same strange Land. - - O wondrous Faces that upstart - In this Strange Country! - O Souls, O Shades, that become a part - Of my Soul and me! - - What are ye working so fast and fleet, - O Humankind? - “We are building Cities for those whose feet - Are coming behind; - - “Our stay is short, we must fly again - From this Strange Country; - But others are growing, women and men, - Eternally!” - - Child, what art thou? and what am _I_? - But a breaking wave! - Rising and rolling on, we hie - To the shore of the grave. - - I have come from a mystical Land of Light - To this Strange Country; - This dawn I came, I shall go to-night, - Ay me! ay me! - - I hold my hand to my head and stand - ’Neath the air’s blue arc, - I try to remember the mystical Land, - But all is dark. - - And all around me swim Shapes like mine - In this Strange Country;-- - They break in the glamour of gleams divine, - And they moan “Ay me!” - -[Sidenote: ROBERT BUCHANAN] - - Like waves in the cold Moon’s silvern breath - They gather and roll, - Each crest of white is a birth or a death, - Each sound is a Soul. - - Oh, whose is the Eye that gleams so bright - O’er this Strange Country? - It draws us along with a chain of light, - As the Moon the Sea! - - - - -The Dream of the World without Death. - - - Now, sitting by her side, worn out with weeping, - Behold, I fell to sleep, and had a vision, - Wherein I heard a wondrous Voice intoning: - - Crying aloud, “The Master on His throne - Openeth now the seventh seal of wonder, - And beckoneth back the angel men name Death. - - And at His feet the mighty Angel kneeleth, - Breathing not; and the Lord doth look upon him, - Saying, ’Thy wanderings on earth are ended.’” - - And lo! the mighty Shadow sitteth idle - Even at the silver gates of heaven, - Drowsily looking in on quiet waters, - And puts his silence among men no longer. - - * * * * * - - The world was very quiet. Men in traffic - Cast looks over their shoulders; pallid seamen - Shivered to walk upon the decks alone; - - And women barred their doors with bars of iron, - In the silence of the night; and at the sunrise - Trembled behind the husbandmen afield. - - I could not see a kirkyard near or far; - I thirsted for a green grave, and my vision - Was weary for the white gleam of a tombstone. - - But hearkening dumbly, ever and anon - I heard a cry out of a human dwelling, - And felt the cold wind of a lost one’s going. - - One struck a brother fiercely, and he fell, - And faded in a darkness; and that other - Tore his hair, and was afraid, and could not perish. - -[Sidenote: ROBERT BUCHANAN] - - One struck his aged mother on the mouth, - And she vanished with a gray grief from his hearthstone. - One melted from her bairn, and on the ground - - With sweet unconscious eyes the bairn lay smiling. - And many made a weeping among mountains, - And hid themselves in caverns, and were drunken. - - I heard a voice from out the beauteous earth, - Whose side rolled up from winter into summer, - Crying, “I am grievous for my children.” - - I heard a voice from out the hoary ocean, - Crying, “Burial in the breast of me were better,-- - Yea, burial in the salt flags and green crystals.” - - I heard a voice from out the hollow ether, - Saying, “The thing ye cursed hath been abolished-- - Corruption, and decay, and dissolution!” - - And the world shrieked, and the summer-time was bitter, - And men and women feared the air behind them; - And for lack of its green graves the world was hateful. - - * * * * * - - Now at the bottom of a snowy mountain - I came upon a woman thin with sorrow, - Whose voice was like the crying of a sea-gull: - - Saying, “O Angel of the Lord, come hither, - And bring me him I seek for on thy bosom, - That I may close his eyelids and embrace him. - - “I curse thee that I cannot look upon him! - I curse thee that I know not he is sleeping! - Yet know that he has vanished upon God! - - “I laid my little girl upon a wood-bier, - And very sweet she seemed, and near unto me; - And slipping flowers into her shroud was comfort. - - “I put my silver mother in the darkness, - And kissed her, and was solaced by her kisses, - And set a stone, to mark the place, above her. - - “And green, green were their quiet sleeping places, - So green that it was pleasant to remember - That I and my tall man would sleep beside them. - - “The closing of dead eyelids is not dreadful, - For comfort comes upon us when we close them, - And tears fall, and our sorrow grows familiar; - - “And we can sit above them where they slumber, - And spin a dreamy pain into a sweetness, - And know indeed that we are very near them. - - “But to reach out empty arms is surely dreadful, - And to feel the hollow empty world is awful, - And bitter grow the silence and the distance. - - “There is no space for grieving or for weeping; - No touch, no cold, no agony to strive with, - And nothing but a horror and a blankness!” - - * * * * * - - Now behold I saw a woman in a mud-hut - Raking the white spent embers with her fingers, - And fouling her bright hair with the white ashes. - - Her mouth was very bitter with the ashes; - Her eyes with dust were blinded; and her sorrow - Sobbed in the throat of her like gurgling water. - - And, all around, the voiceless hills were hoary, - But red light scorched their edges; and above her - There was a soundless trouble of the vapours. - -[Sidenote: ROBERT BUCHANAN] - - “Whither, and O whither,” said the woman, - “O Spirit of the Lord, hast Thou conveyed them, - My little ones, my little son and daughter? - - “For, lo! we wandered forth at early morning, - And winds were blowing round us, and their mouths - Blew rose-buds to the rose-buds, and their eyes - - “Looked violets at the violets, and their hair - Made sunshine in the sunshine, and their passing - Left a pleasure in the dewy leaves behind them; - - “And suddenly my little son looked upward, - And his eyes were dried like dew-drops; and his going - Was like a blow of fire upon my face. - - “And my little son was gone. My little daughter - Looked round me for him, clinging to my vesture; - But the Lord had drawn him from me, and I knew it - - “By the sign He gives the stricken, that the lost one - Lingers nowhere on the earth, on hill or valley, - Neither underneath the grasses nor the tree-roots. - - “And my shriek was like the splitting of an ice-reef, - And I sank among my hair, and all my palm - Was moist and warm where the little hand had filled it. - - “Then I fled and sought him wildly, hither and thither-- - Though I knew that he was stricken from me wholly - By the token that the Spirit gives the stricken. - - “I sought him in the sunlight and the starlight, - I sought him in great forests, and in waters - Where I saw mine own pale image looking at me. - - “And I forgot my little bright-haired daughter, - Though her voice was like a wild-bird’s far behind me, - Till the voice ceased, and the universe was silent. - - “And stilly, in the starlight, came I backward - To the forest where I missed him; and no voices - Brake the stillness as I stooped down in the starlight, - - “And saw two little shoes filled up with dew, - And no mark of little footsteps any farther, - And knew my little daughter had gone also.” - - * * * * * - - But beasts died; yea, the cattle in the yoke, - The milk-cow in the meadow, and the sheep, - And the dog upon the doorstep: and men envied. - - And birds died; yea, the eagle at the sun-gate, - The swan upon the waters, and the farm-fowl, - And the swallows on the housetops: and men envied. - - And reptiles; yea, the toad upon the roadside, - The slimy, speckled snake among the grass, - The lizard on the ruin: and men envied. - - The dog in lonely places cried not over - The body of his master; but it missed him, - And whined into the air, and died, and rotted. - - The traveller’s horse lay swollen in the pathway, - And the blue fly fed upon it; but no traveller - Was there; nay, not his footprint on the ground. - - The cat mewed in the midnight, and the blind - Gave a rustle, and the lamp burned blue and faint, - And the father’s bed was empty in the morning. - - The mother fell to sleep beside the cradle, - Rocking it, while she slumbered, with her foot, - And wakened,--and the cradle there was empty. - - I saw a two-years’ child, and he was playing; - And he found a dead white bird upon the doorway, - And laughed, and ran to show it to his mother, - -[Sidenote: ROBERT BUCHANAN] - - The mother moaned, and clutched him, and was bitter, - And flung the dead white bird across the threshold; - And another white bird flitted round and round it, - - And uttered a sharp cry, and twittered and twittered, - And lit beside its dead mate, and grew busy, - Strewing it over with green leaves and yellow. - - * * * * * - - So far, so far to seek for were the limits - Of affliction; and men’s terror grew a homeless - Terror, yea, and a fatal sense of blankness. - - There was no little token of distraction, - There was no visible presence of bereavement, - Such as the mourner easeth out his heart on. - - There was no comfort in the slow farewell, - Nor gentle shutting of belovèd eyes, - Nor beautiful broodings over sleeping features. - - There were no kisses on familiar faces, - No weaving of white grave-clothes, no last pondering - Over the still wax cheeks and folded fingers. - - There was no putting tokens under pillows, - There was no dreadful beauty slowly fading, - Fading like moonlight softly into darkness. - - There were no churchyard paths to walk on, thinking - How near the well-beloved ones are lying. - There were no sweet green graves to sit and muse on, - - Till grief should grow a summer meditation, - The shadow of the passing of an angel, - And sleeping should seem easy, and not cruel. - - Nothing but wondrous parting and a blankness. - - * * * * * - - * * * * * - - _But I woke_, - And, lo! the burthen was uplifted, - And I prayed within the chamber where she slumbered, - And my tears flowed fast and free, but were not bitter. - - I eased my heart three days by watching near her, - And made her pillow sweet with scent and flowers, - And could bear at last to put her in the darkness. - - And I heard the kirk-bells ringing very slowly, - And the priests were in their vestments, and the earth - Dripped awful on the hard wood, yet I bore it. - - And I cried, “O unseen Sender of Corruption, - I bless Thee for the wonder of Thy mercy, - Which softeneth the mystery and the parting. - - “I bless Thee for the change and for the comfort, - The bloomless face, shut eyes, and waxen fingers,-- - For Sleeping, and for Silence, and Corruption.” - - - - -The Faëry Foster-Mother. - - -[Sidenote: ROBERT BUCHANAN] - - Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! Daughter of a Fay! - I had not been a wedded wife a twelvemonth and a day, - I had not nurs’d my little one a month upon my knee, - When down among the blue-bell banks rose elfins three times three, - They gripp’d me by the raven hair, I could not cry for fear, - They put a hempen rope around my waist and dragg’d me here, - They made me sit and give thee suck as mortal mothers can, - Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! strange and weak and wan! - - Dim Face, Grim Face! lie ye there so still? - Thy red, red lips are at my breast, and thou may’st suck thy fill; - But know ye, tho’ I hold thee firm, and rock thee to and fro, - ’Tis not to soothe thee into sleep, but just to still my woe? - And know ye, when I lean so calm against the wall of stone, - ’Tis when I shut my eyes and try to think thou art mine own? - And know ye, tho’ my milk be here, my heart is far away, - Dim Face, Grim Face! Daughter of a Fay! - - Gold Hair, Cold Hair! Daughter to a King! - Wrapp’d in bands of snow-white silk with jewels glittering, - Tiny slippers of the gold upon thy feet so thin, - Silver cradle velvet-lin’d for thee to slumber in, - Pygmy pages, crimson-hair’d, to serve thee on their knees, - To fan thy face with ferns and bring thee honey bags of bees,-- - I was but a peasant lass, my babe had but the milk, - Gold Hair, Cold Hair! raimented in silk! - - Pale Thing, Frail Thing! dumb and weak and thin, - Altho’ thou ne’er dost utter sigh thou’rt shadow’d with a sin; - Thy minnie scorns to suckle thee, thy minnie is an elf, - Upon a bed of rose’s-leaves she lies and fans herself; - And though my heart is aching so for one afar from me, - I often look into thy face and drop a tear for thee, - And I am but a peasant born, a lowly cottar’s wife, - Pale Thing, Frail Thing! sucking at my life! - - Weak Thing, Meek Thing! take no blame from me, - Altho’ my babe may moan for lack of what I give to thee; - For though thou art a faëry child, and though thou art my woe, - To feel thee sucking at my breast is all the bliss I know; - It soothes me, though afar away I hear my daughter call, - My heart were broken if I felt no little lips at all! - If I had none to tend at all, to be its nurse and slave, - Weak Thing, Meek Thing! I should shriek and rave! - - Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! lying on my knee! - If soon I be not taken back unto mine own countree, - To feel my own babe’s little lips, as I am feeling thine, - To smooth the golden threads of hair, to see the blue eyes shine,-- - I’ll lean my head against the wall and close my weary eyes, - And think my own babe draws the milk with balmy pants and sighs, - And smile and bless my little one and sweetly pass away, - Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! Daughter of a Fay! - - - - -When we Two parted. - - -[Sidenote: LORD BYRON] - - When we two parted - In silence and tears, - Half-broken-hearted - To sever for years, - Pale grew thy cheek and cold, - Colder thy kiss; - Truly that hour foretold - Sorrow to this. - - The dew of the morning - Sank chill on my brow-- - It felt like the warning - Of what I feel now. - Thy vows are all broken, - And light is thy fame; - I hear thy name spoken, - And share in its shame. - - They name thee before me, - A knell to mine ear; - A shudder comes o’er me-- - Why wert thou so dear? - They know not I knew thee, - Who knew thee too well:-- - Long, long shall I rue thee, - Too deeply to tell. - - In secret we met-- - In silence I grieve, - That thy heart could forget, - Thy spirit deceive. - If I should meet thee - After long years, - How shall I greet thee?-- - With silence and tears. - - - - -Stanzas for Music. - - -[Sidenote: LORD BYRON] - - There be none of Beauty’s daughters - With a magic like thee; - And like music on the waters - Is thy sweet voice to me: - When, as if its sound were causing - The charmed ocean’s pausing, - The waves lie still and gleaming, - And the lull’d winds seem dreaming. - - And the midnight moon is weaving - Her bright chain o’er the deep; - Whose breast is gently heaving, - As an infant’s asleep: - So the spirit bows before thee, - To listen and adore thee; - With a full but soft emotion, - Like the swell of Summer’s ocean. - - - - -Colin’s Cattle. - -(Crodh Chaillean.) - - -[Sidenote: CRO’ CHAILLEAN] - - A maiden sang sweetly - As a bird on a tree, - Cro’ Chaillean, Cro’ Chaillean, - Cro’ Chaillean for me! - - My own Colin’s cattle, - Dappled, dun, brown, and grey, - They return to the milking - At the close of the day. - - In the morning they wander - To their pastures afar, - Where the grass grows the greenest - By corrie and scaur. - - They wander the uplands - Where the soft breezes blow, - And they drink from the fountain - Where the sweet cresses grow. - - But so far as they wander, - Dappled, dun, brown, and grey, - They return to the milking - At the close of the day. - - My bed’s in the Shian - On the canach’s soft down, - But I’d sleep best with Colin - In our shieling alone. - - Thus a maiden sang sweetly - As a bird on a tree, - Cro’ Chaillean, Cro’ Chaillean, - Cro’ Chaillean for me. - - - - -MacCrimmon’s Lament. - - -[Sidenote: CUMHA MHIC CRUIMEIN] - - Round Coolin’s peak the mist is sailing, - The banshee croons her note of wailing, - Mild blue eyne with sorrow are streaming - For him that shall never return, MacCrimmon! - - The breeze on the brae is mournfully blowing! - The brook in the hollow is plaintively flowing, - The warblers, the soul of the groves, are moaning, - For MacCrimmon that’s gone, with no hope of returning! - - The tearful clouds the stars are veiling, - The sails are spread, but the boat is not sailing, - The waves of the sea are moaning and mourning - For MacCrimmon that’s gone to find no returning! - - No more on the hill at the festal meeting - The pipe shall sound with echo repeating, - And lads and lasses change mirth to mourning - For him that is gone to know no returning! - - No more, no more, no more for ever, - In war or peace, shall return MacCrimmon; - No more, no more, no more for ever - Shall love or gold bring back MacCrimmon! - - - - -Song. - - -[Sidenote: IAN CAMERON - -(“Ian Mòr”)] - - Thy dark eyes to mine, Aithne, - Lamps of desire! - O how my soul leaps - Leaps to their fire! - - Sure, now, if I in heaven - Dreaming in bliss, - Heard but the whisper, - But the lost echo even - Of one such kiss-- - - All of the Soul of me - Would leap afar-- - If that called me to thee, - Aye, I would leap afar - A falling star! - - - - -A Loafer. - - -[Sidenote: JOHN DAVIDSON] - - I hang about the streets all day, - At night I hang about; - I sleep a little when I may, - But rise betimes the morning’s scout; - For through the year I always hear - Afar, aloft, a ghostly shout. - - My clothes are worn to threads and loops; - My skin shows here and there; - About my face like seaweed droops - My tangled beard, my tangled hair; - From cavernous and shaggy brows - My stony eyes untroubled stare. - - I move from eastern wretchedness - Through Fleet Street and the Strand; - And as the pleasant people press - I touch them softly with my hand, - Perhaps I know that still I go - Alive about a living land. - - For, far in front the clouds are riven; - I hear the ghostly cry, - As if a still voice fell from heaven - To where sea-whelmed the drowned folk lie - In sepulchres no tempest stirs - And only eyeless things pass by. - - In Piccadilly spirits pass: - Oh, eyes and cheeks that glow! - Oh, strength and comeliness! Alas, - The lustrous health is earth I know - From shrinking eyes that recognise - No brother in my rags and woe. - - I know no handicraft, no art, - But I have conquered fate; - For I have chosen the better part, - And neither hope, nor fear, nor hate. - With placid breath on pain and death, - My certain alms, alone I wait. - - And daily, nightly comes the call, - The pale unechoing note, - The faint “Aha!” sent from the wall - Of heaven, but from no ruddy throat - Of human breed or seraph’s seed, - A phantom voice that cries by rote. - - - - -In Romney Marsh. - - -[Sidenote: JOHN DAVIDSON] - - As I went down to Dymchurch Wall, - I heard the South sing o’er the land; - I saw the yellow sunlight fall - On knolls where Norman churches stand. - - And ringing shrilly, taut and lithe, - Within the wind a core of sound, - The wire from Romney town to Hythe - Along its airy journey wound. - - A veil of purple vapour flowed - And trailed its fringe along the Straits; - The upper air like sapphire glowed: - And roses filled Heaven’s central gates. - - Masts in the offing wagged their tops; - The swinging waves pealed on the shore; - The saffron beach, all diamond drops - And beads of surge, prolonged the roar. - - As I came up from Dymchurch Wall, - I saw above the Downs’ low crest - The crimson brands of sunset fall, - Flicker and fade from out the West. - - Night sank: like flakes of silver fire - The stars in one great shower came down; - Shrill blew the wind; and shrill the wire - Rang out from Hythe to Romney town. - - The darkly shining salt sea drops - Streamed as the waves clashed on the shore; - The beach, with all its organ stops - Pealing again, prolonged the roar. - - - - -O’er the Muir amang the Heather. - - -[Sidenote: JEAN GLOVER] - - Comin’ through the craigs o’ Kyle, - Amang the bonnie bloomin’ heather, - There I met a bonnie lassie, - Keepin’ a’ her ewes thegither. - - O’er the muir amang the heather, - O’er the muir amang the heather, - There I met a bonnie lassie - Keepin’ a’ her ewes thegither. - - Says I, My dear, where is thy hame? - In muir or dale, pray tell me whether? - Says she, I tent the fleecy flocks - That feed amang the bloomin’ heather. - O’er the muir, etc. - - We laid us down upon a bank, - Sae warm and sunnie was the weather; - She left her flocks at large to rove - Amang the bonnie bloomin’ heather. - O’er the muir, etc. - - While thus we lay, she sang a sang, - Till echo rang a mile and further; - And aye the burden of the sang - Was, O’er the muir amang the heather. - O’er the muir, etc. - - She charmed my heart, and aye sin syne - I couldna’ think on ony ither; - By sea and sky! she shall be mine, - The bonnie lass amang the heather. - - O’er the muir amang the heather, - O’er the muir amang the heather, - There I met a bonnie lassie - Keepin’ a’ her flocks thegither. - - - - -Song. - - -[Sidenote: GEORGE MACDONALD] - - Once I was a child, - Oimè! - Full of frolic wild; - Oimè! - All the stars for glancing, - All the earth for dancing; - Oimè! Oimè! - - When I ran about, - Oimè! - All the flowers came out, - Oimè! - Here and there like stray things, - Just to be my playthings. - Oimè! Oimè! - - Mother’s eyes were deep, - Oimè! - Never needing sleep. - Oimè! - Morning--they’re above me! - Eventide--they love me! - Oimè! Oimè! - - Father was so tall! - Oimè! - Stronger he than all! - Oimè! - On his arm he bore me, - Queen of all before me. - Oimè! Oimè! - - Mother is asleep! - Oimè! - For her eyes so deep, - Oimè! - Grew so tired and aching, - They could not keep waking, - Oimè! Oimè! - - Father though so strong - Oimè! - Laid him down along-- - Oimè! - By my mother sleeping; - And they left me weeping, - Oimè! Oimè! - - Now nor bird, nor bee, - Oimè! - Ever sings to me - Oimè! - Since they left me crying, - All things have been dying. - Oimè! Oimè! - - - - -Song. - - -[Sidenote: RONALD CAMPBELL MACFIE] - - Alas, alas, eheu! - That the sky is only blue, - To gather from the grass - The rain and dew! - - Alas! that eyes are fair: - That tears may gather there - Mist and the breath of sighs - From the marsh of care! - - Alas, alas, eheu! - That we meet but to bid adieu: - That the sands in Time’s ancient glass - Are so swift and few! - - Alas, alas, eheu! - That the heart is only true - To gather, where false feet pass, - The thorn and rue! - - - - -A Spring Trouble. - - -[Sidenote: WILLIAM MACDONALD] - - All the meadowlands were gay - Once upon a morn of May; - All the tree of life was dight - With the blossoms of delight. - - And my whole heart was a-tune - With the songs of long ere noon-- - Dew-bedecked and fresh and free, - As the unsunned meadows be. - - “Lo!” I said unto my spirit, - “Earth and sky thou dost inherit.” - Forth I wandered, void of care, - In the largesse of the air. - - By there came a damosel, - At a look I loved her well: - But she passed and would not stay-- - And all the rest has gone away. - - And now no fields are fair to see, - Nor any bud on any tree; - Nor have I share in earth or sky-- - All for a maiden’s passing by! - - - - -Culloden Moor. - -(Seen in Autumn Rain.) - - -[Sidenote: AMICE MACDONELL] - - Full of grief, the low winds sweep - O’er the sorrow-haunted ground; - Dark the woods where night rains weep, - Dark the hills that watch around. - - Tell me, can the joy of spring - Ever make this sadness flee, - Make the woods with music ring, - And the streamlet laugh for glee? - - When the summer moor is lit - With the pale fire of the broom, - And through green the shadows flit, - Still shall mirth give place to gloom? - - Sad shall it be, though sun be shed - Golden bright on field and flood; - E’en the heather’s crimson red - Holds the memory of blood. - - Here that broken, weary band - Met the ruthless foe’s array, - Where those moss-grown boulders stand, - On that dark and fatal day. - - Like a phantom hope had fled, - Love to death was all in vain, - Vain, though heroes’ blood was shed, - And though hearts were broke in twain. - - Many a voice has cursed the name - Time has into darkness thrust, - Cruelty his only fame - In forgetfulness and dust, - - Noble dead that sleep below, - We your valour ne’er forget; - Soft the heroes’ rest who know - Hearts like theirs are beating yet. - - - - -The Weaving of the Tartan. - - -[Sidenote: ALICE C. MACDONELL] - - I saw an old Dame weaving, - Weaving, weaving, - I saw an old Dame weaving, - A web of tartan fine. - “Sing high,” she said, “sing low,” she said, - “Wild torrent to the sea, - That saw my exiled bairnies torn, - In sorrow far frae me. - And warp well the long threads, - The bright threads, the strong threads; - Woof well the cross threads, - To make the colours shine.” - - She wove in red for every deed, - Of valour done for Scotia’s need: - She wove in green, the laurel’s sheen, - In memory of her glorious dead. - She spake of Alma’s steep incline, - The desert march, the “thin red line,” - Of how it fired the blood and stirred the heart, - Where’er a bairn of hers took part. - “‘Tis for the gallant lads,” she said, - “Who wear the kilt and tartan plaid: - ’Tis for the winsome lasses too, - Just like my dainty bells of blue. - So weave well the bright threads, - The red threads, the green threads; - Woof well the strong threads - That bind their hearts to mine.” - - I saw an old Dame sighing, - Sighing, sighing; - I saw an old Dame sighing, - Beside a lonely glen. - “Sing high,” she said, “sing low,” she said, - “Wild tempests to the sea, - The wailing of the pibroch’s note, - That bade farewell to me. - And wae fa’ the red deer, - The swift deer, the strong deer, - Wae fa’ the cursed deer, - That take the place o’ men.” - - Where’er a noble deed is wrought, - Where’er the brightest realms of thought, - The artists’ skill, the martial thrill, - Be sure to Scotia’s land is wed. - She casts the glamour of her name, - O’er Britain’s throne and statesman’s fame; - From distant lands ’neath foreign names, - Some brilliant son his birthright claims. - For ah!--she has reared them amid tempests, - And cradled them in snow, - To give the Scottish arms their strength, - Their hearts a kindly glow. - So weave well the bright threads, - The red threads, the green threads, - Woof well the strong threads - That bind their hearts to thine. - - - - -The Thrush’s Song. - -(From the Gaelic.) - - -[Sidenote: W. MACGILLIVRAY] - - Dear, dear, dear, - In the rocky glen, - Far away, far away, far away - The haunts of men; - There shall we dwell in love - With the lark and the dove, - Cuckoo and corn-rail, - Feast on the bearded snail, - Worm and gilded fly, - Drink of the crystal rill - Winding adown the hill - Never to dry. - With glee, with glee, with glee - Cheer up, cheer up, cheer up here; - Nothing to harm us, then sing merrily, - Sing to the loved one whose nest is near. - - _Qui, qui, queen, quip; - Tiurru, tiurru, chipïwi, - Too-tee, too-tee, chin-choo, - Chirri, chirri, chooee - Quin, qui, qui!_ - - - - -The Prayer of Women. - - -[Sidenote: FIONA MACLEOD] - - O Spirit, that broods upon the hills - And moves upon the face of the deep, - And is heard in the wind, - Save us from the desire of men’s eyes, - And the cruel lust of them, - And the springing of the cruel seed - In that narrow house which is as the grave - For darkness and loneliness ... - That women carry with them with shame, and weariness, - and long pain, - Only for the laughter of man’s heart, - And the joy that triumphs therein, - And the sport that is in his heart, - Wherewith he mocketh us, - Wherewith he playeth with us, - Wherewith he trampleth upon us ... - Us, who conceive and bear him; - Us, who bring him forth; - Who feed him in the womb, and at the breast, and at the knee: - Whom he calleth mother and wife, - And mother again of his children and his children’s children. - Ah, hour of the hours, - When he looks at our hair and sees it is grey; - And at our eyes and sees they are dim; - And at our lips straightened out with long pain; - And at our breasts, fallen and seared as a barren hill; - And at our hands, worn with toil! - Ah, hour of the hours, - When, seeing, he seeth all the bitter ruin and wreck of us-- - All save the violated womb that curses him-- - All save the heart that forbeareth ... for pity-- - All save the living brain that condemneth him-- - All save the spirit that shall not mate with him - All save the soul he shall never see - Till he be one with it, and equal; - He who hath the bridle, but guideth not; - He who hath the whip, yet is driven; - He who as a shepherd calleth upon us, - But is himself a lost sheep, crying among the hills! - O Spirit, and the Nine Angels who watch us, - And Thy Son, and Mary Virgin, - Heal us of the wrong of man: - We, whose breasts are weary with milk, - Cry, cry to Thee, O Compassionate! - - - - -The Rune of Age. - - -[Sidenote: FIONA MACLEOD] - - O Thou that on the hills and wastes of Night art Shepherd, - Whose folds are flameless moons and icy planets, - Whose darkling way is gloomed with ancient sorrows: - Whose breath lies white as snow upon the olden, - Whose sigh it is that furrows breasts grown milkless, - Whose weariness is in the loins of man - And is the barren stillness of the woman: - O thou whom all would ’scape, and all must meet, - Thou that the Shadow art of Youth Eternal, - The gloom that is the hush’d air of the Grave, - The sigh that is between last parted love, - The light for aye withdrawing from weary eyes, - The tide from stricken hearts forever ebbing! - - O thou the Elder Brother whom none loveth, - Whom all men hail with reverence or mocking, - Who broodest on the brows of frozen summits - Yet dreamest in the eyes of babes and children: - Thou, Shadow of the Heart, the Brain, the Life, - Who art that dusk =What-is= that is already =Has-Been=, - To thee this rune of the fathers-to-the-sons - And of the sons to the sons, and mothers to new mothers-- - To thee who art =Aois=, - To thee who art Age! - - Breathe thy frosty breath upon my hair, for I am weary! - Lay thy frozen hand upon my bones that they support not, - Put thy chill upon the blood that it sustain not; - Place the crown of thy fulfilling on my forehead; - Throw the silence of thy spirit on my spirit, - Lay the balm and benediction of thy mercy - On the brain-throb and the heart-pulse and the lifespring-- - For thy child that bows his head is weary, - For thy child that bows his head is weary. - I the shadow am that seeks the Darkness. - Age, that hath the face of Night unstarr’d and moonless, - Age, that doth extinguish star and planet, - Moon and sun and all the fiery worlds, - Give me now thy darkness and thy silence! - - - - -A Milking Song. - - -[Sidenote: FIONA MACLEOD] - - O sweet St Bride of the - Yellow, yellow hair: - Paul said, and Peter said, - And all the saints alive or dead - Vowed she had the sweetest head, - Bonnie, sweet St Bride of the - Yellow, yellow hair. - - White may my milking be, - White as thee: - Thy face is white, thy neck is white, - Thy hands are white, thy feet are white, - For thy sweet soul is shining bright-- - O dear to me, - O dear to see - St Bridget white! - - Yellow may my butter be, - Soft, and round: - Thy breasts are sweet, - Soft, round and sweet, - So may my butter be: - So may my butter be O - Bridget sweet! - - Safe thy way is, safe, O - Safe, St Bride: - May my kye come home at even, - None be fallin’ none be leavin’, - Dusky even, breath-sweet even, - Here, as there, where O - St Bride thou - Keepest tryst with God in heav’n, - Seest the angels bow - And souls be shriven-- - Here, as there, ’tis breath-sweet even - Far and wide-- - Singeth thy little maid - Safe in thy shade - Bridget, Bride! - - - - -Lullaby. - - -[Sidenote: FIONA MACLEOD] - - Lennavan-mo, - Lennavan-mo, - Who is it swinging you to and fro, - With a long low swing and a sweet low croon, - And the loving words of the mother’s rune? - - Lennavan-mo, - Lennavan-mo, - Who is it swinging you to and fro? - I’m thinking it is an angel fair, - The Angel that looks on the gulf from the lowest stair - And swings the green world upward by its leagues of sunshine hair. - - Lennavan-mo, - Lennavan-mo, - Who is it swings you and the Angel to and fro? - It is He whose faintest thought is a world afar, - It is He whose wish is a leaping seven-moon’d star, - It is He, Lennavan-mo, - To whom you and I and all things flow. - - Lennavan-mo, - Lennavan-mo, - It is only a little wee lass you are, Eilidh-mo-chree, - But as this wee blossom has roots in the depths of the sky, - So you are at one with the Lord of Eternity-- - Bonnie wee lass that you are, - My morning-star, - Eilidh-mo-chree, Lennavan-mo, - Lennavan-mo. - - - - -The Songs of Ethlenn Stuart - - -I. - - His face was glad as dawn to me, - His breath was sweet as dusk to me, - His eyes were burning flames to me, - _Shule, Shule, Shule, agràh_! - - The broad noon-day was night to me, - The full-moon night was dark to me, - The stars whirled and the poles span - The hour God took him far from me. - - Perhaps he dreams in heaven now, - Perhaps he doth in worship bow, - A white flame round his foam-white brow, - _Shule, Shule, Shule, agràh_! - - I laugh to think of him like this, - Who once found all his joy and bliss - Against my heart, against my kiss, - _Shule, Shule, Shule, agràh_! - - Star of my joy, art still the same - Now thou hast gotten a new name, - Pulse of my heart, my Blood, my Flame, - _Shule, Shule, Shule, agràh_! - -[Sidenote: FIONA MACLEOD] - - -II. - - He laid his dear face next to mine, - His eyes aflame burned close to mine, - His heart to mine, his lips to mine, - O he was mine, all mine, all mine. - - Drunk with old wine of love I was, - Drunk as the wild-bee in the grass - Singing his honey-mad sweet bass, - Drunk, drunk with wine of love I was! - - His lips of life to me were fief, - Before him I was but a leaf - Blown by the wind, a shaken leaf, - Yea, as the sickle reaps the sheaf, - My Grief! - He reaped me as a gathered sheaf! - - His to be gathered, his the bliss, - But not a greater bliss than this! - All of the empty world to miss - For wild redemption of his kiss! - My Grief! - - For hell was lost, though heaven was brief - Sphered in the universe of thy kiss-- - So cries to thee thy fallen leaf, - Thy gathered sheaf, - Lord of my life, my Pride, my Chief, - My Grief! - - - - -The Closing Doors. - - - Eilidh,[26] Eilidh, Eilidh, heart of me, dear and sweet! - In dreams I am hearing the whisper, the sound of your coming feet: - The sound of your coming feet that like the sea-hoofs beat - A music by day and night, Eilidh, on the sands of my heart, my sweet! - - O sands of my heart what wind moans low along thy shadowy shore? - Is that the deep sea-heart I hear with the dying sob at its core? - Each dim lost wave that lapses is like a closing door: - ’Tis closing doors they hear at last who soon shall hear no more, - Who soon shall hear no more. - - Eilidh, Eilidh, Eilidh, come home, come home to the heart o’ me: - It is pain I am having ever, Eilidh, a pain that will not be: - Come home, come home, for closing doors are as the waves o’ the sea, - Once closed they are closed for ever, Eilidh, lost, lost, for thee and me, - Lost, lost, for thee and me. - - - - -The Sorrow of Delight. - - -[Sidenote: FIONA MACLEOD] - - Till death be filled with darkness - And life be filled with light, - The sorrow of ancient sorrows - Shall be the Sorrow of Night: - But then the sorrow of sorrows - Shall be the Sorrow of Delight. - - Heart’s-joy must fade with sorrow, - For both are sprung from clay: - But the Joy that is one with Sorrow, - Treads an immortal way: - Each hath in fee To-morrow, - And their soul is Yesterday. - - Joy that is clothed with shadow - Is the Joy that is not dead: - For the joy that is clothed with the rainbow - Shall with the bow be sped: - Where the Sun spends his fires is she, - And where the Stars are led. - - - - -Farewell to Fiunary. - - -[Sidenote: NORMAN MACLEOD] - - The wind is fair, the day is fine, - And swiftly, swiftly runs the time, - The boat is floating on the tide - That wafts me off from Fiunary. - - Eirigh agus tingainn O! - Eirigh agus tingainn O! - Erigh agus tingainn O! - Farewell, farewell to Fiunary! - - A thousand, thousand tender ties - Awake this day my plaintive sighs, - My heart within me almost dies - To think of leaving Fiunary. - - Eirigh agus tingainn O! etc. - - With pensive steps I often strolled - Where Fingal’s castle stood of old, - And listened while the shepherd told - The legend tales of Fiunary. - - Eirigh agus tingainn O! etc. - - I’ll often pause at close of day - Where Ossian sang his martial lay, - And viewed the sun’s departing ray - Wandering o’er Dun Fiunary. - - Eirigh agus tingainn O! etc. - - - - -A Kiss of the King’s Hand. - - -[Sidenote: SARAH ROBERTSON MATHESON] - - It wasna from a golden throne, - Or a bower with milk-white roses blown, - But mid the kelp on northern sand - That I got a kiss of the king’s hand. - - I durstna raise my een tae see - If he even cared to glance at me; - His princely brow with care was crossed - For his true men slain and kingdom lost. - - Think not his hand was soft and white, - Or his fingers a’ with jewels dight, - Or round his wrists were jewels grand - When I got a kiss of the king’s hand. - - But dearer far tae my twa een - Was the ragged sleeve of red and green - O’er that young weary hand that fain, - With the guid broadsword, had found its ain. - - Farewell for ever, the distance gray - And the lapping ocean seemed to say-- - For him a home in a foreign land, - And for me one kiss of the king’s hand. - - - - -The First Ship. - - -[Sidenote: DUGALD MOORE] - - The sky in beauty arch’d - The wide and weltering flood, - While the winds in triumph march’d - Through their pathless solitude-- - Rousing up the plume on ocean’s hoary crest, - That like space in darkness slept, - When his watch old Silence kept, - Ere the earliest planet leapt - From its breast. - - A speck is on the deeps, - Like a spirit in her flight; - How beautiful she keeps - Her stately path in light! - She sweeps the shining wilderness in glee-- - The sun has on her smiled, - And the waves, no longer wild, - Sing in glory round that child - Of the sea. - - ’Twas at the set of sun - That she tilted o’er the flood, - Moving like God alone - O’er the glorious solitude-- - The billows crouch around her as her slaves - How exulting are her crew!-- - Each sight to them is new, - As they sweep along the blue - Of the waves. - - Fair herald of the fleets - That yet shall cross the waves, - Till the earth with ocean meets - One universal grave, - What armaments shall follow thee in joy! - Linking each distant land - With trade’s harmonious band, - Or bearing havoc’s brand - To destroy! - - - - -The Land o’ the Leal. - - -[Sidenote: LADY CAROLINE NAIRNE] - - I’m wearin’ awa, John, - Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John, - I’m wearin’ awa - To the land o’ the leal. - - There’s nae sorrow there, John, - There’s neither cauld nor care, John, - The day is aye fair - In the land o’ the leal. - - Our bonnie bairn’s there, John, - She was baith gude and fair, John, - And, oh, we grudged her sair - To the land o’ the leal. - - But sorrow’s sel’ wears past, John, - And joy’s a-comin’ fast, John, - The joy that’s aye to last, - In the land o’ the leal. - - Oh, dry your glist’ning ee, John, - My saul langs to be free, John, - And Angels beckon me - To the land o’ the leal. - - O haud ye leal and true, John, - Your day it’s wearin’ through, John, - And I’ll welcome you - To the land o’ the leal. - - Now fare-ye-weel, my ain John, - The warld’s cares are vain, John, - We’ll meet and we’ll be fain - In the land o’ the leal. - - - - -Skye. - - -[Sidenote: ALEXANDER NICOLSON] - - My heart is yearning to thee, O Skye! - Dearest of Islands! - There first the sunshine gladdened my eye, - On the sea sparkling; - There doth the dust of my dear ones lie, - In the old graveyard. - - Bright are the golden green fields to me, - Here in the Lowlands; - Sweet sings the mavis in the thorn-tree, - Snowy with fragrance: - But oh for a breath of the great North Sea, - Girdling the mountains! - - Good is the smell of the brine that laves - Black rock and skerry, - Where the great palm-leaved tangle waves - Down in the green depths, - And round the craggy bluff pierced with caves - Sea-gulls are screaming. - - Where the sun sinks beyond Humish Head, - Crowning in glory, - As he goes down to his ocean bed - Studded with islands, - Flushing the Coolin with royal red, - Would I were sailing! - - Many a hearth round that friendly shore - Giveth warm welcome; - Charms still are there, as in days of yore, - More than of mountains; - But hearths and faces are seen no more, - Once of the brightest. - - Many a poor black cottage is there, - Grimy with peat smoke, - Sending up in the soft evening air - Purest blue incense, - While the low music of psalm and prayer - Rises to Heaven. - - Kind were the voices I used to hear - Round such a fireside, - Speaking the mother tongue old and dear, - Making the heart beat - With sudden tales of wonder and fear, - Or plaintive singing. - - Great were the marvellous stories told - Of Ossian’s heroes, - Giants, and witches, and young men bold, - Seeking adventures, - Winning kings’ daughters and guarded gold, - Only with valour. - - Reared in those dwellings have brave ones been; - Brave ones are still there; - Forth from their darkness on Sunday I’ve seen - Coming pure linen, - And like the linen the souls were clean - Of them that wore it. - - See that thou kindly use them, O man! - To whom God giveth - Stewardship over them, in thy short span - Not for thy pleasure; - Woe be to them who choose for a clan - Four-footed people! - - Blessings be with ye, both now and aye - Dear human creatures! - Yours is the love that no gold can buy! - Nor time can wither, - Peace be to thee and thy children, O Skye! - Dearest of islands. - - - - -Midnight by the Sea. - -(Autumn.) - - -[Sidenote: SIR NOËL PATON] - - Waves of the wild North Sea, - Breaking--breaking--breaking! - From the dumb agony - Of dreams awaking, - How sweet within the loosened arms of sleep - To lie in silence deep, - Lone listening to your many-throated roar - Along the caverned shore, - In midnight darkness breaking--breaking--breaking! - - Wind of the wild North Sea, - Calling--calling--calling! - What may your message be, - Rising and falling? - From out the infinite ye make reply: - “Whither? and whence? and why?” - And my soul echoes the despairing moan-- - Which none can answer--none!-- - From out its depths abysmal calling--calling--calling. - - - - -In Shadowland. - - -[Sidenote: SIR NOEL PATON] - - Between the moaning of the mountain stream - And the hoarse thunder of the Atlantic deep, - An outcast from the peaceful realms of sleep - I lie, and hear as in a fever-dream - The homeless night-wind in the darkness scream - And wail around the inaccessible steep - Down whose gaunt sides the spectral torrents leap - From crag to crag,--till almost I could deem - The plaided ghosts of buried centuries - Were mustering in the glen with bow and spear - And shadowy hounds to hunt the shadowy deer, - Mix in phantasmal sword-play, or, with eyes - Of wrath and pain immortal, wander o’er - Loved scenes where human footstep comes no more. - - - - -Mountain Twilight. - - -[Sidenote: WILLIAM RENTON] - - The hills slipped over each on each - Till all their changing shadows died. - Now in the open skyward reach - The lights grow solemn side by side. - While of these hills the westermost - Rears high his majesty of coast - In shifting waste of dim-blue brine - And fading olive hyaline; - Till all the distance overflows, - The green in watchet and the blue - In purple. Now they fuse and close-- - A darkling violet, fringed anew - With light that on the mountain soars, - A dusky flame on tranquil shores; - Kindling the summits as they grow - In audience to the skies that call, - Ineffable in rest and all - The pathos of the afterglow. - - - - -Durisdeer. - - -[Sidenote: LADY JOHN SCOTT] - - We’ll meet nae mair at sunset when the weary day is dune, - Nor wander hame thegither by the lee licht o’ the mune. - I’ll hear your steps nae langer amang the dewy corn, - For we’ll meet nae mair, my bonniest, either at e’en or morn. - - The yellow broom is waving abune the sunny brae, - And the rowan berries dancing where the sparkling waters play; - Tho’ a’ is bright and bonnie it’s an eerie place to me, - For we’ll meet nae mair, my dearest, either by burn or tree. - - Far up into the wild hills there’s a kirkyard lone and still, - Where the frosts lie ilka morning and the mists hang low and chill. - And there ye sleep in silence while I wander here my lane - Till we meet ance mair in Heaven never to part again! - - - - -November’s Cadence. - - -[Sidenote: EARL OF SOUTHESK] - - The bees about the Linden-tree, - When blithely summer blooms were springing, - Would hum a heartsome melody, - The simple baby-soul of singing; - And thus my spirit sang to me - When youth its wanton way was winging: - “Be glad, be sad--thou hast the choice-- - But mingle music with thy voice.” - - The linnets on the Linden-tree, - Among the leaves in autumn dying, - Are making gentle melody, - A mild, mysterious, mournful sighing; - And thus my spirit sings to me - While years are flying, flying, flying: - “Be sad, be sad, thou hast no choice, - But mourn with music in thy voice.” - - - - -Cailleach Bein-y-Vreich. - - -[Sidenote: JOHN CAMPBELL SHAIRP] - - Weird wife of Bein-y-Vreich! horo! horo! - Aloft in the mist she dwells; - Vreich horo! Vreich horo! Vreich horo! - All alone by the lofty wells. - - Weird, weird wife! with the long gray locks, - She follows her fleet-foot stags, - Noisily moving through splinter’d rocks, - And crashing the grisly crags. - - Tall wife, with the long gray hose! in haste - The rough stony beach she walks; - But dulse or seaweed she will not taste, - Nor yet the green kail stalks. - - * * * * * - - O I will not let my herd of deer, - My bonny red deer go down; - I will not let them go down to the shore, - To feed on the sea-shells brown. - - Oh, better they love in the corrie’s recess, - Or on mountain top to dwell, - And feed by my side on the green, green cress, - That grows by the lofty well. - - Broad Bein-y-Vreich is grisly and drear, - But wherever my feet have been - The well-springs start for my darling deer, - And the grass grows tender and green. - - And there high up on the calm nights clear, - Beside the lofty spring, - They come to my call, and I milk them there, - And a weird wild song I sing. - - But when hunter men round my dun deer prowl, - I will not let them nigh; - Through the rended cloud I cast one scowl, - They faint on the heath and die. - - And when the north wind o’er the desert bare - Drives loud, to the corries below - I drive my herds down, and bield them there - From the drifts of the blinding snow. - - Then I mount the blast, and we ride full fast, - And laugh as we stride the storm, - I, and the witch of the Cruachan Ben, - And the scowling-eyed Seul-Gorm. - - - - -An Old Tale of Three. - - -[Sidenote: UNA URQUHART] - - Ah bonnie darling, lift your dark eyes dreaming! - See, the firelight fills the gloaming, though deep - darkness grows without-- - - _Hush, dear, hush, I hear the sea-birds screaming, - And down beyond the haven the tide comes with a shout!_ - - Ah, birdeen, sweetheart, sure he is not coming, - He who has your hand in fee, while I have all your heart-- - - _Hush, dear, hush, I hear the wild bees humming - Far away in the underworld where true love shall not part!_ - - Darling, darling, darling, all the world is singing, - Singing, singing, singing a song of joy for me! - - _Hush, dear, hush, what wild sea-wind is bringing - Gloom o’ the sea about thy brow, athwart the eyes of thee?_ - - Ah, heart o’ me, darling, darling, all my heart’s aflame! - Sure, at the last we are all in all, all in all we two! - - _At the Door, - A VOICE._ - - This is the way I take my own, this is the boon I claim! - - (_Later, in the dark, the living brooding beside the dead_:--) - - Sure, at the last, ye are all in all, all in all, ye two-- - Ah, hell of my heart! Ye are dust to me--and dust with dust may woo! - - - - -Lost Love. - - -[Sidenote: UNKNOWN - -(From the Gaelic, Western Isles.)] - - My heart! my pulse! my flame! - O the gloom, O the pain! - He has no wish to save me - Who will not come again. - - Love! Love! Love! - The fair cheek, the dark hair, - The promise forgotten; - ’Twill go with me there. - - False! false! false! - O, youth is false for ever: - He loves far more than living me-- - The lifeless heather. - - The hunting field, - The greenwood tree, - The trout, the running deer, he loves, - Far more than me. - - He loves--loves--loves - To stalk the frightened doe; - He never heeds the pain he gives, - His skill to show. - - O, the dark blue eye-- - A flower wet with dew; - O, the fair false face-- - Too sweet to view! - - Love! Love! Love! - The fair cheek, the dark hair! - For him I’d scale the walls of hell - Gin he were there! - - - - -IV - -CONTEMPORARY ANGLO-CELTIC POETS - -(Wales) - - - - -Dirge in Woods. - - -[Sidenote: GEORGE MEREDITH] - - A wind sways the pines, - And below - Not a breath of wild air; - Still as the mosses that glow - On the flooring and over the lines - Of the roots here and there. - The pine-tree drops its dead; - They are quiet, as under the sea. - Overhead, overhead - Rushes life in a race, - As the clouds the clouds chase; - And we go, - And we drop like the fruits of the tree, - Even we, - Even so. - - - - -Outer and Inner. - - -I. - - From twig to twig the spider weaves - At noon his webbing fine. - So near to mute the zephyr’s flute - That only leaflets dance. - The sun draws out of hazel leaves - A smell of woodland wine. - I wake a swarm to sudden storm - At any step’s advance. - - -II. - - Along my path is bugloss blue, - The star with fruit in moss; - The foxgloves drop from throat to top - A daily lesser bell. - The blackest shadow, nurse of dew, - Has orange skeins across; - And keenly red is one thin thread - That flashing seems to swell. - - -III. - - My world I note ere fancy comes, - Minutest hushed observe: - What busy bits of motioned wits - Through antlered mosswork strive; - But now so low the stillness hums, - My springs of seeing swerve, - For half a wink to thrill and think - The woods with nymphs alive. - - -IV. - - I neighbour the invisible - So close that my consent - Is only asked for spirits masked - To leap from trees and flowers. - And this because with them I dwell - In thought, while calmly bent - To read the lines dear Earth designs - Shall speak her life on ours. - - -V. - - Accept, she says; it is not hard - In woods; but she in towns - Repeats, accept; and have we wept, - And have we quailed with fears, - Or shrunk with horrors, sure reward - We have whom knowledge crowns; - Who see in mould the rose unfold, - The soul through blood and tears. - - - - -Night of Frost in May. - - - With splendour of a silver day, - A frosted night had opened May: - And on that plumed and armoured night, - As one close temple hove our wood, - Its border leafage virgin white. - Remote down air an owl halloed. - The black twig dropped without a twirl; - The bud in jewelled grasp was nipped; - The brown leaf cracked with a scorching curl; - A crystal off the green leaf slipped. - Across the tracks of rimy tan, - Some busy thread at whiles would shoot; - A limping minnow-rillet ran, - To hang upon an icy foot. - - In this shrill hush of quietude, - The ear conceived a severing cry. - Almost it let the sound elude, - When chuckles three, a warble shy, - From hazels of the garden came, - Near by the crimson-windowed farm. - They laid the trance on breath and frame, - A prelude of the passion-charm. - - Then soon was heard, not sooner heard - Than answered, doubled, trebled, more, - Voice of an Eden in the bird - Renewing with his pipe of four - The sob: a troubled Eden, rich - In throb of heart: unnumbered throats - Flung upward at a fountain’s pitch, - The fervour of the four long notes, - That on the fountain’s pool subside; - Exult and ruffle and upspring: - Endless the crossing multiplied - Of silver and of golden string. - There chimed a bubbled underbrew - With witch-wild spray of vocal dew. - - It seemed a single harper swept - Our wild wood’s inner chords and waked - A spirit that for yearning ached - Ere men desired and joyed or wept. - Or now a legion ravishing - Musician rivals did unite - In love of sweetness high to sing - The subtle song that rivals light; - From breast of earth to breast of sky: - And they were secret, they were nigh: - A hand the magic might disperse; - The magic swung my universe. - - Yet sharpened breath forbade to dream, - Where all was visionary gleam; - Where Seasons, as with cymbals, clashed; - And feelings, passing joy and woe, - Churned, gurgled, spouted, interflashed, - Nor either was the one we know: - Nor pregnant of the heart contained - In us were they, that griefless plained, - That plaining soared; and through the heart - Struck to one note the wide apart:-- - A passion surgent from despair; - A paining bliss in fervid cold; - Off the last vital edge of air, - Leaping heavenward of the lofty-souled, - For rapture of a wine of tears; - As had a star among the spheres - Caught up our earth to some mid-height - Of double life to ear and sight, - She giving voice to thought that shines - Keen-brilliant of her deepest mines; - While steely drips the rillet clinked, - And hoar with crust the cowslips swelled. - - Then was the lyre of Earth beheld, - Then heard by me: it holds me linked; - Across the years to dead-ebb shores - I stand on, my blood-thrill restores. - But would I conjure into me - Those issue notes, I must review - What serious breath the woodland drew; - The low throb of expectancy; - How the white mother-muteness pressed - On leaf and meadow-herb; how shook, - Nigh speech of mouth, the sparkle-crest - Seen spinning on the bracken crook. - - - - -Hymn to Colour. - - -[Sidenote: GEORGE MEREDITH] - -I. - - With Life and Death I walked when Love appeared, - And made them on each side a shadow seem. - Through wooded vales the land of dawn we neared, - Where down smooth rapids whirls the helmless dream - To fall on daylight; and night puts away - Her darker veil for grey. - - -II. - - In that grey veil green grassblades brushed we by; - We came where woods breathed sharp, and overhead - Rocks raised clear horns on a transforming sky: - Around, save for those shapes, with him who led - And linked them, desert varied by no sign - Of other life than mine. - - -III. - - By this the dark-winged planet, raying wide, - From the mild pearl-glow to the rose upborne, - Drew in his fires, less faint than far descried, - Pure-fronted on a stronger wave of morn: - And those two shapes the splendour interweaved, - Hung web-like, sank and heaved. - - -IV. - - Love took my hand when hidden stood the sun - To fling his robe on shoulder-heights of snow. - Then said: There lie they, Life and Death in one. - Whichever is, the other is: but know, - It is thy craving self that thou dost see, - Not in them seeing me. - - -V. - - Shall man into the mystery of breath, - From his quick breathing pulse a pathway spy? - Or learn the secret of the shrouded death, - By lifting up the lid of a white eye? - Cleave thou thy way with fathering desire - Of fire to reach to fire. - - -VI. - - Look now where Colour, the soul’s bridegroom, makes - The house of heaven splendid for the bride. - To him as leaps a fountain she awakes, - In knotting arms, yet boundless: him beside, - She holds the flower to heaven, and by his power - Brings heaven to the flower. - - -VII. - - He gives her homeliness in desert air, - And sovereignty in spaciousness; he leads - Through widening chambers of surprise to where - Throbs rapture near an end that aye recedes, - Because his touch is infinite and lends - A yonder to all ends. - - -VIII. - - Death begs of Life his blush; Life Death persuades - To keep long day with his caresses graced. - He is the heart of light, the wing of shades, - The crown of beauty; never soul embraced - Of him can harbour unfaith; soul of him - Possessed walks never dim. - - -IX. - - Love eyed his rosy memories: he sang: - O bloom of dawn, breathed up from the gold sheaf - Held springing beneath Orient! that dost hang - The space of dewdrops running over leaf; - Thy fleetingness is bigger in the ghost - Than Time with all his host! - - -X. - - Of thee to say behold, has said adieu: - But love remembers how the sky was green, - And how the grasses glimmered lightest blue; - How saint-like grey took fervour: how the screen - Of cloud grew violet; how thy moment came - Between a blush and flame. - - -[Sidenote: GEORGE MEREDITH] - -XI. - - Love saw the emissary eglantine - Break wave round thy white feet above the gloom; - Lay finger on thy star; thy raiment line - With cherub wing and limb; wed thy soft bloom, - Gold-quivering like sunrays in thistle-down, - Earth under rolling brown. - - -XII. - - They do not look through love to look on thee, - Grave heavenliness! nor know they joy of sight, - Who deem the wave of rapt desire must be - Its wrecking and last issue of delight. - Dead seasons quicken in one petal-spot - Of colour unforgot. - - -XIII. - - This way have men come out of brutishness - To spell the letters of the sky and read - A reflex upon earth else meaningless. - With thee, O fount of the Untimed! to lead; - Drink they of thee, thee eyeing, they unaged - Shall on through brave wars waged. - - -XIV. - - More gardens will they win than any lost; - The vile plucked out of them, the unlovely slain. - Not forfeiting the beast with which they are crossed, - To stature of the Gods will they attain. - They shall uplift their Earth to meet her Lord, - Themselves the attuning chord! - - -XV. - - The song had ceased; my vision with the song. - Then of those Shadows, which one made descent - Beside me I knew not: but Life ere long - Came on me in the public ways and bent - Eyes deeper than of old: Death met I too, - And saw the dawn glow through - - - - -Shadows. - - -[Sidenote: SEBASTIAN EVANS] - - Lonely o’er the dying ember - I the past recall, - And remember in December - April buds and August skies, - As the shadows fall and rise, - As the shadows rise and fall. - - Quicker now they lift and flicker - On the dreary wall; - Aye, and quicker still and thicker - Throng the fitful fantasies, - As the shadows fall and rise, - As the shadows rise and fall. - - Dimmer now they shoot and shimmer - On the dreary wall, - Dimmer, dimmer, still they glimmer - Till the light in darkness dies, - And the other shadows rise, - And the other shadows fall. - - - - -When the World is Burning. - - -[Sidenote: EBENEZER JONES] - - When the world is burning, - Fired within, yet turning - Round with face unscathed; - Ere fierce flames, uprushing, - O’er all lands leap, crushing, - Till earth fall, fire-swathed; - Up against the meadows, - Gently through the shadows, - Gentle flames will glide, - Small, and blue, and golden. - Though by bard beholden, - When in calm dreams folden,-- - Calm his dreams will bide. - - Where the dance is sweeping, - Through the greensward peeping, - Shall the soft lights start; - Laughing maids, unstaying, - Deeming it trick-playing, - High their robes upswaying, - O’er the lights shall dart; - And the woodland haunter - Shall not cease to saunter - When, far down some glade, - Of the great world’s burning, - One soft flame upturning - Seems, to his discerning, - Crocus in the shade. - - - - -The Hand. - - - Lone o’er the moors I stray’d; - With basely timid mind, - Because by some betray’d - Denouncing human-kind; - I heard the lonely wind, - And wickedly did mourn - I could not share its loneliness, - And all things human scorn. - - And bitter were the tears, - I cursed as they fell; - And bitterer the sneers - I strove not to repel: - With blindly mutter’d yell, - I cried unto mine heart,-- - “Thou shalt beat the world in falsehood - And stab it ere we part.” - - My hand I backward drave - As one who seeks a knife; - When startlingly did crave - To quell that hand’s wild strife - Some other hand; all rife - With kindness, clasp’d it hard - On mine, quick frequent claspings - That would not be debarr’d. - - I dared not turn my gaze - To the creature of the hand; - And no sound did it raise, - Its nature to disband - Of mystery; vast, and grand, - The moors around me spread, - And I thought, some angel message - Perchance their God may have sped. - -[Sidenote: EBENEZER JONES] - - But it press’d another press, - So full of earnest prayer, - While o’er it fell a tress - Of cool soft human hair, - I fear’d not;--I did dare - Turn round, ’twas Hannah there! - Oh! to no one out of heaven - Could I what pass’d declare. - - We wander’d o’er the moor - Through all that blessed day; - And we drank its waters pure, - And felt the world away; - In many a dell we lay, - And we twined flower-crowns bright; - And I fed her with moor-berries - And bless’d her glad eye-light. - - And still that earnest prayer - That saved me many stings, - Was oft a silent sayer - Of countless loving things;-- - I’ll ring it all with rings, - Each ring a jewell’d band; - For heaven shouldn’t purchase - That little sister hand. - - - - -A Song of Winter. - - -[Sidenote: EMILY DAVIS - -(Mrs Pfeiffer)] - - Barb’d blossom of the guarded gorse, - I love thee where I see thee shine: - Thou sweetener of our common-ways, - And brightener of our wintry days. - - Flower of the gorse, the rose is dead, - Thou art undying, O be mine! - Be mine with all thy thorns, and prest - Close on a heart that asks not rest. - - I pluck thee and thy stigma set - Upon my breast, and on my brow; - Blow, buds, and plenish so my wreath - That none may know the wounds beneath. - - O crown of thorn that seem’st of gold, - No festal coronal art thou; - Thy honey’d blossoms are but hives - That guard the growth of winged lives. - - I saw thee in the time of flowers - As sunshine spill’d upon the land, - Or burning bushes all ablaze - With sacred fire; but went my ways; - - I went my ways, and as I went - Pluck’d kindlier blooms on either hand; - Now of those blooms so passing sweet - None lives to stay my passing feet. - - And still thy lamp upon the hill - Feeds on the autumn’s dying sigh, - And from thy midst comes murmuring - A music sweeter than in spring. - - Barb’d blossoms of the guarded gorse, - Be mine to wear until I die, - And mine the wounds of love which still - Bear witness to his human will. - - - - -The Night Ride. - - -[Sidenote: ERNEST RHYS] - - To-night we rode beneath a moon - That made the moorland pale; - And our horses’ feet kept well the tune - And our pulses did not fail. - - The moon shone clear; the hoar-frost fell, - The world slept, as it seemed; - Sleep held the night, but we rode well, - And as we rode we dreamed. - - We dreamed of ghostly horse and hound, - And flight at dead of night;-- - The more the fearful thoughts we found, - The more was our delight. - - And when we saw the white-owl fly, - With hoot, how woebegone! - We thought to see dead men go by, - And pressed our horses on. - - The merrier then was Sylvia’s song - Upon the homeward road,-- - Oh, whether the way be short or long - Is all in the rider’s mood! - - And still our pulses kept the tale, - Our gallop kept the tune, - As round and over hill and vale - We rode beneath the moon. - - - - -The House of Hendra. - - _‘S’ai Plas Hendre_ - _Yn Nghaer Fyrddin:_ - _Canu Brechfa,_ - _Tithau Lywelyn’._ - - -I. - -[Sidenote: - - The House of Hendra stood in Merlin’s Town, and was sung by Brechva - on his Harp of gold at the October Feasting of Ivor. -] - - In the town where wondrous Merlin - Lived, and still - In deep sleep, they say, lies dreaming - Near it, under Merlin’s Hill, - - In that town of pastoral Towy, - Once of old - Stood the ancient House of Hendra, - Sung on Brechva’s harp of gold. - - With his harp to Ivor’s feasting - Brechva came, - There he sang and made this ballad, - While the last torch spent its flame. - - Long they told,--the men of Ivor, - Of the strain - At the heart of Brechva’s harping - Heard that night, and not again. - -[Sidenote: ERNEST RHYS] - - -II. - -[Sidenote: - - _Incipit_ Brechva’s Ballad of the House of Hendra, and of his deep - sleep there on Hallowmas Night, and of his strange awaking. -] - - In yon town, he sang,--there Hendra - Waits my feet, - In renownèd Merlin’s town where - Clare’s white castle keeps the street. - - There, within that house of heroes, - I drew breath; - And ’tis there my feet must bear me, - For the darker grace of death. - - There that last year’s night I journeyed,-- - Hallowmas! - When the dead of Earth, unburied, - In the darkness rise and pass. - - Then in Hendra (all his harp cried - At the stroke), - Twelve moons gone, there came upon me - Sleep like death. At length I woke: - - I awoke to utter darkness, - Still and deep, - With the walls around me fallen - Of the sombre halls of sleep: - - With my hall of dreams downfallen, - Dark I lay, - Like one houseless, though about me - Hendra stood, more fast than they: - - But what broke my sleep asunder,-- - Light or sound? - There was shown no sound, where only - Night, and shadow’s heart, were found. - - -III. - -[Sidenote: - - Anon he hears a voice in the night, and rising from sleep, looks - out upon the sleeping town. -] - - So it passed, till with a troubled - Lonely noise, - Like a cry of men benighted, - Midnight made itself a voice. - - Then I rose, and from the stairloop, - Looking down, - Nothing saw, where far before me - Lay, one darkness, all the town. - - In that grave day seemed for ever - To lie dead, - Nevermore at wake of morning - To lift up its pleasant head: - - All its friendly foolish clamour, - Its delight, - Fast asleep, or dead, beneath me, - In that black descent of night: - - But anon, like fitful harping, - Hark, a noise! - As in dream, suppose your dreamer’s - Men of shadow found a voice. - -[Sidenote: ERNEST RHYS] - - -IV. - -[Sidenote: - - Hearing his name called, Brechva descends to the postern, and sees - thence a circle of Shadows, in a solemn dance of Death. -] - - Night-wind never sang more strangely - Song more strange; - All confused, yet with a music - In confusion’s interchange. - - Now it cried, like harried night-birds, - Flying near, - Now, more nigh, with multiplying - Voice on voice, “O Brechva, hear!” - - I was filled with fearful pleasure - At the call, - And I turned, and by the stairway - Gained the postern in the wall: - - Deep as Annwn lay the darkness - At my feet;-- - Like a yawning grave before me, - When I opened, lay the street. - - Dark as death, and deep as Annwn,-- - But these eyes - Yet more deeply, strangely, seeing, - From that grave saw life arise. - - And therewith a mist of shadows - In a ring, - Like the sea-mist on the sea-wind, - Waxing, waning, vanishing. - - Circling as the wheel of spirits - Whirled and spun, - Spun and whirled, to forewarn Merlin - In the woods of Caledon. - - -V. - -[Sidenote: - - The spirits are no dream-folk; but ancient inmates of the House of - Hendra. -] - - Shades of men, ay, bards and warriors!-- - Wrought of air, - You may deem, but ’twas no dream-folk, - Born of night, that crossed me there. - - And my heart cried out,--“O Vorwyn! - They are those - Who of old-time lived to know here - Life’s great sweetness in this house.” - - I had bid them kinsman’s welcome, - In a word, - For the ancient sake of Hendra, - Which they served with harp and sword. - - But as still I watched them, wondering, - Curiously, - Knowing all they should forewarn me,-- - Of my death and destiny! - - Ere I marked all in the silence, - Ere I knew, - Swift as they had come, as strangely - Now their shadowy life withdrew. - -[Sidenote: ERNEST RHYS] - - -VI. - -[Sidenote: - - The Spirits being gone, Brechva hears aërial music, and sees in - vision all the Bards in the seventh Heaven. -] - - They were gone; but what sweet wonder - Filled the air!-- - With a thousand harping noises,-- - Harping, chiming, crying there. - - At that harping and that chiming, - Straightway strong - Grew my heart, and in the darkness - Found great solace at that song. - - Through the gate of night, its vision, - Three times fine, - Saw the seventh heaven of heroes, - ’Mid a thousand torches’ shine: - - All the bards and all the heroes - Of old time - There with Arthur and with Merlin - Weave again the bardic rhyme. - - There a seat is set and ready, - And the name - There inscribed, and set on high there,-- - Brechva of the Bards of Fame. - - - - -V - -CONTEMPORARY ANGLO-CELTIC POETS - -(Manx) - - - - -The Childhood of Kitty of the Sherragh Vane. - - -[Sidenote: T. E. BROWN] - - Nice lookin’, eh? - Aye, that’s your way-- - Well, I tell ye, the first time ever I seen her, - She wasn’ much more till[27] a baby-- - Six years, may be, - Would have been her - Age; at the little clogs at her,[28] - Clitter-clatter, - And her little hand - In mine, to show me the way, you’ll understand, - Down yandher brew, - And me a stranger too, - That was lost on the mountain; - And the little sowl in the house all alone, - And for her to be goin’ - The best part of a mile-- - Bless the chile! - Till she got me right-- - Not a bit shy, not her! - Nor freckened,[29] but talkin’ as purty - As a woman of thirty-- - And--“That’s the way down to the School,” says she - “And Saul and me - Is goin’ there every day; - You’ll aisy find the way”-- - And turns, and off like a bird on the wing, - Aw, a bright little thing! - - Isn’ it that way with these people of the mountain? - No accountin’ - But seemin very fearless though-- - Very--not for fightin’, no! - Nor tearin’, but just the used they are - Of fogs and bogs, and all the war - Of winds and clouds, and ghos’es creepin’ - Unknownst upon them, and fairies cheepin’ - Like birds, you’d think, and big bugganes[30] - In holes in rocks; lek makin’ frens - With the like, that’ll work like niggers, they will, - If you’ll only let them; and paisible - Uncommon they are; and little scraps, - That’s hardly off their mammies’ laps - ’ll walk about there in the night - The same as the day, and all right-- - Bless ye! ghos’es! ar’n’ they half - Ghos’es themselves? Just hear them laugh, - Or hear them cry, - It’s like up in the sky-- - Aw, differin’ - Total--aye; for the air is thin - And fine up there, and they suck it in - Very strong, - Very long, - And mixes it in the mould - Of all their body and all their sowl-- - So they’re often seemin’ - Like people dreamin’, - With their eyes open like a surt of a trance. - - - - -Graih my Chree. - -(Love of my Heart.) - - -[Sidenote: HALL CAINE] - -I. - - She was Joney, the rich man’s only child, - He was Juan, a son of the sea. - “Thy father hath cast me forth of his door, - But, poor as I am, to his teeth I swore - I should wed thee, O graih my chree.” - - He broke a ring and gave her the half, - And she buried it close at her heart. - “I must leave thee, love of my soul,” he said, - “But I vow by our troth that living or dead, - I will come back rich to thine arms and thy bed, - And fetch thee as sure as we part.” - - He sailed to the north, he sailed to the south, - He sailed to the foreign strand, - But whether he touched on the icy cone - Or the coral reef of the Indian zone, - It turned to a golden land. - - And he cried to his crew, “Hoist sail and about, - For no more do I need to roam; - I have silks and satins and lace and gold, - I have treasure as deep as my ship will hold - To win me a wife at home.” - - They had not sailed but half of their course - To the haven where they would be, - When the devil beguiled their barque on a rock, - And down it sank with a woeful shock - On the banks of Italy. - - Then over the roar of the clamorous waves - The skipper his voice was heard, - “I vowed by our troth that dead or alive - I should come back yet to wed and to wive, - And by t’ Lady I keep my word. - - “I will come to thee still, O love of my heart, - From the arms of the envious sea; - Though the tempest should swallow my choking breath, - In the spite of hell and the devil and death - I will come to thee, graih my chree.” - - -II. - - “He will come no more to thine arms, my child, - He is false or lost and dead, - Now wherefore make ye these five years’ moan, - And wherefore sit by the sea alone?” - “He will keep his vow,” she said. - - She climbed the brows of the cliffs at home, - She gazed on the false, false sea. - “It comes and it goes for ever,” she cried, - “And tidings it brings to the wife and the bride, - But never a word to me.” - - Then, of lovers, another came wooing the maid, - But she answered him nay and nay, - The manfullest man and her servant true, - “Give me thy hand and thou shalt not rue,” - She murmured, “Alack, the day.” - - Her father arose in his pride and his wrath, - He was last of his race and name, - “Because that a daughter will peak and will pine - Must I never have child of my child to my line, - But die in my childless shame?” - - They bore her a bride to the kirkyard gate, - It was a pitiful sight to see, - Her body they decked in their jewels and gold, - But the heart in her bosom sate silent and cold, - And she murmured “Ah, woe is me.” - -[Sidenote: HALL CAINE] - - -III. - - They had not been wedded a year, a year, - A year but barely two, - When the good wife close to the hearth-stone crept - And rocked her babe while the good man slept - And the wind in the chimney blew. - - Loud was the sea and fierce was the night, - Gloomy and wild and dour; - From a flying cloud came a lightning flash, - A pane of the window fell in with a crash, - And something rang on the floor. - - O, was it a stone from the waste sea-beach? - O, was it an earthly thing? - She stirred the peat and stooped to the ground, - And there in the red, red light she found - The half of a broken ring. - - She rose upright in a terror of fright - As one that hath sinned a sin, - And out of the dark and the wind and rain, - Through the jagged gap of the broken pane, - A man’s white face looked in. - - “Oh, why didst thou stay so long, Juan? - Five years I waited for thee.” - “I vowed by our troth, that living or dead - I should come back yet to thine arms and thy bed, - And my vow I have kept, my chree.” - - “But I have been false to my troth, Juan; - Falsely I swore me away.” - “I have silks and satins and lace and gold, - I have treasure as deep as my ship will hold; - And my barque lies out in the bay.” - - “But I have a husband that loves me dear; - I promised him never to part.” - “Through the salt sea’s foam and the earth’s hot breath, - Through the grapplings of hell and the gates of death - I have come for thee, Joney, my heart.” - - “But I have a child of my body so sweet-- - Little Jannie that sleeps in the cot.” - “By the glimpse of the moon, at the top of the tide, - Ere the crow of the cock our vessel must ride, - Or what will befall us, God wot.” - - “Now, ever alack, thou must kiss and go back; - My love, I am never for thee.” - “As sure as yon ship to the billows that roll, - By the plight of our troth, both body and soul - You belong to me, graih my chree.” - - She followed him forth like to one in a sleep; - It was a woeful and wonderous sight. - The moon on his face from a rift in a cloud - Showed it white and wan as a face in a shroud, - And his ship on the sea gleamed white. - - -IV. - - “Now weigh and away, my merry men all.” - The crew laughed loud in their glee. - “With the rich man’s pride and his sweet daughter, - In the spite of wind and the wild water-- - To the banks of Italy!” - - The anchor was weighed, the canvas was spread, - All in the storm and the dark, - With never a reef in a stitch of sail, - But standing about to burst the gale - Merrily sped the barque. - -[Sidenote: HALL CAINE] - - The first night out there was fear on the ship, - For the lady lay in a swoon; - The second night out she woke from her trance, - And the skipper did laugh and his men would dance, - But she made a piteous moan. - - “O, where is my home and my sweet baby-- - My Jannie I nursed on my knee? - He will wake in his cot by the cold hearth-stone - And cry for his mother who left him alone; - My Jannie, I’m wae for thee.” - - The skipper he shouted for music and song, - And his crew they answered his call. - He clothed her in silk and satin and lace, - But still through the rout and riot her face - Showed fit for a funeral. - - And ever at night they sailed by the moon, - Through the wild white foam so fleet, - And ever again at the coming of day, - When the sun rose out of the sea they lay - In a mist like a winding sheet. - - And still the skipper he kissed her and cried, - “Be merry and let-a-be.” - And still to soothe her he sat through the nights - With his hand in her hand, till they opened the lights - By the banks of Italy. - - Then his face shone green as with ghostly sheen, - And the moon began to dip. - “O, think not you, I am the lover ye knew; - I am a ghostly man with a ghostly crew, - And this is a ghostly ship.” - - Then he rose upright to a fearsome height, - And stamped his foot on the deck; - He smote the mast at the topsail yards, - And the rigging fell like a house of cards, - And the hulk was a splitting wreck. - - O, then as she sank in the water’s womb, - In the churn of the choking sea, - She knew that his arms were about her breast, - As close as his arms might be. - And he cried o’er the tramp of the champing tide - On the banks of Italy, - “By the plight of our troth, by the power of our bond, - If not in this world in the world beyond, - Thou art mine, O graih my chree.” - - - - -VI - -CONTEMPORARY ANGLO-CELTIC POETS - -(Cornish) - - - - -The Splendid Spur. - - -[Sidenote: A. T. QUILLER COUCH] - - Not on the neck of prince or hound, - Nor on a woman’s finger twin’d, - May gold from the deriding ground - Keep sacred that we sacred bind: - Only the heel - Of splendid steel - Shall stand secure on sliding fate, - When golden navies weep their freight. - - The scarlet hat, the laurell’d stave - Are measures, not the springs of worth; - In a wife’s lap, as in a grave, - Man’s airy notions mix with earth. - Seek other spur - Bravely to stir - The dust in this loud world, and tread - Alp-high among the whisp’ring dead. - - =Trust in thyself=,--then spur amain: - So shall Charybdis wear a grace, - Grim Ætna laugh, the Libyan plain - Take roses to her shrivell’d face. - This orb--this round - Of sight and sound-- - Count it the lists that God hath built - For haughty hearts to ride a-tilt. - - - - -The White Moth. - - -[Sidenote: A. T. QUILLER COUCH] - - _If a leaf rustled, she would start: - And yet she died, a year ago. - How had so frail a thing the heart - To journey where she trembled so? - And do they turn and turn in fright, - Those little feet, in so much night?_ - - The light above the poet’s head - Streamed on the page and on the cloth, - And twice and thrice there buffeted - On the black pane a white-wing’d moth: - ’Twas Annie’s soul that beat outside, - And “Open, open, open!” cried: - - “I could not find the way to God; - There were too many flaming suns - For signposts, and the fearful road - Led over wastes where millions - Of tangled comets hissed and burned-- - I was bewilder’d and I turned. - - “O, it was easy then! I knew - Your window and no star beside. - Look up and take me back to you!” - He rose and thrust the window wide. - ’Twas but because his brain was hot - With rhyming; for he heard her not. - - But poets polishing a phrase - Show anger over trivial things: - And as she blundered in the blaze - Towards him, on ecstatic wings, - He raised a hand and smote her dead; - Then wrote, “=That I had died instead=.” - - - - -Featherstone’s Doom.[31] - - -[Sidenote: STEPHEN HAWKER] - -I. - - Twist thou and twine! in light and gloom - A spell is on thine hand; - The wind shall be thy changeful loom, - Thy web, the shifting sand. - - -II. - - Twine from this hour, in ceaseless toil, - On Blackrock’s sullen shore; - Till cordage of the hand shall coil - Where crested surges roar. - - -III. - - ’Tis for that hour, when, from the wave, - Near voices wildly cried; - When thy stern hand no succour gave, - The cable at thy side. - - -IV. - - Twist thou and twine! in light and gloom - The spell is on thine hand; - The wind shall be thy changeful loom, - Thy web, the shifting sand. - - - - -Trebarrow. - - -[Sidenote: STEPHEN HAWKER] - -I. - - Did the wild blast of battle sound, - Of old, from yonder lonely mound? - Race of Pendragon! did ye pour, - On this dear earth, your votive gore? - - -II. - - Did stern swords cleave along this plain - The loose rank of the roving Dane? - Or Norman chargers’ sounding tread - Smite the meek daisy’s Saxon head? - - -III. - - The wayward winds no answer breathe, - No legend cometh from beneath, - Of chief, with good sword at his side, - Or Druid in his tomb of pride. - - -IV. - - One quiet bird that comes to make - Her lone nest in the scanty brake; - A nameless flower, a silent fern-- - Lo! the dim stranger’s storied urn. - - -V. - - Hark! on the cold wings of the blast - The future answereth to the past; - The bird, the flower, may gather still, - Thy voice shall cease upon the hill! - - - - -Witch Margaret. - - -[Sidenote: RICCARDO STEPHENS] - - Who hath not met Witch Margaret? - Red gold her rippling hair, - Eyes like sweet summer seas are set - Beneath her brow so fair; - And cream and damask rose have met - Her lips and cheek to share. - - Come up! and you shall see her yet, - Before she groweth still; - Before her cloak of flame and smoke - The winter air shall fill; - For they must burn Witch Margaret - Upon the Castle Hill. - - * * * * * - - They found on her the devil’s mark, - Wherein naught maketh pain,-- - “Bind her and dip her! stiff and stark - She floateth aye again; - Her body changeth after dark, - When powers of darkness reign.” - - They drave the boot on Margaret - And crushed her dainty feet; - The hissing searing-irons set - To kiss her lips so sweet: - She hath not asked for mercy yet, - Nor mercy shall she meet. - - The silent sky was cold and grey, - The earth was cold and white, - They brought her out that Christmas Day - To burn her in our sight; - The snow that fell and fell alway - Would cover her ere night. - - All feebly as a child would go - Her bleeding feet dragged by, - Blood-red upon the white, white snow - I saw her footprints lie; - And some one shrieked to see her so-- - God knows if it was I! - - Upon her body, all in black, - Fell down her red-gold hair; - All bruised and bleeding from the rack - Her writhen arms hung bare; - Red blood dripped all along her track, - Red blood seemed in the air. - - The while they told her deeds of shame, - She, resting in the snow, - Stretched out weak hands toward the flame, - Watched the sparks upward go, - Till on the pale pinched face there came - Some of the red fire’s glow. - - * * * * * - - Oh, is it blood that blinds mine eyes, - Or is it driving snow? - And are these but the wild wind’s cries - That drive me to and fro, - That beat about mine ears and rise - Wherever I may go? - - It’s red and black on Castle Hill! - The people go to pray, - A little wind sighs on, until - The ashes float away; - And then God’s earth is very still, - For this is Christmas Day. - - - - -A Ballad. - - -[Sidenote: RICCARDO STEPHENS] - - The Autumn leaves went whispering by, - Like ghosts that never slept. - Up through the dusk a curlew’s cry - From glen to hill-top crept. - The Dead Man heard the burn moan by - And thought for him it wept. - - Lapped in his grave, a night and day, - The Dead Man marked the sound: - He knew the moon rose far away, - Grey shadows gathered round, - Then down the glen, he heard the bay - Raised by his great grey hound. - - A stag crashed out, and thundered back - --She never turned aside. - The swollen stream ran cold and black, - --She leapt the waters wide, - Nor paused, nor left the shadowy track - Till at the dark grave side. - - “What brings you here, my great grey hound, - What brings you here, alone? - True I am dead, but is there found - Beneath my board no bone? - No rushy bed for your grey head - Now I am dead and gone?” - - “Your brother reads your title-deeds, - Your wife counts out red gold, - And laughs in rich black widow’s-weeds, - Red-lipped and smooth and bold. - I want no bone, to gnaw alone, - Now that your hand is cold.” - - The Dead Man laughed in scornful hate, - While the great hound growled low, - “Last night I rose to Heaven’s gate,” - He said, “for I would know - The best or worst dealt out by Fate, - And whither I must go.” - - He paused--“My grave is damp and cold; - I feel the slow worms glide - Smoothly and softly through the mould, - And nestle by my side. - What lives and moves, in wood and wold, - Where love and laughter bide?” - - “The wild fowl fly across, and call - In from the grey salt sea; - I scent the red stag by the Fall, - He fears no more from me. - The moon comes up, and over all - She glimmers eerily.” - - The corpse replied, “At Heaven’s gates - They stand to let me through, - And there, years hence, a welcome waits - False Wife and Brother too. - Do what you will, my hound, and still - Heaven holds no place for you. - - “With tooth and claw tear down to me, - And Death shall be no tether. - The swift red deer once more shall flee, - Panting through burn and heather: - And you and I once more shall be - Hunting my hills together!” - - * * * * * - - That night the deer across the wold - From dark to dawning fled; - The lady dreamt that, shroud-enrolled, - A corpse had shared her bed; - But by the grave wind-swept and cold, - The great grey hound lay dead! - - - - -Hell’s Piper. - - -[Sidenote: RICCARDO STEPHENS] - - O have ye heard of Angus Blair, - Who lived long since in black Auchmair? - And have ye heard old pipers tell - His story--how he piped in Hell? - When Angus piped the old grew young, - Crutches across the floor were flung; - Nay more, ’twas said his witching breath - Had robbed the grave, and cheated death. - - Above all else, a march of war - Was what men praised and feared him for; - When that he played, like fire it ran - In blood and brain of every man; - Then stiffened hair began to rise, - Bent brows scowled over staring eyes; - Then, at his will, men spilt their blood - Like water of a winter flood, - Swearing, with Angus, ill or well, - They’d charge light-hearted into Hell. - - Long years, through many a feast and fray, - Did Piper Angus pipe his way; - Till, swept upon the swirling tide - Of a night-charge, he sank and died. - - That night the Piper rose to tread - The ways that lie before the dead. - He saw God’s battlements afar - Blazing behind the utmost star, - And turning in the chill night air, - Thought he might find a shelter there. - - But as he turned to leave the earth, - With all its music, maids, and mirth, - The battered pipes beneath his feet - Screamed out a wailing, last retreat; - Then Piper Angus paused, and thought - Of the wild work those pipes had wrought; - “But there,” quoth he, “in peace and rest, - Up there, the holy ones, the blest, - Praise aye the Lord, and aye they sing, - While golden harps and cymbals ring. - To my wild march or mad strathspey - The heavenly host would say me nay, - And none would hear my chanter more - Unless the Lord went out to war. - But often have I heard men tell - How they would follow pipes to Hell: - That way I’ll try: in Hell maybe - Some corner’s kept for them and me.” - - So said, so done--for well content - Down the dark way to Hell he went. - The Chanter felt his finger-tips, - The Blow-pipe thrilled between his lips, - The Drones across his shoulder flung, - Moaned till the Earth’s foundations rung, - The streamers flaunted on the blast - As, striding smoke and shadow past, - With bonnet cocked, and careless air, - Piping his march, went Piper Blair. - - Down where the shackled earthquakes dwell - Are piled the reeking halls of Hell. - Their walls are steel, their gates are brass; - Round them four flaming rivers pass; - And sleepless sentinels are set - On every point and parapet, - To hedge the souls whose far-off cries - Up to the world may never rise. - - That night, so still the whole place seemed, - You’d think all Hell had peace, and dreamed - For the dark Master, brooding aye - Over lost hope and ancient fray, - Had, from his vantage, pale and grim, - Perchance to please a passing whim, - Hissed down a word which quelled and cowed - And silenced all that shuddering crowd. - So now aloft upon his throne - He sat indifferent, alone, - While poor damned souls who dared not cry - In writhing droves went whirling by. - These, dumb, before he noted aught, - Some strange and wandering sound now caught. - - And first a little note they heard - Far off--and like a lonely bird; - And then it grew, and grew, and grew, - As near and nearer still it drew, - Until Hell’s Lord in slow surprise - Turned on the gates his weary eyes. - - Then they that bent beneath a load - Stood up, nor felt the fiery goad. - Then they that trod on forks of flame - Tramped to the wild notes as they came. - Then, look, old foes of long ago - Feel old revenge revive and glow. - Then, heedless of the flaming whip, - They roll in one another’s grip - With shout and shriek and throttled jeer, - --And over all the pipes rang clear. - - But from the march those pipes turned soon, - And sank, to sing another tune; - A low lament, whose sobbing wail - Filled aching hearts and made them fail. - And they that fought a breath ago - Now wept at one another’s woe. - - A second change--a lilting air - Made Hell look bright, made Hell look fair, - And wretches gasping new from death - Followed the tune beneath their breath-- - Then, piping yet, erect, alone, - The Piper stood before the throne. - - Up rose the Master in his place, - Eyeing the Piper’s careless face, - “No room, no room in Hell can be - For Piper Angus Blair,” cried he; - “Would to such sounds my host had trod - Ere I was hurled down here by God; - Mine hadst thou been, before I fell, - I’d rule in Heav’n now--not in Hell. - Then every night and every day - On Heav’n’s high ramparts shouldst thou play, - But here--here’s neither war nor mirth, - Nor more in Heav’n; so back to Earth.” - - Thus now, as over glen and brae - The wild wind wanders on its way, - Dead Piper Angus Blair goes too, - And pipes and pipes the whole world through. - Unseen, unknown he goes. To-day - He’ll pipe perchance for bairns at play - To set them dancing: maybe steal - To-night to watch a roaring reel. - There, when the panting pipers tire, - He joins, and sets all hearts afire; - And ere the dawn his pipes have pealed - Fiercely across some stricken field. - But when each year is at its close - Right down the road to Hell he goes. - There the gaunt porters all a-grin - Fling back the gates to let him in, - Then damned and devil, one and all, - Make mirth and hold high carnival, - The while the Master sits apart - Plotting rebellion in his heart. - Till, when above the dawn is grey, - The Piper turns and tramps away. - - - - -VII - -MODERN AND CONTEMPORARY BRETON - - - _O Breiz-Izel, O Kaera bro!_ - _Koat enn hi c’ hreiz, mor enn he zro!_ - - - - -The Poor Clerk. - -(Ar C’Hloarek Paour.) - - -[Sidenote: MEDIÆVAL BRETON] - - My wooden shoes I’ve lost them, my naked feet I’ve torn - A-following my sweeting through field and brake of thorn; - The rain may beat, and fall the sleet, and ice chill to the bone, - But they’re no stay to hold away the lover from his own. - - My sweeting is no older than I that love her so: - She’s scarce seventeen, her face is fair, her cheeks like roses glow. - In her eyes there is a fire, sweetest speech her lips doth part; - Her love it is a prison where I’ve locked up my heart. - - Oh, to what shall I liken her, that a wrong it shall not be? - To the pretty little white rose, that is called Rose-Marie? - The pearl of girls; the lily when among the flowers it grows, - The lily newly opened, among flowers about to close. - - When I came to thee a-wooing, my sweet, my gentle May, - I was as is the nightingale upon the hawthorn spray: - When he would sleep the thorns they keep a-pricking in his breast, - That he flies up perforce and sings upon the tree’s tall crest. - - I am as is the nightingale, or as a soul must be - That in the purgatory fires lies longing to be free, - Waiting the blessèd time when I unto your house shall come, - All with the marriage-messenger[32] bearing his branch of broom. - - Ah, me! my stars are froward: ’gainst nature is my state; - Since in this world I came I’ve dreed a dark and dismal fate: - I have nor living kin nor friends, mother nor father dear, - There is no Christian on earth to wish me happy here. - - There lives no one hath had to bear so much of grief and shame - For your sweet sake as I have, since in this world I came; - And therefore on my bended knees, in God’s dear name I sue, - Have pity on your own poor clerk, that loveth only you! - - - - -The Cross by the Way. - -(Kroaz ann Hent.) - - -[Sidenote: MEDIÆVAL BRETON] - - Sweet in the green-wood a birdie sings, - Golden-yellow its two bright wings, - Red its heartikin, blue its crest: - Oh, but it sings with the sweetest breast! - - Early, early it ’lighted down - On the edge of my ingle-stone, - As I prayed my morning prayer,-- - “Tell me thy errand, birdie fair.” - - Then sung it as many sweet things to me - As there are roses on the rose-tree: - “Take a sweetheart, lad, an’ you may; - To gladden your heart both night and day.” - - Past the cross by the way as I went, - Monday, I saw her fair as a saint: - Sunday, I will go to mass, - There on the green I’ll see her pass. - - Water poured in a beaker clear, - Dimmer shows than the eyes of my dear; - Pearls themselves are not more bright - Than her little teeth, pure and white. - - Then her hands and her cheek of snow, - Whiter than milk in a black pail, show. - Yes, if you could my sweetheart see, - She would charm the heart from thee. - - Had I as many crowns at my beck, - As hath the Marquis of Poncalec; - Had I a gold-mine at my door,-- - Wanting my sweetheart, I were poor. - - If on my door-sill up should come - Golden flowers for furze and broom, - Till my court were with gold piled high, - Little I’d reck, but she were by. - - Doves must have their close warm nest, - Corpses must have the tomb for rest; - Souls to Paradise must depart,-- - And I, my love, must to thy heart. - - Every Monday at dawn of day - I’ll on my knees to the cross by the way; - At the new cross by the way I’ll bend, - In thy honour, my gentle friend! - - - - -The Secrets of the Clerk. - - -[Sidenote: LATER BRETON] - - Each night, each night, as on my bed I lie, - I do not sleep, but turn myself and cry. - - I do not sleep, but turn myself and weep, - When I think of her I love so deep. - - Each day I seek the Wood of Love so dear, - In hopes to see you at its streamlet clear. - - When I see you come through the forest grove, - On its leaves I write the secret of my love. - - --But a fragile trust are the forest leaves, - To hold the secrets close which their page receives. - - When comes the storm of rain, and gusty air, - Your secrets close are scattered everywhere. - - ’Twere safer far, young clerk, on my heart to write. - Graven deep they’d rest, and never take their flight. - - - - -Love Song. - - -[Sidenote: MODERN BRETON] - - In the white cabin at the foot of the mountain, - Is my sweet, my love: - - Is my love, is my desire, - And all my happiness. - - Before the night must I see her - Or my little heart will break. - - My little heart will not break, - For my lovely dear I have seen. - - Fifty nights I have been - At the threshold of her door; she did not know it. - - The rain and the wind whipped me, - Until my garments dripped. - - Nothing came to console me - Except the sound of breathing from her bed. - - Except the sound of breathing from her bed, - Which came through the little hole of the key. - - Three pairs of shoes I have worn out, - Her thought I do not know. - - The fourth pair I have begun to wear, - Her thought I do not know. - - Five pairs, alas, in good count, - Her thought I do not know. - - --If it is my thought you wish to know, - It is not I who will make a mystery of it. - - There are three roads on each side of my house, - Choose one among them. - - Choose whichever you like among them, - Provided it will take you far from here. - -[Sidenote: MODERN BRETON] - - --More is worth love, since it pleases me, - Than wealth with which I do not know what to do. - - Wealth comes, and wealth it goes away, - Wealth serves for nothing. - - Wealth passes like the yellow pears: - Love endures for ever. - - More is worth a handful of love - Than an oven full of gold and silver. - - - - -Hymn to Sleep. - - -[Sidenote: HERVÉ-NOËL LE BRETON] - - Keeper of the keys of Heaven, - Lingering near the starry Seven! - Guardian of the gates of Hell, - Hushed beneath thy drowsy spell! - Fold thy wings and come to me, - Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy. - - When the pilgrim of strange lore - Haunts thy pale phantasmal shore, - Dreams and absolution grant, - Priestess thou and hierophant! - Fold thy wings and come to me, - Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy. - - Builder of eternal towers! - Weaver of enchanted bowers! - Thou dost forge the fighter’s arms, - Thee the lover woos for charms: - Fold thy wings and come to me, - Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy. - - Thou dost soothe the virgin’s fears, - Thou dost staunch the widow’s tears, - Smooth the wrinkled brows of Care, - Still the cries of wild Despair: - Fold thy wings and come to me, - Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy. - - Healer of the sores of shame! - Cleanser of the unholy flame! - Thou dost breathe beatitude - On the evil and the good: - Fold thy wings and come to me, - Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy. - -[Sidenote: HERVÉ-NOËL LE BRETON] - - When the cup that Pleasure sips - Turns to wormwood on the lips; - When Remorse, with venomed mesh, - Frets and tears the writhing flesh: - Fold thy wings and come to me, - Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy. - - Queller of the storms of Fate! - Quencher of the fires of Hate! - In thy peaceful bosom furled - Lies the turmoil of the world: - Fold thy wings and come to me, - Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy. - - Calm as noon’s abysmal blue, - Soundless as the falling dew, - Soft as snow with fleecy plumes, - Sweet as curling incense-fumes: - Fold thy wings and come to me, - Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy. - - Keeper of the keys of Heaven! - (Cease your vigil, starry Seven) - Guardian of the gates of Hell! - (Loosen not the drowsèd spell) - Fold thy wings and come to me, - Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy. - - - - -The Burden of Lost Souls. - - - This was our sin. When Hope, with wings enchanted - And shining aureole, - Hung on the blossomed steps of Youth and haunted - The chancel of the soul; - - When we whose lips haply had blown the bugle - That cheers the wavering line, - And solaced those to whom the world was frugal - Of Love, the food divine; - - Whose hands had strength to strike men’s chains asunder - And heal the poor man’s wrong, - Whose breath was blended with the chords that thunder - Along the aisles of song; - - Whose eyes had seen and hailed the Light of Ages, - In cloudiest heavens a star, - Whose ears had heard, on ringing wheels, the stages - Of Freedom’s trophied car:-- - - We turned, rebellious children, to the clamour - And tumult of the world; - We gave our souls in fee for Circe’s glamour - And white limbs lightly whirled; - - We drank deep draughts of Moloch’s unclean liquor - Even to the dregs of shame, - And blinded by the golden lights that flicker - From Mammon’s altar-flame - - We burned strange incense, bowed before his idol - Whose eucharist is fire, - And on the neck of passion loosed the bridle - Of fierce and wild desire:-- - -[Sidenote: HERVÉ-NOËL LE BRETON] - - Till now in our own hearts the ashy embers - Of Love lie smouldering, - And scarce our Autumn chill and bare remembers - The glory of the Spring; - - While faith, that in the mire was fain to wallow, - Returns at last to find - The cold fanes desolate, the niches hollow, - The windows dim and blind, - - And, strown with ruins round, the shattered relic - Of unregardful youth, - Where shapes of beauty once, with tongues angelic, - Whispered the runes of Truth. - - - - -Confession. - - -[Sidenote: VILLIERS DE L’ISLE-ADAM] - - Since I have lost the words, the flower - Of youth and the fresh April breeze ... - Give me thy lips; their perfumed dower - Shall be the whisper of the trees! - - Since I have lost the deep sea’s sadness, - Her sobs, her restless surge, her graves ... - Breathe but a word; its grief or gladness - Shall be the murmur of the waves! - - Since in my soul a sombre blossom - Broods, and the suns of yore take flight ... - O hide me in thy pallid bosom, - And it shall be the calm of night! - - - - -Discouragement. - - -[Sidenote: VILLIERS DE L’ISLE-ADAM] - - Athwart the unclean ages whirled - To solitary woods sublime, - Oh! had I first beheld this world - Alone and free in Nature’s prime! - - When on its loveliness first seen - Eve cast her pure blue eyes abroad: - When all the earth was fresh and green, - And simple Man believed in God! - - When sacred accents, vibrating - Beneath the naked sun and sky, - Rose from each new-created thing - To hail the Lord of Life on high; - - I would have learned and lived in hope - And loved! For in those vanished days, - Faith wandered on the mountain-slope ... - But now the world has changed her ways: - - Our feet, less free, less fugitive, - Tread beaten tracks from shore to shore ... - Alas! what is the life we live? - --A dream of days that are no more! - - - - -The Black Panther. - - -[Sidenote: LECONTE DE LISLE] - - Along the rosy cloud light steals and twinkles; - The East is flecked with golden filigree: - Night from her loosened necklace slowly sprinkles - Pearl-clusters on the sea. - - Clasped on the bosom of the sparkling azure - Soft skirts of flame trail like a flowing train, - And cast on emerald blades a bright emblazure, - Like drops of fiery rain. - - The dew shines, like a sheaf of splendour shaken, - On cinnamon leaves and lychee’s purple flesh; - Among the drowsed bamboos the wind’s wings waken - A myriad whisperings fresh. - - From mounds and woods, from mossy tufts and flowers, - In the warm air, with sudden tremours thrilled, - Fragrance bursts forth in sweet and subtile showers, - With feverish rapture filled. - - By virgin jungle-track and hidden hollow, - Where in the morning sun smoke tangled weeds, - And where live streams their winding channels follow - Through arches of green reeds, - - Steals the black panther from her midnight prowling, - With dawn turned to the lair in which her cubs - Among smooth shining bones, with hunger growling, - Grovel beneath the shrubs. - - Restless she slinks along, with arrowy flashes - That scan the shadows of the drooping wood. - The bright, fresh-sprinkled crimsoned dew that dashes - Her velvet skin is blood. - -[Sidenote: LECONTE DE LISLE] - - Behind she drags the relict of her quarry - Torn from the stricken stag, a mangled spoil - That leaves a loathsome trail and sanguinary - Along the moss-flowered soil. - - Round her the tawny bees and light-winged dragons - Flit fearless as she glides with supple flanks; - And clustering foliage from a thousand flagons - Pours fragrance on the banks. - - The python, through a scarlet cactus peering, - Slowly above the bush lifts his flat head - And curious eyes, his scaly folds uprearing - To watch her stealthy tread. - - She glides in silence into the tall bracken, - Then plunges lost beneath the lichened boughs: - Air burns in the vast light, earth’s noises slacken, - And wood and welkin drowse. - - - - -The Spring. - - - A live spring sparkles in the bosky gloom, - Hidden from the noonday glare; - The green reeds bend above its banks and there - Blue-bells and violets bloom. - - No kids that batten on the bitter herb, - On slopes of the near hill, - Nor shepherd’s song, nor flute-note sweet and shrill, - Its crystal source disturb. - - Hard by, the dark oaks weave a peaceful screen - Whose shade the wild-bee loves, - And nestled in dense leaves the murmuring doves - Their ruffled plumage preen. - - The lazy stags in mossy thickets browse - And sniff the lingering dew; - Beneath cool leaves, that let the sunlight through, - The languorous Sylvans drowse. - - White Naïs, near the sacred spring that drips, - Closing her lids awhile, - Dreams as she slumbers, and a radiant smile - Floats on her purple lips. - - No eye, kindling with love’s desire, has scanned - Beneath those lucent veils - The nymph whose snowy limbs and hair that trails - Gleam on the silvery sand. - - None gazed on the soft cheek, suffused with youth, - The splendid bosom’s swerve, - The ivory neck, the shoulder’s delicate curve, - White arms and innocent mouth. - -[Sidenote: LECONTE DE LISLE] - - But now the lecherous Faun, that haunts the grove, - Spies from his leafy trench - Those supple flanks, kissed by the oozy drench - As with a kiss of love; - - Then laughs, as when the Satyr’s wanton imps - A wood-nymph’s bower assail, - And, waking with the sound the virgin pale - Flies like the lightning-glimpse. - - Even as the Naiad, haunting the clear stream, - Slumbers in woods obscure, - Fly from the impious look and laugh impure - O Beauty, the soul’s dream! - - - - -The Return of Taliesen. - - -[Sidenote: LEO-KERMORVAN] - - On my lips the speech, in my ears the sound of the Armorican: - I hear the voice of Esus by the shores of the ocean, - And the songs which the great bard Ossian - Resings by the ancient dolmen. - - Many times since this, my twelfth rebirth on earth, - Have I seen the mistletoe grow green on the oak, - Seen the yellow crocus, the sunbright, and the vervein - Bloom again in the woodlands: - - But never shall I see again the white-robed Druid of old - Seek the sacred mistletoe as one seeketh a treasure; - Never more shall I see him cut the living plant - With his golden sickle. - - Alas! the valiant chiefs with the flowing locks! - All sleep in the cairns, beneath the fresh green grass; - In vain my voice o’er the fields of the dead lamenting-- - “Vengeance! Treason! - - “Be swift, Revenge, on the feet of the sorrows of Arvor!” - Alas, dull echoes alone answer my wailing summons. - Treason, indeed, and Vengeance! for lo, in the hallowed Némèdes - The wayside flaunt of the Cross! - - Tarann no longer sends forth his terror of thunder! - Camul no longer laughs behind the strength of his arm! - Tentatès, rising in wrath, has not yet crumbled the earth; - Esus is deaf to our call! - - Whither, O whither fled are ye, ye powerful, redoubtable gods; - And ye, ye famous Druids, the glory and terror of Armor? - Who has usurped, who has o’erwhelmed ye, unconquerable knights, - Warriors of the golden collar? - -[Sidenote: LEO-KERMORVAN] - - Thou, who harkenest, I have been in the place of the Ancients! - I, alone among mortals, thence have issued alive: - Alas, the temple was deserted: I saw nought but some wind-haunted oaks - Swaying in the silence. - - All is fugitive! pride, pleasure, the song, the dance, - Blithe joys of friendship, noble rivalries all: - The keen swift song of the swords, the whistling lances! - Dreams of a dreamer all!... But no, - - A new dawn wakes and laughs on the breast of the darkness; - Earth has her sunshine still, the grave her Spring; - Many a time Dylan hath oared me afar in the deathbarque, - Many a death-sleep mine, and long! - - For long I have slept with the heavy sleep of the dead, - Ofttimes my fugitive body has passed into divers forms, - I have spread strong wings on the air, I have swum in dark waters, - I have crawled in the woods. - - But, amid all these manifold changes, my soul - Remaineth ever the same: it is always, always “myself”! - And now I see well that this is the law of all that liveth, - Though none beholdeth the reason, none the end. - - Still stand our lonely menhirs, and still the wayfarer shudders - As in the desolate dusk he passes these Stones of Silence! - Thou speakest, I understand! Thy Breton tongue - Is that of the ancient Kymry. - - Lights steal through the hours of shadow flame-lit for unknown saints, - As, in the days of old, our torches flared on the night: - Ah, before ever these sacred lamps shone for your meek apostles, - They burned for Héol. - - Blind without reason are we, thus changing the names of the gods: - Thus, mayhap, we think to destroy them, we who abandon their altars! - But, cold, calm, unsmiling before our laughter and curses, - The gods wait, immortal. - - Yea, while the sacred fires still burn along the hill-tops, - Yea, while a single lichened menhir still looms from the brushwood, - Yea, whether they name thee Armorica, Brittany, Breiz-Izèl, - Thou art ever the same dear land! - - Ah, soul of me ofttimes to thee, Land of mystery! - Ofttimes again shall I breathe in thy charmèd air! - Sure, every weary singer knoweth the secret name of thee, - Land of Heart’s Desire! - - Enduring thou art! For not the slow frost of the ages - Shall dim from thy past thy glory immortally graven!-- - Granite thy soil, thy soul, loved nest of Celtic nations!-- - Sings the lost Voice, Taliesin. - - - - -By Menec’hi Shore. - - -[Sidenote: LOUIS TIERCELIN] - - Sad the sea-moan that echoes through my dream, - And sad the auroral sky suffused with gold, - Sad the blue wave that croons along the shore-- - - O Joy of Night in whose still calms I sleep! - - Sadness of love, and O tired heart of man: - Sadness of hope, and all brave vows that be: - Sadness of joy itself, the joys we know! - - Joy of Oblivion, is there bliss with thee? - - Sad is the splendour, glory, the bright flame - And laughter of the soul, since underneath - Dreams and Desires veiled Mystery broods obscure ... - - O Joy of Death, with thee the Vials of Peace! - - - - -VIII - -THE CELTIC FRINGE - - - - -Song. - - -[Sidenote: BLISS CARMAN] - - Love, by that loosened hair - Well now I know - Where the lost Lilith went - So long ago. - - Love, by those starry eyes - I understand - How the sea-maidens lure - Mortals from land. - - Love, by that welling laugh - Joy claims his own - Sea-born and wind-wayward - Child of the sun. - - - - -The War-Song of Gamelbar. - - - Bowmen, shout for Gamelbar! - Winds, unthrottle the wolves of war! - Heave a breath - And dare a death - For the doom of Gamelbar! - Wealth for Gamel, - Wine for Gamel, - Crimson wine for Gamelbar! - - Chorus:--Oh, sleep for a knave - With his sins in the sod! - And death for the brave, - With his glory up to God! - And joy for the girl, - And ease for the churl! - But the great game of war - For our lord Gamelbar, - Gamelbar! - - Spearmen, shout for Gamelbar, - With his warriors thirty score! - Heave a sword - For our overlord, - Lord of warriors, Gamelbar! - Life for Gamel, - Love for Gamel, - Lady-loves for Gamelbar! - - Horsemen, shout for Gamelbar! - Swim the ford and climb the scaur! - Heave a hand - For the maiden land, - The maiden land of Gamelbar! - Glory for Gamel, - Gold for Gamel, - Yellow gold for Gamelbar! - - Armourers for Gamelbar, - Rivet and forge and fear no scar! - Heave a hammer - With anvil clamour, - To weld and brace for Gamelbar! - Ring for Gamel, - Rung for Gamel, - =Ring-rung-ring= for Gamelbar! - - Yeomen, shout for Gamelbar, - And his battle-hand in war! - Heave his pennon; - Cheer his men on, - In the ranks of Gamelbar! - Strength for Gamel, - Song for Gamel, - One war-song for Gamelbar! - - Roncliffe, shout for Gamelbar! - Menthorpe, Bryan, Castelfar! - Heave, Thorparch - Of the Waving Larch, - And Spofford’s thane, for Gamelbar! - Blaise for Gamel, - Brame for Gamel, - Rougharlington for Gamelbar! - - Maidens, strew for Gamelbar - Roses down his way to war! - Heave a handful, - Fill the land full - Of your gifts to Gamelbar! - Dream of Gamel, - Dance for Gamel, - Dance in the halls for Gamelbar! - - Servitors, shout for Gamelbar! - Roast the ox and stick the boar! - Heave a bone - To gaunt Harone, - The great war-hound of Gamelbar! - Mead for Gamel, - Mirth for Gamel, - Mirth at the board for Gamelbar! - - Trumpets, speak for Gamelbar! - Blare as ye never blared before! - Heave a bray - In the horns to-day, - The red war-horns of Gamelbar! - To-night for Gamel, - The North for Gamel, - With fires on the hills for Gamelbar! - - Shout for Gamel, Gamelbar, - Till your throats can shout no more! - Heave a cry - As he rideth by, - Sons of Orm, for Gamelbar! - Folk for Gamel, - Fame for Gamel, - Years and fame for Gamelbar! - - Chorus:--Oh, sleep for a knave - With his sins in the sod! - And death for the brave, - With his glory up to God! - And joy for the girl, - And ease for the churl! - But the great game of war - For our lord Gamelbar, - Gamelbar! - - - - -Golden Rowan. - - -[Sidenote: BLISS CARMAN] - - She lived where the mountains go down to the sea, - And river and tide confer. - Golden Rowan, in Menalowan, - Was the name they gave to her. - - She had the soul no circumstance - Can hurry or defer. - Golden Rowan, of Menalowan, - How time stood still for her! - - Her playmates for their lovers grew, - But that shy wanderer, - Golden Rowan, of Menalowan, - Knew love was not for her. - - Hers was the love of wilding things; - To hear a squirrel chirr - In the golden rowan of Menalowan - Was joy enough for her. - - She sleeps on the hill with the lonely sun, - Where in the days that were, - The golden rowan of Menalowan - So often shadowed her. - - The scarlet fruit will come to fill, - The scarlet spring to stir - The golden rowan of Menalowan, - And wake no dream for her. - - Only the wind is over her grave, - For mourner and comforter; - And “Golden Rowan, of Menalowan,” - Is all we know of her. - - - - -A Sea Child. - - -[Sidenote: BLISS CARMAN] - - The lover of child Marjory - Had one white hour of life brim full; - Now the old nurse, the rocking sea, - Hath him to lull. - - The daughter of child Marjory - Hath in her veins, to beat and run, - The glad indomitable sea, - The strong white sun. - - - - -The Quest. - - -[Sidenote: ELLEN MACKAY HUTCHINSON] - - It was a heavenly time of life - When first I went to Spain, - The lovely lands of silver mists, - The land of golden grain. - - My little ship through unknown seas - Sailed many a changing day; - Sometimes the chilling winds came up - And blew across her way. - - Sometimes the rain came down and hid - The shining shores of Spain, - The beauty of the silver mists - And of the golden grain. - - But through the rains and through the winds, - Upon the untried sea, - My fairy ship sailed on and on, - With all my dreams and me. - - And now, no more a child, I long - For that sweet time again, - When on the far horizon bar - Rose up the shores of Spain. - - O lovely land of silver mists, - O land of golden grain, - I look for you with smiles, with tears, - But look for you in vain! - - - - -Moth-Song. - - - What dost thou here, - Thou dusky courtier, - Within the pinky palace of the rose? - Here is no bed for thee, - No honeyed spicery,-- - But for the golden bee, - And the gay wind, and me - Its sweetness grows. - Rover, thou dost forget;-- - Seek thou the passion-flower - Bloom of one twilight hour. - Haste, thou art late! - Its hidden savours wait. - For thee is spread - Its soft, purple coverlet; - Moth, art thou sped? - --Dim as a ghost he flies - Through the night mysteries. - - - - -June. - - -[Sidenote: ELLEN MACKAY HUTCHINSON] - - Of silvery-shining rains - And noonday golds and shadows - June weaves wild-daisy chains - For happy meadows. - - She stoops to set the stream - With scented alder-bushes, - And with the rainbow gleam - Of iris ’mid the rushes, - She scatters eglantine - And scarlet columbine. - - Ah, June, my lovely lass,-- - Sweetheart, dost thou not see - I stay to watch thee pass-- - What hast thou brought to me? - - Thy mystic ministries - Of glorious far skies, - Thy wild-rose sermons, Sweet, - Like dreams profound and fleet, - Thy woodland harmony - Thou givest me. - - The vision that can see, - The loving will to learn, - How fair thy skies may be, - What in thy roses burn, - Thy secret harmonies,-- - Ah, give me these! - - - - -Scent o’ Pines. - - -[Sidenote: HUGH M‘CULLOCH] - - Love, shall I liken thee unto the rose - That is so sweet? - Nay, since for a single day she grows, - Then scattered lies upon the garden-rows - Beneath our feet. - - But to the perfume shed when forests nod, - When noonday shines, - That lulls us as we tread the woodland sod, - Eternal as the peace of God - The scent o’ pines. - - - - -The Reed-Player. - - -[Sidenote: DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT] - - By a dim shore where water darkening - Took the last light of spring, - I went beyond the tumult, harkening - For some diviner thing. - - Where the bats flew from the black elms like leaves, - Over the ebon pool - Brooded the bittern’s cry, as one that grieves - Lands ancient, bountiful. - - I saw the fire-flies shine below the wood, - Above the shallows dank, - As Uriel, from some great altitude, - The planets rank on rank. - - And now unseen along the shrouded mead - One went under the hill; - He blew a cadence on his mellow reed, - That trembled and was still. - - It seemed as if a line of amber fire - Had shot the gathered dusk, - As if had blown a wind from ancient Tyre - Laden with myrrh and musk. - - He gave his luring note amid the fern; - Its enigmatic fall - Haunted the hollow dusk with golden turn - And argent interval. - - I could not know the message that he bore, - The springs of life from me - Hidden; his incommunicable lore - As much a mystery. - - And as I followed far the magic player - He passed the maple wood; - And, when I passed, the stars had risen there, - And there was solitude. - - - - -The Celtic Cross. - - -[Sidenote: THOMAS D’ARCY M‘CGEE] - - Through storm and fire and gloom, I see it stand - Firm, broad, and tall, - The Celtic Cross that marks our Fatherland, - Amid them all! - Druids and Danes and Saxons vainly rage - Around its base; - It standeth shock on shock, and age on age, - Star of our scatter’d race. - - O Holy Cross! dear symbol of the dread - Death of our Lord, - Around thee long have slept our martyr dead - Sward over sward. - An hundred bishops I myself can count - Among the slain: - Chiefs, captains, rank and file, a shining mount - Of God’s ripe grain. - - The monarch’s mace, the Puritan’s claymore, - Smote thee not down; - On headland steep, on mountain summit hoar, - In mart and town, - In Glendalough, in Ara, in Tyrone, - We find thee still, - Thy open arms still stretching to thine own, - O’er town and lough and hill. - - And would they tear thee out of Irish soil, - The guilty fools! - How time must mock their antiquated toil - And broken tools! - Cranmer and Cromwell from thy grasp retir’d, - Baffled and thrown; - William and Anne to sap thy site conspir’d,-- - The rest is known. - -[Sidenote: THOMAS D’ARCY M‘CGEE] - - Holy Saint Patrick, father of our faith, - Belov’d of God! - Shield thy dear Church from the impending scaith, - Or, if the rod - Must scourge it yet again, inspire and raise - To emprise high - Men like the heroic race of other days, - Who joyed to die. - - Fear! wherefore should the Celtic people fear - Their Church’s fate? - The day is not--the day was never near-- - Could desolate - The Destin’d Island, all whose clay - Is holy ground: - Its Cross shall stand till that predestin’d day - When Erin’s self is drown’d. - - - - -The Tryst of the Night. - - -[Sidenote: MARY C. G. BYRON - -(M. C. Gillington)] - - Out of the uttermost ridge of dusk, where the dark and - the day are mingled, - The voice of the Night rose cold and calm--it called through - the shadow-swept air; - Through all the valleys and lone hillsides, it pierced, it - thrilled, it tingled-- - It summoned me forth to the wild sea-shore, to meet with its - mystery there. - - Out of the deep ineffable blue, with palpitant swift repeating - Of gleam and glitter and opaline glow, that broke in ripples of light-- - In burning glory it came and went,--I heard, I saw it beating, - Pulse by pulse, from star to star,--the passionate heart of the Night! - - Out of the thud of the rustling sea--the panting, yearning, throbbing - Waves that stole on the startled shore, with coo and mutter of spray-- - The wail of the Night came fitful-faint,--I heard her stifled sobbing: - The cold salt drops fell slowly, slowly, gray into gulfs of gray. - - There through the darkness the great world reeled, and the great - tides roared, assembling-- - Murmuring hidden things that are past, and secret things that shall be; - There at the limits of life we met, and touched with a - rapturous trembling-- - One with each other, I and the Night, and the skies, and - the stars, and sea. - - - - -The Doom-Bar. - - -[Sidenote: ALICE E. GILLINGTON] - - O d’you hear the seas complainin’, and complainin’, whilst it’s rainin’? - Did you hear it mourn in the dimorts,[33] when the surf - woke up and sighed? - The choughs screamed on the sand, - And the foam flew over land, - And the seas rolled dark on the Doom-Bar at rising of the tide. - - I gave my lad a token, when he left me nigh heartbroken, - To mind him of old Padstow town, where loving souls abide; - ’Twas a ring with the words set - All round, “Can Love Forget?” - And I watched his vessel toss on the Bar with the outward-turning tide. - - D’you hear the seas complainin’, and complainin’, while it’s rainin’? - And his vessel has never crossed the Bar from the purple seas outside; - And down the shell-pink sands, - Where we once went, holding hands, - Alone I watch the Doom-Bar and the rising of the tide. - - One day--’twas four years after--the harbour-girls, with laughter - So soft and wild as sea-gulls when they’re playing seek-and-hide, - Coaxed me out--for the tides were lower - Than had ever been known before; - And we ran across the Doom-Bar, all white and shining wide. - - I saw a something shinin’, where the long, wet weeds were twinin’ - Around a rosy scallop; and a gold ring lay inside; - And around its rim were set - The words “Can Love Forget?”-- - And there upon the Doom-Bar I knelt and sobbed and cried. - - I took my ring and smoothed it where the sand and shells had grooved it; - But O! St Petrock bells will never ring me home a bride!-- - For the night my lad was leavin’ - Me, all tearful-eyed and grievin’, - He had tossed my keepsake out on the Bar to the rise and fall of the tide! - - D’you hear the seas complainin’, and complainin’, while it’s rainin’? - Did you hear them call in the dimorts, when the surf woke up and sighed? - Maybe it is a token - I shall go no more heart-broken-- - And I shall cross the Doom-Bar at the turning of the tide. - - - - -The Seven Whistlers. - - -[Sidenote: ALICE E. GILLINGTON] - - Whistling strangely, whistling sadly, whistling sweet and clear, - The Seven Whistlers have passed thy house, Pentruan of Porthmeor; - It was not in the morning, nor the noonday’s golden grace, - It was in the dead waste midnight, when the tide yelped loud in the Race: - The tide swings round in the Race, and they’re plaining whisht and low, - And they come from the gray sea-marshes, where the gray - sea-lavenders grow, - And the cotton-grass sways to and fro; - And the gore-sprent sundews thrive - With oozy hands alive. - Canst hear the curlews’ whistle through thy dreamings dark and drear, - How they’re crying, crying, crying, Pentruan of Porthmeor? - - Shall thy hatchment, mouldering grimly in yon church amid the sands, - Stay trouble from thy household? Or the carven cherub-hands - Which hold thy shield to the font? Or the gauntlets on the wall - Keep evil from its onward course as the great tides rise and fall? - The great tides rise and fall, and the cave sucks in the breath - Of the wave when it runs with tossing spray, and the ground-sea - rattles of Death; - “I rise in the shallows,” ’a saith, - “Where the mermaid’s kettle sings, - And the black shag flaps his wings!” - Ay, the green sea-mountain leaping may lead horror in its rear, - When thy drenched sail leans to its yawning trough, Pentruan of Porthmeor! - - Yet the stoup waits at thy doorway for its load of glittering ore, - And thy ships lie in the tideway, and thy flocks along the moor; - And thine arishes gleam softly when the October moonbeams wane, - When in the bay all shining the fishers set the seine; - The fishers cast the seine, and ’tis “Heva!” in the town, - And from the watch-rock on the hill the huers are shouting down; - And ye hoist the mainsail brown, - As over the deep-sea roll - The lurker follows the shoal; - To follow and to follow, in the moonshine silver-clear, - When the halyards creek to thy dipping sail, Pentruan of Porthmeor! - - And wailing, and complaining, and whistling whisht and clear, - The Seven Whistlers have passed thy house, Pentruan of Porthmeor! - It was not in the morning, nor the noonday’s golden grace,-- - It was in the fearsome midnight, when the tide-dogs yelped in the Race: - --The tide swings round in the Race, and they’re whistling whisht and low, - And they come from the lonely heather, where the fur-edged foxgloves blow, - And the moor-grass sways to and fro, - Where the yellow moor-birds sigh, - And the sea-cooled wind sweeps by. - Canst hear the curlews’ whistle through the darkness wild and drear,-- - How they’re calling, calling, calling Pentruan of Porthmeor? - - - - -Requiem. - - -[Sidenote: SHANE LESLIE] - - In sweet Irish clay may I lie - Heart clasped to my race, - O brothers and sisters of mine, - Give me your space. - For mine was the life that you lived, - The fight that you fought, - And bright in the gloom of mine own - Were deeds you had wrought. - So let the dear dust of your head - Drift over my face, - And this be the dirge that you sing - And song that you trace. - A pebble is thrown to the beach - From whence it was brought, - A leaf has dropped weary for rest - To those it had sought. - - - - -An Old Woman of the Roads. - -(“Wild Earth and other Poems.” Macmillan.) - - -[Sidenote: PADRAIC COLUM] - - O, to have a little house! - To own the hearth and stool and all! - The heaped-up sods upon the fire, - The pile of turf against the wall! - - To have a clock with weights and chains - And pendulum swinging up and down! - A dresser filled with shining delph, - Speckled and white and blue and brown! - - I could be busy all the day - Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor, - And fixing on their shelf again - My white and blue and speckled store! - - I could be quiet there at night - Beside the fire and by myself, - Sure of a bed, and loath to leave - The ticking clock and the shining delph! - - Och! but I’m weary of mist and dark, - And roads where there’s never a house or bush, - And tired I am of bog and road, - And the crying wind and the lonesome hush! - - And I am praying to God on high, - And I am praying Him night and day, - For a little house--a house of my own-- - Out of the wind’s and the rain’s way. - - - - -A Cradle Song. - -(“Wild Earth and other Poems.” Macmillan.) - - -[Sidenote: PADRAIC COLUM] - - O, men from the fields! - Come softly within. - Tread softly, softly, - O men coming in. - - Mavourneen is going - From me and from you, - Where Mary will fold him - With mantle of blue - - From reek of the smoke - And cold of the floor, - And peering of things - Across the half-door. - - O men from the fields! - Soft, softly come thro’. - Mary puts round him - Her mantle of blue. - - - - -The Coolun. - -(“Reincarnations.” Macmillan.) - - -[Sidenote: ELEANOR HULL] - - Come with me, under my coat, - And we will drink our fill - Of the milk of the white goat, - Or wine if it be thy will; - And we will talk until - Talk is a trouble, too, - Out on the side of the hill, - And nothing is left to do, - But an eye to look into an eye - And a hand in a hand to slip, - And a sigh to answer a sigh, - And a lip to find out a lip: - What if the night be black - And the air on the mountain chill, - Where the goat lies down in her track - And all but the fern is still! - Stay with me under my coat, - And we will drink our fill - Of the milk of the white goat - Out on the side of the hill. - - - - -The Clouds. - -(“Songs from the Clay.” Macmillan.) - - -[Sidenote: JAMES STEPHENS] - - I stood and looked around where, far and nigh, - The heather bloom was swaying in the air, - The clouds chased one another down the sky - Beyond my sight, and everywhere - The birds flew through the sunshine, where they sang - So loud, so clear, so sweet, the heavens rang - Of lark and thrush and stare. - - I never heard a melody so sweet - As I heard then; I never knew a day - So filled with sunshine; never saw the fleet - And tinted clouds so high and free and gay; - Each danced to the horizon like a boy - Let out from school, each tumbled in its joy - And ran away. - - - - -The Old Woman of Beare. - -(“The Poem Book of the Gael.” Chatto & Windus.) - - -[Sidenote: ELEANOR HULL] - - Ebb tide to me! - My life drifts downward with the drifting sea; - Old age has caught and compassed me about, - The tides of time run out. - - The “Hag of Beare!” - ’Tis thus I hear the young girls jeer and mock; - Yet I, who in these cast-off clouts appear, - Once donned a queenly smock. - - Ye love but self, - Ye churls! to-day ye worship pelf! - But in the days I lived we sought for men, - We loved our lovers then! - - Ah! swiftly when - Their splendid chariots coursed upon the plain, - I checked their pace, for me they flew amain, - Held in by curb and rein. - - I envy not the old, - Whom gold adorns, whom richest robes enfold, - But ah! the girls, who pass my cell at morn, - While I am shorn! - - On sweet May-morn - Their ringing laughter on the breeze is borne, - While I, who shake with ague and with age, - In Litanies engage. - - Amen! and woe is me! - I lie here rotting like a broken tree; - Each acorn has its day and needs must fall, - Time makes an end of all! - -[Sidenote: ELEANOR HULL] - - I had my day with kings! - We drank the brimming mead, the ruddy wine, - Where now I drink whey-water; for company more fine - Than shrivelled hags, hag though I am, I pine. - - The flood-tide thine! - Mine but the low down-curling ebb-tide’s flow, - My youth, my hope, are carried from my hand, - Thy flood-tide foams to land. - - My body drops - Slowly but sure towards the abode we know; - When God’s High Son takes from me all my props - It will be time to go! - - Bony my arms and bare - Could you but see them ’neath the mantle’s flap. - Wizened and worn, that once were round and fair, - When kings lay in my lap. - - ’Tis, “O my God” with me, - Many prayers said, yet more prayers left undone; - If I could spread my garment in the sun - I’d say them, every one. - - The sea-wave talks, - Athwart the frozen earth grim winter stalks; - Young Fermod, son of Mugh, ne’er said me nay, - Yet he comes not to-day. - - How still they row, - Oar dipped by oar the wavering reeds among, - To Alma’s shore they press, a ghostly throng, - Deeply they sleep and long. - - No lightsome laugh - Disturbs my fireside’s stillness; shadows fall, - And quiet forms are gathering round my hearth, - Yet lies the hand of silence on them all. - - I do not deem it ill - That a nun’s veil should rest upon my head; - But finer far my feast-robe’s various hue - To me, when all is said. - - My very cloak grows old; - Grey its tint, its woof is frayed and thin; - I seem to feel grey hairs within its fold, - Or are they on my skin? - - O happy Isle of Ocean, - Thy flood-tide leaps to meet eddying wave - Lifting it up and onward. Till the grave - The sea-wave comes not after ebb for me. - - I find them not - Those sunny sands I knew so well of yore; - Only the surf’s sad roar sounds up to me, - My tide will turn no more. - - - - -From a “Litany of Beauty.” - - -[Sidenote: THOMAS MACDONAGH] - - O shapely Flower that must for aye endure! - O Voice of God that every heart must hear! - O Hymn of purest souls that dost unsphere - The ravished soul that lists! O white, white Gem! - O Rose that dost the senses drown in bliss! - No thing can stay, no thing can stem, - No thing can lure the heart to miss - Thy love, thy joy, thy rapture divine-- - O Beauty, Beauty, ever thine - The soul, the heart, the brain, - To hymn thee in a loud perpetual strain, - Shriller and sweeter than song of wine, - Than lay of sorrow or love or war-- - Beauty of heaven and sun and day, - Beauty of water and frost and star, - Beauty of dusk-tide, narrowing, grey ... - Beauty of silver light, - Beauty of purple night, - Beauty of solemn breath, - Beauty of closed eye, and sleep, and death ... - Beauty of dawn and dew, - Beauty of morning peace - Ever ancient and ever new, - Ever renewed till waking cease - Or sleep forever, when loud the angel’s word - Through all the world is heard ... - Beauty of brute and bird, - Beauty of earthly creatures - Whose hearts by the hand of God are stirred ... - Beauty of the soul, - Beauty informing forms and features, - Fairest to God’s eye, - Beauty that cannot fade or die - Till eternal atoms to ruin roll! - - (By permission of The Talbot Press, Dublin.) - - Beauty of blinded Trust, - Led by the hand of God - To a heaven where cherub hath never trod. - Austere Beauty of Truth, - Lighting the way of the Just ... - Splendid Beauty of Youth, - Staying when Youth is fled, - Living when Life is dead, - Burning in funeral dust! - - The glory of form doth pale and pall, - Beauty endures to the end of all. - - - - -I will go with my Father a-ploughing. - - -[Sidenote: SEOSAMH MACCATHMHAOIL] - - I will go with my father a-ploughing - To the green field by the sea, - And the rooks and the crows and the seagulls - Will come flocking after me. - I will sing to the patient horses - With the lark in the white of the air, - And my father will sing the plough-song - That blesses the cleaving share. - - I will go with my father a-sowing - To the red field by the sea, - And the rooks and the gulls and the starlings - Will come flocking after me. - I will sing to the striding sowers - With the finch on the flowering sloe, - And my father will sing the seed-song - That only the wise men know. - - I will go with my father a-reaping - To the brown field by the sea, - And the geese and the crows and the children - Will come flocking after me. - I will sing to the weary reapers - With the wren in the heat of the sun, - And my father will sing the scythe-song - That joys for the harvest done. - - - - -A Northern Love Song. - - -[Sidenote: SEOSAMH MACCATHMHAOIL] - - Brighidín Bhán of the lint-white locks, - What was it gave you that flaxen hair, - Long as the summer heath in the rocks? - What was it gave you those eyes of fire, - Lip so waxen and cheek so wan? - Tell me, tell me, Brighidín Bhán, - Little white bride of my heart’s desire. - - Was it the Good People stole you away, - Little white changeling, Brighidín Bhán? - Carried you off in the ring of the dawn, - Laid like a queen on her purple car, - Carried you back between night and day; - Gave you that fortune of flaxen hair, - Gave you those eyes of wandering fire, - Lit at the wheel of the northern star? - Gave you that look so far away? - Tell me, tell me, Brighidín Bhán, - Little white bride of my heart’s desire. - - - - -Fairy Workers. - -(“Songs of Donegal.” Herbert Jenkins.) - - -[Sidenote: PATRICK MACGILL] - - Said the Fairies of Kilfinnan - To the Fairies of Macroom: - “Oh! send to us a shuttle - For our little fairy loom. - Our workers, one and twenty, - Are waiting in the Coom----” - So Kilfinnan got a shuttle - From the Fairies of Macroom. - - Kilfinnan got the shuttle, - The shuttle for the loom. - “Now, send us back a hammer,” - Said the Fairies of Macroom. - “We’ve cobblers, one and twenty, - All idle in their room.” - And Kilfinnan sent a hammer - To the Fairies of Macroom. - - The Queen of all the Fairies - Sat in her drawing-room: - Her robes came from Kilfinnan, - Her brogues came from Macroom. - Now, at the Royal Dinner - The proudest in the room - Were the Fairies from Kilfinnan - And the Fairies from Macroom. - - - - -The Shadow People. - -(“Complete Poems.” Published by Herbert Jenkins.) - - -[Sidenote: FRANCIS LEDWIDGE] - - Old lame Bridget doesn’t hear - Fairy music in the grass - When the gloaming’s on the mere - And the shadow people pass: - Never hears their slow grey feet - Coming from the village street - Just beyond the parson’s wall, - Where the clover globes are sweet - And the mushroom’s parasol - Opens in the moonlit rain. - Every night I hear them call - From their long and merry train. - Old lame Bridget says to me, - “It is just your fancy, child.” - She cannot believe I see - Laughing faces in the wild, - Hands that twinkle in the sedge - Bowing at the water’s edge - Where the finny minnows quiver, - Shaping on a blue wave’s ledge - Bubble foam to sail the river. - And the sunny hands to me - Beckon ever, beckon ever. - Oh! I would be wild and free, - And with the shadow people be. - - - - -My Mother. - -(“Complete Poems.” Published by Herbert Jenkins.) - - -[Sidenote: FRANCIS LEDWIDGE] - - God made my mother on an April day, - From sorrow and the mist along the sea, - Lost birds’ and wanderers’ songs and ocean spray, - And the moon loved her wandering jealously. - - Beside the ocean’s din she combed her hair, - Singing the nocturne of the passing ships, - Before her earthly lover found her there - And kissed away the music from her lips. - - She came unto the hills and saw the change - That brings the swallow and the geese in turns. - But there was not a grief she deeméd strange, - For there is that in her which always mourns. - - Kind heart she has for all on hill or wave - Whose hopes grew wings like ants to fly away. - I bless the God Who such a mother gave - This poor bird-hearted singer of a day. - - - - -Lyric from “The Crier by Night.” - -(“King Lear’s Wife and other Plays.” Published by Constable.) - - -[Sidenote: GORDON BOTTOMLEY] - - The bird in my heart’s a-calling through a far-fled, tear-grey sea - To the soft slow hills that cherish dim waters weary for me, - Where the folk of rath and dun trail homeward silently - In the mist of the early night-fall that drips from their hair like rain. - - The bird in my heart’s a-flutter, for the bitter wind of the sea - Shivers with thyme and woodbine as my body with memory; - I feel their perfumes ooze in my ears like melody-- - The scent of the mead at the harping I shall not hear again. - - The bird in my heart’s a-sinking to a hushed vale hid in the sea, - Where the moonlit dew o’er dead fighters is stirred by the feet - of the Shee, - Who are lovely and old as the earth but younger than I an be - Who have known the forgetting of dying to a life one lonely pain. - - - - -The Quest. - -(Dublin University Press.) - - - They said: “She dwelleth in some place apart, - Immortal Truth, within whose eyes - Who looks may find the secret of the skies - And healing for life’s smart.” - - I sought Her in loud caverns underground-- - On heights where lightnings flashed and fell; - I scaled high Heaven; I stormed the gates of Hell, - But Her I never found. - - Till thro’ the tumults of my Quest I caught - A whisper: “Here, within thy heart, - I dwell; for I am thou: behold thou art - The Seeker--and the Sought.” - - - - -The Fool. - - -[Sidenote: PADRAIC H. PEARSE] - - Since the wise men have not spoken, I speak that am only a fool; - A fool that hath loved his folly, - Yea, more than the wise men their books or their counting houses, - or their quiet homes, - Or their fame in men’s mouths; - A fool that in all his days hath done never a prudent thing, - Never hath counted the cost, nor recked if another reaped - The fruit of his mighty sowing, content to scatter the seed; - A fool that is unrepentant, and that soon at the end of all - Shall laugh in his lonely heart as the ripe ears fall to the reaping-hooks - And the poor are filled that were empty, - Tho’ he go hungry. - - I have squandered the splendid years that the Lord God gave to my youth - In attempting impossible things, deeming them alone worth the toil. - Was it folly or grace? Not men shall judge me, but God. - - I have squandered the splendid years: - Lord, if I had the years I would squander them over again, - Aye, fling them from me! - For this I have heard in my heart, that a man shall scatter, not hoard, - Shall do the deed of to-day, nor take thought of to-morrow’s teen, - Shall not bargain or huxter with God; or was it a jest of Christ’s - And is this my sin before men, to have taken Him at His word? - - The lawyers have sat in council, the men with the keen, long faces, - -[Sidenote: PADRAIC H. PEARSE] - - And said, “This man is a fool,” and others have said, “He blasphemeth”; - And the wise have pitied the fool that hath striven to give a life - In the world of time and space among the bulks of actual things, - To a dream that was dreamed in the heart, and that only the heart - could hold. - - O wise men, riddle me this: what if the dream come true? - What if the dream come true? and if millions unborn shall dwell - In the house that I shaped in my heart, the noble house of my thought? - Lord, I have staked my soul, I have staked the lives of my kin - On the truth of Thy dreadful word. Do not remember my failures, - But remember this my faith. - - And so I speak. - Yea, ere my hot youth pass, I speak to my people and say: - Ye shall be foolish as I; ye shall scatter, not save; - Ye shall venture your all, lest ye lose what is more than all; - Ye shall call for a miracle, taking Christ at His word. - And for this I will answer, O people, answer here and hereafter, - O people that I have loved, shall we not answer together? - - (By permission of Messrs. Maunsel & Roberts, Dublin.) - - - - -The Return of Song. - - -[Sidenote: LORD DUNSANY] - -“The swans are singing again,” said to one another the gods. And looking -downwards, for my dreams had taken me to some fair and far Valhalla, I -saw below me an iridescent bubble not greatly larger than a star shine -beautifully but faintly, and up and up from it looking larger and larger -came a flock of white, innumerable swans, singing and singing and -singing, till it seemed as though even the gods were wild ships swimming -in music. - -“What is it?” I said to one that was humble among the gods. - -“Only a world has ended,” he said to me, “and the swans are coming back -to the gods returning the gift of song.” - -“A whole world dead!” I said. - -“Dead,” said he that was humble among the gods. “The worlds are not for -ever; only song is immortal.” - -“Look! look!” he said. “There will be a new one soon.” - -And I looked and saw the larks, going down from the gods. - - - - -Dance to your Shadow. - - -[Sidenote: KENNETH MACLEOD] - - Dance to your shadow when it’s good to be living, lad, - Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you. - Dance to your shadow when it’s fine to be living, lad, - Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you. - Ho ro haradal, hind[34] ye haradal, - Ho ro haradal, hind ye han dan. - - Dance to your shadow when it’s hard to be living, lad, - Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you. - Dance to your shadow when it’s sore to be living, lad, - Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you. - Ho ro haradal, etc. - - Dance to your shadow, letting Fate to her fiddle, lad, - Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you. - Dance to your shadow, for it’s fine to be living, lad, - Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you. - Ho ro haradal, etc. - - - - -Sea Longing. - - - Sore sea-longing in my heart, - Blue deep Barra waves are calling, - Sore sea-longing in my heart. - Glides the sun, but ah! how slowly, - Far away to luring seas! - Sore sea-longing in my heart, - Blue deep Barra waves are calling, - Sore sea-longing in my heart. - Hear’st, O Sun, the roll of waters, - Breaking, calling by yon Isle? - Sore sea-longing in my heart, - Blue deep Barra waves are calling, - Sore sea-longing in my heart. - Sun on high, ere falls the gloamin’, - Heart to heart, thou’lt greet yon waves. - Mary Mother, how I yearn, - Blue deep Barra waves are calling, - Mary Mother, how I yearn. - - - - -The Reiving Ship. - - -[Sidenote: KENNETH MACLEOD] - - A ho hi! hirrum bo! - Early sails she to the reiving, - A ho hi! Hirrum bo! - Flashing by the frowning headlands. - A ho hi! Hirrum bo! - Early sails she to the reiving. - - A ho hi! Hirrum bo! - Grinds beneath her, gray-blue limpets, - A ho hi! hirrum bo! - Crunches curving whelks to sand-drift. - A ho hi! hirrum bo! - Early sails she to the reiving. - - Sweeps she gaily[35]Moola’s waters, Kyles and Moyles to fair green Isla, - Leaps her way to Isles of daring, gleaming Isles of blades and laughter. - A ho hi! hirrum bo! - Early sails she to the reiving. - - - - -Land of Heart’s Desire. - - -[Sidenote: MARJORY KENNEDY-FRASER] - - Land of Heart’s Desire, Isle of Youth, - Dear Western Isle, gleaming in sunlight! - Land of Heart’s Desire, Isle of Youth! - - Far the cloudless sky stretches blue - Across the isle, green in the sunlight,-- - Far the cloudless sky stretches blue. - - There shall thou and I wander free, - On sheen-white sands, dreaming in starlight. - Land of Heart’s Desire, Isle of Youth! - - - - -Ossian’s Midsummer Day-Dream. - -“Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky.” - -(After Thos. Pattison’s translation from Ossian--“The sweet voice of -Cona.”) - - -[Sidenote: MARJORY KENNEDY-FRASER] - - Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky, - While bright the sun shines on Cona’s steep. - Sweet sounds the note of the lonely heron, - Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky. - - Bright the sun shines on Cona’s steep, - While hounds for chase all on fire are straining. - Their deep-mouthed bay sweet as bardic music, - Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky. - - Sweet the winds softly murmuring, - Of eagle sweet is the far-heard cry. - As sails she o’er Morven’s mighty sea-board, - Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky. - - - - -Kishmul’s Galley. - - -[Sidenote: MARJORY KENNEDY-FRASER] - - High from the Ben a Hayich - On a day of days - Seaward I gaz’d, - Watching Kishmul’s galley sailing. - O hio huo faluo! - - Homeward she bravely battles - ’Gainst the hurtling waves - Nor hoop nor yards, - Anchor, cable, nor tackle has she. - O hio huo faluo! - - Now at last ’gainst wind and tide - They’ve brought her to - ’Neath Kishmul’s walls, - Kishmul Castle our ancient glory. - O hio huo faluo! - - Here’s red wine and feast for heroes - And harping too, - O hio hu! - Sweet harping too! - O hio huo faluo! - - - - -Aignish on the Machair. - - -[Sidenote: AGNES MURE MACKENZIE] - - When day and night are over, - And the World is done with me, - Oh carry me West and lay me - In Aignish by the Sea. - - And never heed me lying - Among the ancient dead, - Beside the white sea breakers - And sand-drift overhead. - - The grey gulls wheeling ever, - And the wide arch of sky, - On Aignish on the Machair, - And quiet there to lie. - - - - -Fingal’s Weeping. - - -[Sidenote: NEIL MUNRO] - - Because they were so brave and young - Who now are sleeping, - His old heart wrung, his harp unstrung, - Fingal’s a-weeping. - - There’s warble of waters at morning in Etive glen, - And the mists are flying; - Chuckle of Spring in the wood, on the moor, on the ben, - No heed for their dying! - So Fingal’s weeping the young brave sleeping, - Fingal’s weeping. - - They’ll be forgot in Time,--forgot! - Time that goes sweeping; - The wars they fought remembered not, - And Fingal’s weeping. - - Hearken for voices of sorrow for them in the forest den - Where once they were rovers-- - Only the birds of the wild at their building again, - Whispering of lovers! - So Fingal’s weeping, his old grief keeping, - Fingal’s weeping. - - They should be mourned by the ocean wave - Round lone isles creeping, - But the laughing wave laments no grave, - And Fingal’s weeping. - - Morven and Moidart, glad, gallant and gay in the sun, - Rue naught departed; - The moon and the stars shine out when the day is done, - Cold, stony-hearted, - And Fingal’s weeping war’s red reaping, - Fingal’s weeping! - - - - -NOTES - - -ANCIENT IRISH AND SCOTTISH - -THE MYSTERY OF AMERGIN. PAGE 3 - -Of this strange pantheistical fragment, Dr Douglas Hyde writes:--“The -first poem written in Ireland is said to have been the work of Amergin, -who was brother of Evir, Ir, and Eremon, the first Milesian princes who -colonised Ireland many hundred of years before Christ. The three short -pieces of verse ascribed to Amergin are certainly very ancient and very -strange. But, as the whole story of the Milesian invasion is wrapped in -mystery and is quite possibly only a rationalised account of early Irish -mythology (in which the Tuatha De Danann, Firbolgs, and possibly -Milesians, are nothing but the gods of the early Irish euhemerised into -men), no faith can be placed in the alleged date or genuineness of -Amergin’s verses. They are, however, of interest, because as Irish -tradition has always represented them as being the first verses made in -Ireland, so it may very well be that they actually do present the oldest -surviving lines in any vernacular tongue in Europe except Greek.” - -THE SONG OF FIONN. PAGE 4 - -“The Song of Finn MacCool, composed after his eating of the Salmon of -Knowledge.” This, if not the earliest, is almost the earliest authentic -fragment of Erse poetry. The translation is after O’Donovan and Dr -Douglas Hyde. - -CREDHE’S LAMENT. PAGE 5 - -From _The Colloquy of the Ancients_ (called also “The Dialogue of the -Sages,” and by other analogues), translated by Standish Hayes O’Grady -(_vide_ _The Book of Lismore_; _Silva Gadelica_; etc.). See specific -mention in Introduction. - -CUCHULLIN IN HIS CHARIOT. PAGE 6 - -(_Source_: Hector MacLean’s _Ultonian Hero Ballads_. See Introduction.) - -DEIRDRE’S LAMENT FOR THE SONS OF USNACH. PAGE 8 - -Of the many Irish-Gaelic and Scottish-Gaelic and English translations -and paraphrases, I have selected the rendering of Sir Samuel Ferguson. -The original Erse is of unknown antiquity. (See Introduction.) - -THE LAMENT OF QUEEN MAEV. PAGE 10 - -This admirable translation is by Mr T. W. Rolleston (_vide_ Note to p. -166), after the original in _The Book of Leinster_. - -THE MARCH OF THE FAERIE HOST. PAGE 12 - -This striking poem is given as translated by Professor Kuno Meyer. It -and other verses are to be found, in the original, in _The Book of -Lismore_ (15th century). The particular narrative therein deals with the -visit of Laegaire mac Crimthainn to the land of Faerie. The episodic -portion of this narrative has been translated and edited by Mr Standish -Hayes O’Grady (see _Silva Gadelica_); but the general reader may be more -interested in the brief and lucid commentary of Professor Kuno Meyer -(see _The Voyage of Bran_--with Essay on the Celtic Elysium, by Mr -Alfred Nutt--recently published by D. Nutt). Professor Meyer considers -this and the other verses of “Laegaire mac Crimthainn” to be as old as -the 10th century period. “The Faerie Host,” as here given, is -fragmentary, being part of an episode; but I have further curtailed it -by three lines, for the sake of effect and unity of impression. The -other three lines are-- - -“At all times melodious are they, -Quick-witted in song-making, -Skilled at playing _fiachell_.” - -VISION OF A FAIR WOMAN. PAGE 13 - -This characteristic Scoto-Celtic poem is supposed by some scholars to be -very ancient. The Gaelic version permits of some doubt on the -conjecture, but the text is not in this instance conclusive. The -“Aisling” will be found in Smith’s _Collection of Ancient Poems, from -the Gaelic of Ossian, Ullin, Orran, and others_ (1780)--the reputed -originals of which were published in 1787. See, for easier reference, -Nigel MacNeil’s _Literature of the Highlanders_, p. 218. - -THE FIAN BANNERS. PAGE 14 - -This paraphrase of an ancient poem is modern. The original is supposed -to relate to the Scoto-Celtic and Viking wars of the 11th century. (See -Nigel MacNeil’s _Literature of the Highlanders_, p. 117.) - -THE RUNE OF ST PATRICK (“THE FAEDH; OR, THE CRY OF THE DEER”). PAGE 17 - -This translation of the “Faedh,” from _The Book of Hymns_ (11th -century), is by Charles Mangan. - -COLUMCILLE CECENIT. PAGE 18 - -The version of Colum’s Hymn here given is the translation of Dr Douglas -Hyde, himself a poet, and one of the foremost living Irish folk-lorists. -All students of Celtic literature should see his fascinating volume of -metrical renderings of the old Erse, _The Three Sorrows of -Story-Telling_. (_Vide_ Notes to p. 126.) - -COLUMCILLE FECIT. PAGE 20 - -This well-known poem is given as translated by Michael O’Curry, from an -Irish MS. in the Burgundian Library of Brussels. - -THE SONG OF MURDOCH THE MONK. PAGE 22 - -This “Monastic Shaving Song” is the version of Professor Blackie, as -translated from _Bishop Ewing’s Book_. - -DOMHNULL MAC FHIONNLAIDH. “THE AGED BARD’S WISH.” PAGE 23 - -Although this undoubtedly old Gaelic poem is attributed by its -translators, Charles Edward Stuart and John Sobieski, to the early bard -Domhnull Mac Fhionnlaidh, there is no certainty (as they admit) either -as to authorship or date. This version is taken from _Ballads and Songs_ -by Charles Edward Stuart and John Sobieski. - -“OSSIAN SANG.” PAGE 28 - -The original was jotted down in phonetic Gaelic by Dean Macgregor some -380 years ago. - -FINGAL AND ROS-CRANA. PAGE 29 - -This is not part of the text of Macpherson’s _Ossian_ though the -Englishing is by Macpherson, who attributes the original to Colgan, an -ancient Scoto-Irish bard. It will be found in the Notes to _Temora_. -(See Introduction.) - -THE NIGHT-SONG OF THE BARDS. PAGE 31 - -Macpherson “translated” this, he avers, from an old Gaelic original. His -version is to be found in the Notes to _Croma_. - -OSSIAN. “COMALA.” PAGE 35 - -I have selected this short poem as representative of the semi-mythical -Ossian of Macpherson. It is undoubtedly ancient substantially. - -THE DEATH-SONG OF OSSIAN. PAGE 41 - -The close of “The Songs of Selma.” (See foregoing Note.) - - -ANCIENT CORNISH - -THE POOL OF PILATE. PAGE 45 - -From the ancient Cornish drama, _The Resurrection of Christ_ (_vide_ -section: “The Death of Pilate”). See the volume on the subject by Mr -Edwin Norris, referred to in Note to “The Vision of Seth.” - -MERLIN THE DIVINER. PAGE 46 - -(_Vide_ Introduction.) This, though it exists in the old Cornish -dialect, is really an ancient Breton incantation. The Cornish variant is -to be found in that invaluable depository of Armorican legendary lore, -the _Barzaz Breiz_. The translation here given is by Thos. Stephens. -(_Vide_ _Thos. Stephens: a Memoir_. Wm. Rees, Llandovery, 1849.) - -THE VISION OF SETH. PAGE 47 - -This dramatic fragment is from _The Ancient Cornish Drama_, edited and -translated by Edwin Norris, Sec. R.A.S. (Oxford, 1859). - - -ARMORICAN - -THE DANCE OF THE SWORD. PAGE 53 - -(_Vide_ Introduction.) In Armorican, _Gwin ar C‘ Hallaoued: Ha Korol or -C‘ Hlezf_--_i.e._ The Wine of the Gauls, and the Dance of the Sword. -Supposed to be the fragment of a Song that accompanied the old Celtic -sword-dance in honour of the Sun. [This and the following translation by -the late Tom Taylor are, by courteous permission of Messrs Macmillan, -quoted from _Ballads and Songs of Brittany_ (selections from the _Barzaz -Breiz_ of the Vicomte Hersart de la Villemarqué).] - -THE LORD NANN AND THE FAIRY. PAGE 55 - -(By the same, and from the same source.) The “Korrigan” of Breton -superstition has his familiar congeners in Celtic Scotland and Ireland; -and is identical with the “elf” of Scandinavian mythology and of the -Danish ballads. In this English version of “The Lord Nann” the metre and -divisions into stanzas of the original Armorican have been adhered to. -The triplet indicates antiquity in Cambrian and Armorican compositions. - -ALAIN THE FOX. PAGE 58 - -This and the following poem are from the same Franco-Breton source as -their two predecessors, but are translated by Mr F. G. Fleay, M.A. (_The -Masterpieces of Breton Ballads._ Printed for Private Circulation. -Halifax, 1870). - -BRAN (THE CROW). PAGE 60 - -See foregoing Note. - - -EARLY CYMRIC - -THE SOUL. PAGE 67 - -This strange fragment is of unknown antiquity, and may well be, as -affirmed, of as remote a date as the 6th or even 5th century. It is from -that remarkable depository of early Cymric lore, _The Black Book of -Caermarthen_ (1154-1189). - -LLYWARC’H HEN. PAGE 68 - -The “Gorwynion” of Llywarc’h Hên, “Prince of the Cambrian Britons” (if -it is really the work of that poet), is one of the most famous -productions of early Cymric literature. Llywarc’h Hên’s _floreat_ is by -some authorities placed in the middle of the 7th century, by others so -early as the beginning of the 6th, and by others as really extending -from early in the 6th till the middle of the 7th: the drift of evidence -indicates the remoter date as the more probable. The translation here -given was made about a hundred years ago by William Owen. It is not easy -to find an English equivalent for “Gorwynion,” a plural word which -signifies objects that have a very bright whiteness or glare. Perhaps -the word glitterings might serve, though, as has been suggested, the -nearest term would be _Coruscants_. The last line of these verses -generally contains some moral maxim, unconnected with the preceding -lines, except in the metre. It is said that the custom arose through the -desire of the bards to assist the memory in the conveyance of -instruction by oral means. In the translation the rhymed or assonantal -unity of the tercets is lost, with the result that the third-line maxim -generally comes in with almost ludicrous inappositeness. According to -the _Triads of the Isle of Britain_, Llywarc’h Hên passed his younger -days at the Court of Arthur. In one triad he is alluded to as one of -the three free guests at the Arthurian Court; in another, as one of the -three counselling warriors. According to tradition, the bones of this -princely bard lie beneath the Church of Llanvor, where, as averred, he -was interred at the patriarchal age of 150 years. He was not one of the -Sacred Bards, because of his military profession as a prince and knight; -for these might not carry arms, and in their presence a naked sword even -might not be held. The _Beirdd_ were not poets and sages only, but were -accounted and accepted as missioners of peace. - -LLYWARC’H HEN. PAGE 71 - -This is another series of “Gorwynion,” attributed to Llywarc’h Hên by Mr -Skene, who has translated it from _The Red Book of Hergest_ (MS. -compiled in 14th and 15th centuries). The English rendering of _The Red -Book_ was issued through Messrs Edmonston & Douglas of Edinburgh in -1868. - -TALIESIN. PAGE 73 - -“Song to the Wind” (_Vide_ Introduction). “The Song about the Wind,” of -which only a section is given here, will be found in full in Skene’s -_Four Ancient Books of Wales_, Vol. I., page 535, and is the most famous -poem by the most famous of Cymric bards. It was first translated, some -forty-five years ago, by Lady Charlotte Guest, whose Englished -renderings of the “Mabinogion” attracted the attention of scholars -throughout the whole Western world. (Longmans, 1849 and later.) Emerson -delighted in the “Song,” and declared it to be one of the finest pieces -of its kind extant in any literature. See also the _Myvyrian -Archaiology_. - -ANEURIN. PAGE 75 - -Aneurin was one of the famous warrior bards of ancient Wales. His birth -is noted as _Circa_ 500 A.D., and in any case he flourished during the -first half of the 6th century. Aneurin--like Taliesin, called “the -monarch of the bards”--was a Briton of Manau Gododin, a principality or -province of Cymric Scotland, now Mid-Lothian and Linlithgowshire. Manau -Gododin stretched from the Carron of to-day (the Carun of Ossian), some -miles to the north-west of Falkirk to the river Esk, that now divides -Mid-Lothian and East Lothian. Manau Gododin was then much more Celtic -(Pictish) than Gododin. “Breatan Cymru” (_i.e._ the country of the Welsh -Britons) then comprised the larger part of southern Scotland--that is, -from the north end of Loch Lomond, and from the upper reaches of the -Gwruid (the Forth), to the Mull of Galloway on the south-west; eastward -to a line drawn from the western Lammermuirs, by Melrose, Kelso, and -Jedburgh, and so down by the Cheviots to Hexham, and thence -southwesterly by Cumberland. The exception was the Pictish or Celtic -province of Galloway--bounded on the west by Carrawg (that part of -Ayrshire known as Carrick); on the north by Coel (Kyle); on the east by -a line drawn from Sanquhar through Nithsdale and by Dumfries to -Locharmoss and the Solway; on the south-west, by Novant (Mull of -Galloway); and on the south by the Solway Firth. - -Aneurin was a contemporary of the princely poet, Llywarc’h Hên. He was -called Aneurin y Coed Awr ap Caw o Gwm Cawlwyd--or, again, Aneurin -Gwadrydd--both designations indicative of his greatness. It has been -maintained that Aneurin is identical with the celebrated Gildas, “the -author of the Latin epistle which Bede so blindly copied,” both Aneurin -and Gildas having been sons of Caw. He is supposed to be alluded to as -the seventh bard, in a curious fragment preserved in the _Myvyrian -Archaiology_ (Vol. III.), which I excerpt here. - -“The seven questions put by Catwg the Wise, to the Seven Wise Men of the -College of Llanvuthan, and the answers of these men: - - 1. “What is the greatest wisdom of man?” “To be able to do evil and - not to do it,” answered _St Tedio_. - - 2. “What is the highest goodness of man?” “Justice,” answered - _Tahaiarn_. - - 3. “What is the worst principle of man?” “Falsehood,” answered - _Taliesin_, chief of Bards. - - 4. “What is the noblest action of man?” “Correctness,” answered - _Cynan_, son of Clydno Eddin. - - 5. “What is the greatest folly of man?” “To desire a common evil, - which he cannot do,” answered _Ystyvan_, the Bard of Teilo. - - 6. “Who is the poorest man?” “He who is not contented with his own - property,” answered _Arawn_, son of Cynvarch. - - 7. “Who is the richest man?” “He who does not covet anything - belonging to others,” answered _Gildas_ of Coed Awr. - -“The Ode to the Months” is given in the translation of William Probert -(1820), according to whom the Ode contains moral maxims and observations -which were known and repeated long before Aneurin lived, and were put -into verse by him as an aid to the memory: “valuable, because they show -the modes of thinking and expression which the primitive inhabitants of -Britain used nearly 2000 years ago.” - -DAFYDD AP GWILYM. PAGE 78 - -(Fl. 14th century.) In his love of Nature, and in the richness of his -poetic imagination (as well, so say those who can read Welsh fluently, -as in his poetry), Dafydd ap Gwilym is the Keats of Wales. The romance -of his life and wild-wood experiences has yet to be written: and we -still await an adequate translator--though, to judge from some recent -renderings by Mr Ernest Rhys, in an interesting short study of Dafydd, -recently published in _The Chap Book_ (Stone & Kimball, Chicago) we may -not have to wait much longer. He was a love-child: of noble parentage, -though born under a hedge at Llandaff. His mother wedded after his -birth; but he remained the “wilding” throughout his life. He became the -favourite of Ivor Hael of Emlyn, with whose daughter Morvydd he fell in -love. He wooed and won her “under the greenwood tree,” but only to lose -her shortly afterward, when she was forcibly married to a man called Bwa -Bach. Dafydd stole her from her legitimate husband, but was captured and -imprisoned. His ultimate release was due to the payment of the imposed -fine, the sum having been got together by the men of Glamorgan. His most -ardent love-poetry is addressed to this fair Morvydd. - -RHYS GOCH OF ERYRI. PAGE 82 - -There are two famous poets of the name of Rhys Goch; probably both -belong to the 14th century (and Wilkins certainly disputes the claim of -Rhys Goch ap Rhiccart to be of the 12th century). This Ode is an -illustration of the sound answering the sense. Rhys was in love with the -fair Gwen of Dol, and sent a peacock to her. His rival, also a bard, -composed a poem to the Fox, beseeching it to kill his rival’s present, -and, singularly enough, the bird was destroyed by a fox, and the rival -bard was happy. Stung by this misadventure, Rhys composed the above, -which, in the original, so teems with gutturals that Sion Tudor called -it the “Shibboleth of Sobriety, because no man, when drunk, could -possibly pronounce it.” - -RHYS GOCH AP RHICCART. PAGE 83 - -See foregoing Note. - - -IRISH (MODERN AND CONTEMPORARY) - -A.E. PAGES 87-91 - -From _Homeward Songs by the Way_ (Whaley, Dublin). - -This little book, published in paper covers, and apparently with every -effort to avoid rather than court publicity, almost immediately -attracted the notice of the few who watch contemporary poetry with -scrupulously close attention. The author, who is well known in Dublin -literary society, prefers to disguise his identity in public under the -initials A.E., though it is no longer a secret that Mr G. W. Russell is -the name of this poet-dreamer, who, like Blake, of whom he is a student -and interpreter, has also a faculty of pictorial expression of a rare -and distinctive kind. - -WM. ALLINGHAM. (1824-1889.) PAGES 92-94 - -Every lover of Irish poetry is familiar with “The Fairies” of the late -William Allingham. He is an Irish rather than distinctively a Celtic -poet in the strict sense of the word; but every now and again he strikes -the genuine Celtic note, as in his well-known “Fairies,” and the little -poem called the “Æolian Harp,” by which he is also represented here. -Much the best critical summary of his life-work is to be found in the -brief memoir by Mr W. B. Yeats in Miles’ _Poets and Poetry of the -Century_, Vol. V., p. 209. Among the innumerable love songs of the Irish -peasantry there are few more beautiful than Allingham’s “Mary Donnelly.” -As Mr Yeats says, he was “the poet of little things and little moments, -and neither his emotions nor his thoughts took any wide sweep over the -world of Man and Nature.” His “Laurence Bloomfield” is already -practically forgotten; but many of the lighter and often exquisitely -deft lyrics of his early life will remain in the memory of the Irish -people, and one or two at least in English literature. - -THOMAS BOYD. PAGE 95 - -So far as I know, Mr Thomas Boyd has not published any volume of verse. -Some of his poems have appeared in _United Ireland_, among them the -beautiful lines, “To the Lianhaun Shee.” - -EMILY BRONTË. (1818-1848.) PAGE 97 - -It may be as well to explain to those readers who take it for granted -that Emily Brontë is to be accounted an English poet, that she was of -Irish nationality and birth. The name Brontë, so familiar now through -the genius of herself and her sister, was originally Prunty. Everything -from her pen has a note of singular distinction; but perhaps she could -hardly be more characteristically represented than by the poem called -“Remembrance.” The, in quantity, meagre poetic legacy of the author of -_Wuthering Heights_ is comprised (under her pseudonym, Ellis Bell) in -the volume _Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell_. - -STOPFORD A. BROOKE. PAGE 98-100 - -“The Earth and Man” and “Song” (from the poem called “Six Days”) are -from Mr Stopford Brooke’s volume, _Poems_ (Macmillan & Co.). These seem -to me fairly representative of the distinctive atmosphere which Mr -Brooke conveys in all his poetry. See particularly his _Riquet of The -Tuft_ (1880) and _Poems_ (1888). - -JOHN K. CASEY. PAGE 101-3 - -Most of Mr Casey’s poems appeared above the signature “Leo.” Born in -1846, the son of a peasant, his early efforts to make literature his -profession were handicapped by inevitable disadvantages. In 1876 he was -arrested as a Fenian conspirator, and imprisoned. This, combined with -the influence of his unselfish patriotism and the popularity of many of -his lyrics, gave him a recognised place in the Irish Brotherhood of -Song. - -GEORGE DARLEY. (1795-1846.) PAGE 104 - -This remarkable poet, who has so strangely lapsed from public -remembrance, was in his own day greatly admired by his fellow-poets and -the most discerning critics of the period. Mrs Browning, and Robert -Browning still more, were deeply impressed by what is now his best known -production--_Sylvia: a Lyrical Drama_ (1836); and Alfred Tennyson was so -struck by the quality of the young poet’s work that he volunteered to -defray the cost of publishing his verse. Lord Tennyson frequently, in -conversation, alluded to George Darley as one of the “hopelessly -misapprehended men”; and we have Robert Browning’s own authority, says -Darley’s latest biographer, Mr John H. Ingram, for stating that -_Sylvia_ did much to determine the form of his own early dramas. -_Sylvia_, again, charmed Coleridge; and in 1836, Miss Mitford, whom Mr -Ingram calls a leading spirit among the _literati_ of her day, -writes:--“I have just had a present of a most exquisite poem, which old -Mr Carey (the translator of Dante and Pindar) thinks more highly of than -any poem of the present day--‘Sylvia, or The May Queen,’ by George -Darley. It is exquisite--something between the ‘Faithful Shepherdess’ -and the ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream.’” - -Darley was the eldest child of Arthur Darley, of the Scalp, County -Wicklow. The poet, however, was not born there, but in Dublin, in the -year 1795. While he was a child, his parents emigrated to the United -States; and the boy spent the first ten years of his life at the family -home in Wicklow. In due time, and subsequent to the return of his -parents from America, he went through the usual scholastic routine, -though he did not graduate at Trinity College, Dublin, till his -twenty-fifth year--a delay in great part due to what, then and later, he -considered a disastrous impediment of speech. From the loss of a -scholarship to the social deprivations he underwent in London, this -infirmity, he declared, was his evil fortune. His first book, _The -Errors of Ecstasie_, was published (1822) in London, where he had -settled. Needless to say, as this volume consists mainly of a dialogue -between a Mystic and the Moon, the reading public remained in absolute -ignorance of the new poet. His second book (1826) consisted of a series -of prose tales and verses, collectively entitled--_The Labours of -Idleness; or, Seven Nights’ Entertainments_--set forth as by “Guy -Penseval.” Three years later appeared his chief work, _Sylvia_. -Notwithstanding its divers shortcomings, some of them frankly -acknowledged by the author himself, _Sylvia_ is a creation of genuine -imagination, and possesses a haunting and quite distinctive charm. Both -the merits and demerits of his too often uncontrolled style are -adequately indicated in the criticism of Mr Ingram: “[frequently] his -wild Celtic fancy breaks its curb and carries him into clouds of -metaphor as marvellous as they are musical, although often the flight -ends by a hasty and undignified descent to commonplace earth.” There is -no commonplace, however, in his exquisite faëry verse, which, in the -words of the same critic, “is among the loveliest in the language; at -times is even sweeter than Drayton’s, and is as fantastic as -Shakespeare’s own.” - -For ten years the poet kept silence; but in 1839 he issued his -fragmentary and extraordinary _Nepenthe_--a poem which, with all its -brilliant quality and daring richness of imagery, might well be taken as -an example of the Celtic genius _in extremis_--so unreservedly does he -give way to an uncontrolled imagination. Perhaps the best thing said -about _Nepenthe_ is in a letter from the author himself, wherein he -writes:--“Does it not speak a heat of brain mentally Bacchic?” - -Nothing that Darley published afterwards enhanced his reputation. Lovers -of his best work, however, should read the posthumous volume of his -“Poems” edited by R. and M. J. Livingstone--a rare volume, as it was -printed for private circulation. It contains some of the songs from an -unpublished lyrical drama called _The Sea Bride_; and it is from this -that the “Dirge,” quoted at page 104 in this book, comes. In this -posthumous collection also is included the following striking and -characteristic lyric:-- - - -THE FALLEN STAR. - -A star is gone! a star is gone! - There is a blank in Heaven, -One of the cherub choir has done - His airy course this even. - -He sat upon the orb of fire - That hung for ages there, -And lent his music to the choir - That haunts the nightly air. - -But when his thousand years are passed, - With a cherubic sigh -He vanished with his car at last, - For even cherubs die! - -Hear how his angel brothers mourn-- - The minstrels of the spheres-- -Each chiming sadly in his turn - And dropping splendid tears. - -The planetary sisters all - Join in the fatal song, -And weep this hapless brother’s fall - Who sang with them so long. - -But deepest of the choral band - The Lunar Spirit sings, -And with a bass-according hand - Sweeps all her sullen strings. - -From the deep chambers of the dome - Where sleepless Uriel lies, -His rude harmonic thunders come - Mingled with mighty sighs. - -The thousand car-borne cherubim, - The wandering eleven, -All join to chant the dirge of him - Who fell just now from Heaven. - -After a life of great intellectual activity, but of singular isolation -and of misanthropic unhappiness, George Darley died in London on the -23rd of November 1846, in his fifty-first year. For further information -as to the personality and writings of this strange, undeservedly -neglected, but unbalanced man of genius, the reader may be referred to -the delightful edition of _Sylvia_, with Introduction, by Mr John H. -Ingram, published by Mr J. M. Dent (1892). - -AUBREY DE VERE. PAGE 105-6 - -Mr Aubrey De Vere is one of the most scholarly poets of Ireland. All his -work is informed with a high and serious spirit; and though the bulk of -it is not distinctively Celtic, either in sentiment or utterance, not -even distinctively Irish, he has written some poems which are as dear to -Nationalists and Celticists as is almost any other verse by contemporary -poets. Mr Aubrey De Vere is the younger brother of Sir Stephen De Vere, -Bart. (the translator of Horace, and himself a poet of distinction), and -son of Aubrey De Vere, the poet friend of Wordsworth. He was born in -1814, and has lived most of his life, with long intervals in London and -in several parts of Europe, at his birthplace, Curragh Chase, Adare, Co. -Limerick. Among his most noteworthy writings are:--_The Waldensees_ -(1842); _The Search after Proserpine_ (1843); _Poems_ (1853); _The -Sisters_ (1861); _The Infant Bridal: and other Poems_ (1864); _Irish -Odes_ (1869); _The Legends of St Patrick_ (1872); _Alexander the Great_, -a poetical drama (1874); and another drama, _St Thomas of Canterbury_ -(1876); _Antar and Zara: and other Poems_ (1877); _Legends of the Saxon -Saints_ (1879); and _The Foray of Queen Meave_, based upon an ancient -Irish epic (1882). Since then Mr Aubrey De Vere has published a -Selection of his poems and one or two books of a religious nature. His -best prose work is to be found in his _Essays chiefly on Poetry_ (1887), -and _Essays chiefly Literary and Ethical_ (1889). - -FRANCIS FAHY. PAGE 107 - -Author of _Irish Songs and Poems_, published under the pseudonym -“Dreolin.” Mr Fahy is a member of the group of notable lyrists whose -captain is Sir Samuel Ferguson. - -SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON. (1810-1886.) PAGE 109 - -This celebrated poet and archæologist was born in Belfast. He has aptly -been called a man of encyclopædic learning; but this learning did not -prevent his becoming perhaps the foremost Irish poet of the Middle -Victorian period. His most ambitious poetic work is _Congal: an Epic -Poem_ (1872)--a work full of lofty imagination and epical music, but -unfortunate in its metrical setting. His short poem, “The Forging of the -Anchor,” is one of the most celebrated and popular poems of our era. -Even yet, the influence of his _Lays of the Western Gael_ (1865) is -considerable, and for good. “Cean Dubh Deelish” (darling dark head), of -which several able, and one or two good translations have been made, -finds its happiest interpreter in Ferguson. How many poets and lovers -have repeated these lines-- - -“Then put your head, darling, darling, darling, - Your darling black head my heart above; -Oh, mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance, - Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?” - -PAGE 110 - -“Molly Asthore” is also a paraphrase. The original is ascribed to a -celebrated Irish Gaelic bard, Cormac O’Con. - -PAGE 112 - -“The Fair Hills of Holy Ireland,” is familiar to Irish men and women in -every part of the world. - -ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES. PAGE 113 - -One of the best known names of Ireland of to-day. Mr Graves, born in -Dublin in 1846, is thoroughly national, and his delightful work is -perhaps as adequately typical of the Irish spirit as that of any one man -could be. His lyric faculty--or at any rate his movement, his verve--is -unsurpassed by any living Irishman. These few examples of his poetical -writings should win him many more readers. His first book, _Songs of -Killarney_, was published over twenty years ago. Since then he has -issued _Irish Songs and Ballads_, _Songs of Old Ireland_, and (1880) his -best known collection, _Father O’Flynn: and other Irish Lyrics_. _Irish -Songs and Airs_ is the title of his promised contribution to Sir Gavan -Duffy’s Irish Library. - -GERALD GRIFFIN. (1803-1840.) PAGE 121 - -The author of the lovely song, “Eileen Aroon” (Nellie, my Darling), was -born in Limerick. His chief work is his novel, _The Collegians_, which -has been pronounced to be “the most perfect Irish novel published.” I -have heard that Tennyson once “went mooning about for days,” repeating -with endless gusto, and with frequent expressions of a wish that he was -the author of, the closing lines:-- - -Youth must with time decay, - Eileen Aroon! -Beauty must fade away, - Eileen Aroon! -Castles are sacked in war, -Chieftains are scattered far, -Truth is a fixèd star, - Eileen Aroon! - -NORA HOPPER. PAGE 123 ETC. - -This young Irish poet made an immediate impression by her _Ballads in -Prose_ (John Lane). Both in prose and verse she displays the true Celtic -note, and often the unmistakable Celtic intensity. The lovely lyrics -“April in Ireland,” and “The Wind among the Reeds,” are from _Ballads in -Prose_. “The Dark Man” has not hitherto appeared in print, and I am -indebted to Miss Hopper for her permission to quote it here. It is, I -understand, to be included in her shortly forthcoming volume, to be -published by Mr John Lane. - -DOUGLAS HYDE, LL.D. PAGE 126 - -Dr Hyde, one of the foremost living expositors of Gaelic folklore in -Ireland, was born about thirty-five years ago in the Co. Roscommon, -where he has since resided. He graduated at Trinity College, Dublin, -after an exceptionally brilliant University career. He is now President -of the Gaelic League, and one of the acknowledged leaders of the Gaelic -wing of the Celtic Renascence; but from the first he was in the front -rank of those who are working for the preservation of the ancient Irish -language and the rescue of its beautiful fugitive literature. Although -best known by his Irish Tales, taken down at first hand from the -peasantry, and other Folk-collections, and his invaluable and unique -_The Love Songs of Connacht_ (Connaught), he is himself a poet of mark. -(See, also, Note XI., _supra_.) Those who are in a position to judge -declare his Gaelic poetry, which appears in the Irish Press above the -signature “An Chraoibhin Aoibhinn,” to be of altogether exceptional -excellence. The work Dr Douglas Hyde does deserves the most cordial -recognition. No man has worked more whole-heartedly, more -enthusiastically, and with more far-reaching success for the cause of -the Irish-Gaelic language, folk-lore, and literature, and, it may be -added, the best interests of the Irish of the soil. - -The songs by which he is represented in this volume are from the _Love -Songs of Connacht_ (Fisher Unwin, 1893), a book which is not only -indispensable to the Celtic scholar, but should be in the hands of every -lover of Celtic literature, old-time or new. All are translations, -though perhaps paraphrastic rather than metaphrastic. Both in their -music and in their intensity--in, also, their peculiar lyric lilt--they -are distinctively West Irish. The collection from which these poems are -drawn was issued as _The Fourth Chapter of the Songs of Connacht_. The -preceding three appeared in the now defunct _Nation_. They were all -originally written in Irish; but very wisely, or at any rate for us very -fortunately, Dr Hyde interpolated translations. In these he has -endeavoured to reproduce the vowel-rhymes as well as the exact metres of -the original poems. We must hope to see the reprint, in like fashion, of -the predecessors of this volume. - -LIONEL JOHNSON. PAGE 133 - -Though come of a Dublin family, and otherwise Irish by descent, Mr -Johnson was born at Broadstairs in Kent (1867). He first became known to -the reading public, as a poet, by his contributions to _The Book of the -Rhymers’ Club_, notable for their distinction of touch. Since then Mr -Johnson has published much in prose and verse, though in book form he -has not, I think, produced any other prose work than his admirable study -of Thomas Hardy, or any other volume of poetry than his _Poems_. His -work is not characterised by distinctively Celtic quality, though -occasionally, as in “The Red Wind” and “To Morfydd,” the Celtic note -makes itself audible. No doubt--to judge from internal evidence in his -later writings--Mr Johnson’s poetic work, at least, will develop more -and more along the line of his racial bent. - -DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY. (1817-1882.) PAGE 135 - -Mr Maccarthy, who was a barrister in Dublin, and one of the main -supports of the _Nation_, is best known by his fine translations of -Calderon’s Dramas. The “Lament,” by which he is here represented, has -always seemed to me his most haunting lyrical achievement. It is -necessary to add, however, that this poem is somewhat condensed from the -original--which is weakened by diffuseness. The score or so of lines -beginning “As fire-flies fade,” have been favourites with many poets of -Maccarthy’s own time and later. - -JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. (1803-1849.) PAGE 137 - -While it is not the case, as sometimes averred, that Mangan was, or is, -to Ireland what Burns is to Scotland, it is indisputable that the claim -may be made for him rather than for any other Irish poet of the Early -Victorian period. In fire and energy his faculty is unsurpassed by any -of his poetic countrymen, though we may dispute Sir Charles Gavan -Duffy’s assertion that Mangan “has not, and perhaps never had, any rival -in mastery of the metrical and rhythmical resources of the English -tongue.” Mangan was the child of a small tradesman of Dublin, where, in -1803, he was born. From childhood, fate dealt hardly with him. Abandoned -in his early boyhood, he was indebted to a relative for his education; -but when, in his fifteenth year, he became a copyist in a lawyer’s -office, at a small pittance, his kindred discovered him and compelled -him to share his meagre gains with them. For ten years thereafter he -toiled in this bitter bondage. In his own words:--“I was obliged to work -seven years of the ten from five in the morning, winter and summer, to -eleven at night; and during the three remaining years, nothing but a -special Providence could have saved me from suicide.” No wonder that, -from an early period in his life, he found relief from his misery in -drink; but it was misery and unbroken ill-fortune and adversity, much -more than the curse of his fatal habit, that really killed him. There is -a period in his life which is a blank, “a blank into which he entered a -bright-haired youth and emerged a withered and stricken man.” His first -chance for a happier life came with his appointment to a minor post in -the University Library of Dublin, and it was during this time that most -of his best work was done. His highest level is reached in his -brilliant free paraphrases of German originals: _Anthologia Germania_ -(1845). His later years were darkened by the worst phases of his malady, -and he died (as in most part he had lived, in misery and poverty) in -Meath Hospital, in his forty-seventh year. He has written one lyric that -Irishmen will always account immortal: “Dark Rosaleen”--a wild and -passionate rhapsody on Ireland herself. “Dark Rosaleen,” “Silk of the -Kine,” “The Little Black Rose,” “Kathleen Ny Houlahan”--these were at -one time the familiar analogues of Ireland. Of his Oriental paraphrases -the most stirring is “The Karamanian Exile.” Strangely enough, Mangan’s -Irish renderings are less happy than those poems which he based upon -German and Oriental originals; but sometimes, as in the beautiful “Fair -Hills of Eiré, O!” after the Irish of Donough mac Con-Mara, he has -bequeathed a memorable lyric. Of poems that are strictly original, -nothing seems to me more characteristic of Mangan than “The One Mystery” -(see p. 142). - -ROSA MULHOLLAND. PAGE 144 - -This accomplished prose-writer and poet was born in Belfast. Since her -_Vagrant Verses_ (1886) she has published many stories and poems, and is -a regular contributor to the leading Irish periodicals. Her “Fionnula” -is one of the happiest renderings of the legend of the Swan Daughters of -Lir; but is too long for quotation in the text. “The Wild Geese,” by -which she is represented here, is eminently characteristic. Her latest -poem, and one of her best, appears under the title “Under a Purple -Cloud” in the autumn number of _The Evergreen_. It is a vision of Earth -personified, and opens thus: - -Under a purple cloud along the west -The great brown mother lies and takes her rest, -A dark cheek on her hand, and in her eyes -The shadow of primeval mysteries. - -Her tawny velvets swathe her, manifold, -Her mighty head is coifed in filmy gold, -Her youngest babe, the newly-blossomed rose -Upon her swarthy bosom feeds and grows. - -With her wide darkling gaze the mother sees -Her children in their homes, the reddening trees, -Roofing wet lawns, fruit-laden lattices, -Blue mountain domes, and the grey river-seas. - -THE HON. RODEN NOËL. (1834-1894.) PAGE 146 - -Mr Roden Noël was son of the first Earl of Gainsborough, grandson of -Lord Roden of Tullymore in Ireland, and nephew to the present Marquis of -Londonderry. By birth, descent, training, and sympathy, he considered -himself an Irishman: though he was half English by blood, and lived the -greater part of his life in England, while his intellectual homage was -largely evoked by Hellenic mythology and lore, and by Teutonic mysticism -and speculation. It was this confused blending of influences which, -perhaps, militated so strongly against the concentration of his -brilliant abilities into long-sustained and organic creative effort. -With all his shortcomings, he still remains a poet of genuine impulse -and occasionally of high distinction; and some of his lyrics and -ballads, of a more essentially human interest than his more ambitious -work, are likely to be held in honourable remembrance. The “Lament for a -Little Child” (see p. 146) has passed into literature; as, indeed, may -perhaps be said of the book whence it comes: _A Little Child’s Monument_ -(1881). In one of his Cornish poems he begins thus:-- - -“For me, true son of Erin, thou art rife, -Grand coast of Cornwall, cliff, and cave, and surge, -With glamour of the Kelt.” - -I do not think there is much “glamour of the Kelt” in Roden Noël’s work, -but it may be discerned in one or two poems in each of his volumes, and -in many of his lyrics and irregular lyrical compositions there is much -of Celtic intensity and dream. Few poets have written of the sea with -more loving knowledge and profound sympathy; hence it is that he is -represented here by one characteristic sea-poem, called “The -Swimmer”--as autobiographical as anything of the kind can be. The -swimmer’s joy was Roden Noël’s chief physical delight. All who knew the -man himself remember him as one of the personalities of his time, and as -a man of individual distinction and charm. Besides the book already -mentioned, his chief poetic volumes are _Beatrice and Other Poems_ -(1868); _Songs of the Heights and Deeps_ (1885); and _A Modern Faust_ -(1888). See also the Selection from his poems published in the -Canterbury Poets Series (edited, with a Critical Introduction, by Mr -Robert Buchanan), and the posthumous volumes _My Sea_ and _Selected -Lyrics_ (Elkin Mathews). - -CHARLES P. O’CONOR. PAGE 158 - -Besides this typical Irish song, Mr O’Conor has written other winsome -lyrics of the same kind. One of the best is that called “Erinn” -beginning-- - -“O, a lovely place is Erinn, in the summer of the year, - Roseen dhu ma Erinn.” - -This and “Maura Du of Ballyshannon” are from his _Songs of a Life_ -(Kentish Mercury Office, 1875). - -JOHN FRANCIS O’DONNELL. PAGE 160 - -This pretty Spinning Song is characteristic of the always deft and -generally delicate and winsome lyrical writing of Mr Francis O’Donnell. - -JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. PAGE 161 - -This prolific writer, often designated an Irish-American poet, through -the accident of his enforced exile to, and long residence in, the United -States, is inadequately represented by the brief lyric, “A White Rose”; -but it is significant of his best achievement, for he is always at his -happiest in brief, spontaneous lyrics, often in a Heinesque vein. John -Boyle O’Reilly was born at Dowth Castle in Ireland. In his early manhood -he enlisted in a hussar regiment; and it was while as a hussar that he -was arrested on the charge of spreading republican principles in the -ranks, and was sentenced to be shot. This sentence was commuted to -twenty years of penal servitude; when the unfortunate man, victim of -that disastrous as well as iniquitous tyranny which has characterised -the English official attitude towards the Celtic populations, was taken -to the convict settlements of Western Australia. Thence, in time, he -escaped, and after hairbreadth escapes reached Philadelphia. From there -he went to Boston, where he settled; and in a few years, by virtue of -his remarkable gifts as a poet, a prose-writer, and a brilliant -journalist, became an acknowledged power in trans-Atlantic literature. A -novel of his, _Moondyne_, is widely and deservedly celebrated. Of his -poetical works, the best are _Songs of the Southern Seas_, _Songs, -Legends, and Ballads_, and _In Bohemia_. - -ARTHUR O’SHAUGHNESSY. (1844-1881.) PAGE 162 - -O’Shaughnessy is to be ranked as an English rather than as an Irish -poet; for the national sentiment played a minor, indeed hardly a -perceptible part in his poetic life. The Celtic part of him found its -best expression in his translations of the _Lays of Marie_ -(particularly the difficult and extraordinary “Bisclaveret”), powerful -paraphrases rather than translations. The poem by which he is -represented here shows the influence of Edgar Allan Poe, but is founded -upon a Celtic legend. In his early youth he was appointed to a -subordinate position in the Library of the British Museum, and was -afterwards promoted to the Natural History Department. His first -literary success was his _Epic of Women_ (1870), a volume of exceptional -promise, which, however, was never adequately fulfilled. His _Lays of -France_ (1872) was followed by _Music and Moonlight_ (1874) and a -posthumous volume, _Songs of a Worker_ (1881). Always delicate, his -death without any previous breakdown surprised none of his friends. I -recollect that on the Saturday preceding his death, which I think was on -a Wednesday, he came into the rooms of his brother-in-law, and -fellow-poet and friend, Philip Bourke Marston, and asked me to come to -his residence on the following Wednesday, to hear him read from the -proofs of his new book. That evening he went to a theatre, came home on -the top of an omnibus, caught a chill, and died before any of his -friends knew that he was seriously indisposed. The best critical and -biographical accounts of this charming if insubstantial poet, are to be -found in Dr Garnett’s memoir in Miles’ _Poets and Poetry of the -Century_, Vol. VIII., and in the biographical edition of his poems -recently put forth by Mrs Louise Chandler Moulton. Of the poem here -given, Dr Garnett speaks as a “miracle of melody,” and as one of the -pieces in which “the poet’s inward nature has perhaps most clearly -expressed itself.” - -FANNY PARNELL. (1855-1883.) PAGE 165 - -A remarkable poem by a remarkable woman. Frances Isabelle Parnell was -the sister of Charles Stewart Parnell, and grand-daughter of Charles -Stewart (from whom the great Irish patriot derived his baptismal names), -the historic commander of the U.S. Frigate _Constitution_. Miss -Parnell’s poems, which always appeared above the signature of Fanny -Parnell, have not yet been published collectively. She was secretary of -the Ladies’ Land League, and was as intensely wrought by the fervour of -patriotism as was her famous brother. - -T. W. ROLLESTON. PAGE 166 - -The sometime editor of the _Dublin University Review_, and one of the -most valued present members of the Irish Literary Society, was born at -Shinrone, King’s County, in 1857. Mr Rolleston has had a cosmopolitan -training since he left Trinity College, and has in particular been -influenced by his long residence in Germany; but he has remained a -Celtic poet and ardent Celticist through every intellectual development. -While resident in Germany and in London, he wrote his _Life of Lessing_ -and his introductions to Epictetus and Plato. He is now responsibly -connected with the Irish Industries Association, but is more and not -less engrossed by his Celtic studies. If there were a few more -poet-scholars who could translate or paraphrase so beautifully as Mr -Rolleston has paraphrased the Irish of Enoch o’ Gillan (see p. 166) and -other poems, there would be a wider public in England for the lovely -work of early Irish poetry. “The Lament of Queen Maev,” given here in -the Ancient Irish section, is also a translation by Mr Rolleston. - -DORA SIGERSON. PAGE 167 - -This young and promising writer comes of poetic stock. Her sister Hester -is also a writer of verse, and her father, Dr Sigerson, is one of the -foremost workers in the Gaelic Revival. Miss Dora Sigerson’s only -published book as yet bears the modest title _Verses_. It is, perhaps, -more significant in its promise than in its achievement; and I find -nothing in it so mature as the poem by which she is represented here, -taken from a recent issue of the _Chap Book_ (Stone & Kimball, Chicago). -The following lines, from _Verses_, may be given as an example of her -poetic first-fruits:-- - - -IN SOUTHERN SEAS. - -In southern seas we sailed, my love and I, -In southern seas. -Death joined no chorus as the waves swept by, -No storm hid in the breeze. -Low keeled our boat until her white wings dipped half wet with spray, -And seeking gulls tossed on the passing wave laughed on our way, -The rhyme of sound, the harmony of souls--of silence too; -Your silence held my thoughts, my love, as mine of you; -The wingèd whispering wind that blew our sails was summer sweet-- -I found my long-sought paradise crouched at thy feet. - -In northern seas I weep alone, alone, -In winter seas. -Death’s hounds are on the waves, with many moans -Death’s voice comes with the breeze, -My helpless boat, rocked in the wind, obeys no steadfast hand, -Her swinging helm and ashing sheet have lost my weak command; -The shrieking sea-birds seek the sheltering shore, -The writhing waves leap upward, and their hoar -Strong hands tear at the timbers of my shuddering craft. -I cry in vain, the Fates have seen and laughed, -Time and the world have stormed my summer sea-- -I ate my fruit, the serpent held the tree. - -DR GEORGE SIGERSON. PAGE 168 - -The distinguished translator and editor of _The Poets and Poetry of -Munster_ was born near Strabane, Co. Tyrone, in 1839. Much of his -original work has appeared above his Irish pen-name “Erionnach”; and -from first to last Dr Sigerson’s name is indissolubly associated with -the wide-reaching Celtic Renascence in Ireland. - -DR JOHN TODHUNTER. PAGE 170 - -One of the foremost contemporary poets of Ireland, was born in Dublin in -1839, and, like so many of his literary compatriots, was educated at -Trinity. He then pursued his medical studies in Paris and Vienna; -returned to Dublin and practised awhile as a physician; succeeded Prof. -Dowden as Professor of English Literature in Alexandria College; and, -since 1875, has devoted himself exclusively to literature. Some of his -lyrical pieces are known to all lovers of poetry--_e.g._ “The Banshee”; -and for the rest he has won a distinctive place for himself by work at -once varied in theme and beautiful in treatment. Though he has won -deserved reputation as a playwright for the contemporary stage, as well -as in the poetic drama, he seems to me to be at his best when most -Celtic in feeling and expression. He is represented here, not by pieces -so well known as “The Banshee” or any part of _The Three Sorrows of -Story-Telling_, but by two typical Irish poems, and one lovely fragment -(see p. 173) from _Forest Songs_. Personally, I consider the “Love Song” -given at page 170 to be one of the finest compositions of its kind in -modern Celtic literature. I have regretfully refrained from quoting two -other poems by Dr Todhunter, one familiar to every Irishman, “The Shan -Van Vocht of ’87,” beginning-- - -There’s a spirit in the air, - Says the _Shan Van Vocht_, -And her voice is everywhere, - Says the _Shan Van Vocht_; -Though her eyes be full of care, -Even as Hope’s, born of Despair, -Her sweet face looks young and fair, - Says the _Shan Van Vocht_.-- - -and the other, which I think the strongest of his short lyrical poems, -“Aghadoe”--of which I may give the two concluding quatrains-- - -I walked to Mallow town from Aghadoe, Aghadoe; -Brought his head from the gaol’s gate to Aghadoe, -Then I covered him with fern, and I piled on him the cairn, -Like an Irish king he sleeps in Aghadoe. - -Oh! to creep into that cairn in Aghadoe, Aghadoe! -There to rest upon his breast in Aghadoe, -Sure your dog for you could die with no truer heart than I, -Your own love, cold on your cairn, in Aghadoe. - -KATHERINE TYNAN. PAGE 174 - -The author of _Louise de la Vallière_ (1885), _Shamrocks_ (1887), -_Ballads and Lyrics_ (1891), and later volumes in prose as well as -verse, is one of the best known representatives of the Irish poetic -fellowship. Mrs Hinkson (though best known by her maiden name) is -distinctively Irish rather than Celtic, and pre-eminently a Catholicist -in the spirit of her work. She has a St Francis-like love of birds and -all defenceless creatures and humble things, and has a most happy lyric -faculty in dealing with aspects and objects which excite her rhythmic -emotion. In lyric quality and in her all-pervading sense of colour, she -is, however, characteristically Celtic. Miss Tynan was born in Dublin in -1861, but since her marriage a few years ago to Mr Hinkson (himself one -of the Dublin University _Young Ireland_ men) she has resided in or near -London. Some of her work has a lyric ecstasy, of a kind which -distinguishes it from the poetry of any other woman-writer of to-day. - -CHARLES WEEKES. PAGE 179 - -Mr Weekes is one of the small band of Irish poet-dreamers who may be -particularly associated with Mr W. B. Yeats and Mr G. W. Russell -(“A.E.”). His book, _Reflections and Refractions_, contains fine -achievement as well as noteworthy promise. - -WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS. PAGE 181 - -Born (of an Irish father, and of a Cornish mother come of a family -settled in Ireland) at Sandymount, Dublin, in 1866; but early life -chiefly spent in Sligo, and on the Connaught seaboard. Of late years, Mr -Yeats has passed much of his time in London, but is never absent from -Ireland for any long period-- - -“... for always night and day - I hear lake-water lapping with low sounds on the shore; -While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey, - I hear it in the deep heart’s core.” - -W. B. Yeats is the prince of contemporary Irish poets. While no one is -more essentially Celtic, and none is more distinctively national, his -poetry belongs to English literature. Mr Yeats himself would be the last -man to nail his flag to the mast of parochialism in literature. He is -one of the two or three absolutely poetic personalities in literature at -the present moment; and in outlook, and, above all, in atmosphere, -stands foremost in the younger generation. It is noteworthy that the two -most convincingly poetic of all our younger poets, since the giants who -(with the exception of George Meredith, A. C. Swinburne, and William -Morris) have gone from our midst, are predominantly Celtic; W. B. Yeats -and John Davidson--and noteworthy, also, that both are too wise, too -clear-sighted, too poetic, in fact, to aim at being Irish or -Scoto-Celtic at the expense of being English in the high and best sense -of the word. This, fortunately, is consistent with being paramountly -national in all else. In the world of literature there is no geography -save that of the mind. - -Mr Yeats’ poetic work is best to be read, and perhaps best to be -enjoyed, in the revised collective edition of his poems, in one volume, -published recently by Mr Fisher Unwin. His first volume of verse, _The -Wanderings of Oisìn_, was published in 1889. This was followed (in 1892) -by _The Countess Kathleen: and Various Legends and Lyrics_; _The Land of -Heart’s Desire_, and two short prose tales (in the Pseudonym Library), -_John Sherman_ and _Dhoya_. Two new books are promised in 1896 (through -Mr Elkin Mathews), _The Shadowy Waters_ (a poetic play), and _The Wind -Among the Reeds_ (poems). He has also published several volumes of -selected Irish tales and legendary lore; edited, in conjunction with Mr -E. J. Ellis, the _Works of William Blake_ (3 vols., 1893); and _A Book -of Irish Verse_ (Methuen, 1895), an interesting rather than an -adequately representative anthology of nationalistic Irish poetry. All -that is most distinctive in Mr Yeats’ own original work is to be found -in his _Poems_ (Collective Edition, in 1 vol., Fisher Unwin, 1895), and -the prose volume entitled _The Celtic Twilight_ (Lawrence & Bullen, -1893), one of the most fascinating prose-books by a poet published in -our time. - - -LATER SCOTO-CELTIC - -THE PROLOGUE TO GAUL. PAGE 189 - -Comes from the _Sean Dana_: _vide_ Dr John Smith’s _Collection of -Ancient Poems_ (1780), (_vide_ Note to page 13 _supra_, and also -Introduction). - -IN HEBRID SEAS. PAGE 191 - -This stirring Hebridean poem is given as from the ancient Gaelic. -Probably by this is meant merely old Gaelic, mediæval or even later. The -translation is by Mr Thomas Pattison, and is included in his _Gaelic -Bards_. He has the following note upon it: “This effusion, although in -its original form it is only a kind of wild chant--almost indeed half -prose--yet it is the germ of the ballad. It occurs in many of the tales -contained in that collection, the repository of old Gaelic lore, the -_Popular Tales of the West Highlands_, sometimes more and sometimes less -perfect. The original will be found in the second volume of the -Tales.... The vigorous and elastic spirit that pervades these verses -must have strung the heart of many a hardy mariner who loved to feel the -fresh and briny breeze drive his snoring birlinn bounding like a living -creature over the tumbling billows of the inland loch or the huge swell -of the majestic main.” - -LULLABY. PAGE 193 - -Supposed to be the composition of the wife of Gregor MacGregor after the -judicial murder of her husband. - -DROWNED. PAGE 194 - -This folk-poem, the antiquity of which may be anywhere from a hundred to -two hundred years or more, is given in the translation of the Rev. Dr -Stewart of Nether Lochaber. - -ALEXANDER MACDONALD. PAGE 195 - -This celebrated Gaelic poet was born in the first half of the 17th -century. In the Highlands and Western Isles he is invariably styled _Mac -Mhaighstir Alastair_--_i.e._ the son of Mr Alexander. Alastair the Elder -resided at Dalilea in Moydart of Argyll, and was both Episcopal -clergyman and official tacksman. He was a man of immense strength and -vigour, and his muscular Christianity may be inferred from the saying -current in Moydart that “his hand was heavier on the men of Suainart -than on the men of Moydart.” Alexander Macdonald had a good education -for his time--first under his father, and later, for a year or so, at -Glasgow University. Poverty, however, compelled him to leave Glasgow and -retire to Ardnamurchan, where, as his biographer, Mr Pattison, says, he -lived, teaching and farming, and composing poetry, until the advent of -the year 1745. In this momentous year he left not only his farm and his -teaching, but even his eldership in the Established Church, and forsook -all to join Prince Charlie, and to take upon him the onus of a change to -the detested Roman Catholic faith. He was a Jacobite of the Jacobites, -and his fiery and warlike songs were repeated from mouth to mouth -throughout Celtic Scotland. It is supposed that he had a commission in -the Highland army of the Prince, though whether he served as an officer -is uncertain; at any rate, after the battle of Culloden he had to share -the privations of his leaders, and he lived in hiding in the woods and -caves of the district of Arisaig. On one occasion, when lurking among -these caves with his brother Angus, the cold was so intense that the -side of Macdonald’s head which rested on the ground became quite grey in -a single night. When the troubles were over he went to Edinburgh, where -he taught the children of a staunch Jacobite, but soon returned to his -beloved West, where he remained till his death. Macdonald’s first -published book was a _Gaelic and English Vocabulary_ (1741), nor was it -till ten years later that his poems were published in Edinburgh--said to -be one of the earliest volumes of original poems ever published in -Gaelic. Pattison declares that he is the most warlike, and much the -fiercest of the Highland poets; and altogether ranks him as, if not the -foremost, certainly second only to the famous Duncan Bàn MacIntyre. His -poem called “The Birlinn of the Clan-Ranald” is by this critic, and most -others, ranked as the finest composition in Modern Gaelic; certainly -many Highlanders prefer it even to the “Coire Cheathaich,” or the still -more famous “Ben Dorain” of Duncan Bàn. Assuredly no one could read this -poem “Of the hurling of the birlinn through the cold glens of the sea, -loudly snoring,” without being stirred by its vigour and power. The -portion here given is merely a fragment, for the original is much too -long for quotation--indeed, it is said to be the longest poem in Gaelic, -except such as are Ossianic. For a full account of Macdonald and his -poems, including the translation of the greater part of “The Manning of -the Birlinn,” see Pattison’s _Gaelic Bards_. - -ANGUS MACKENZIE. PAGE 201 - -“The Lament of the Deer” is the work of a favourite Highland poet whose -name is particularly familiar in the Northern Highlands. Angus Mackenzie -was head forester of Lord Lovat, and most of his poems have the impress -of his well-loved profession. “The Cumha nam Fiadh” was composed during -the recovery from a severe illness, when the poet’s chief regret was his -inability to be with Lovat and his Frasers at the hunting of the stag. -The translation here given was made by Charles Edward and John Sobieski -Stuart, and is to be found in their _Lays of the Deer Forest_ -(Blackwood, 1848). - -DUNCAN BÀN MACINTYRE. PAGE 203 - -A name loved throughout the Highlands and Islands. Even the most -illiterate crofters are familiar with Duncan Bàn and much of his poetry, -and there are few who could not repeat at least some lines of “Ben -Dorain.” The Hunter Bard of Glenorchy, as he is often called--though his -best title is the affectionate Gaelic “Duncan of the Songs”--was born on -the 20th of March 1724, at Druimliaghart in Glenorchy, Argyll. His first -song was composed on a sword with which he was armed at the battle of -Falkirk--where he served on the Royalist side as substitute for a -gentleman of the neighbourhood. “This sword,” says his biographer, -Thomas Pattison, “the poet lost or threw away in the retreat. On his -return home therefore, the gentleman to whom it belonged, and whose -substitute he had been, refused to pay the sum for which he had engaged -Duncan Bàn to serve in his stead. Duncan consequently composed his song -on ‘The Battle of the Speckled Kirk’--as Falkirk is called in Gaelic--in -which he good-humouredly satirised the gentleman who had sent him to the -war, and gave a woful description of ‘the black sword that worked the -turmoil,’ and whose loss, he says, made its owner ‘as fierce and furious -as a grey brock in his den.’ The song immediately became popular, and -incensed his employer so much that he suddenly fell upon the poor poet -one day with his walking-stick, and, striking him on the back, bade him -‘go and make a song about that.’ He was, however, afterward compelled by -the Earl of Breadalbane to pay the bard the sum of 300 merks Scots (£16, -17s. 6d.), which was his legal due.” Although in his later years he was -for a time one of the Duke of Argyll’s foresters, most of his later -life was spent in Edinburgh, where he was one of the City Guard. In that -city he died in 1812, in his eighty-ninth year, and lies in Greyfriars -Churchyard. In all there have been seven editions of his _Gaelic Songs_. -“Ben Dorain” has been translated several times, most successfully by -Thomas Pattison and the late Professor Blackie. The version here given -is that of the former; while the following poem (“The Hill Water,” page -208) is that of Professor Blackie. - -Translations of both “Ben Dorain” (in full) and of “Coire Cheathaich” -(The Misty Corrie) are included in Pattison’s _Gaelic Bards_. Professor -Blackie’s version of “Ben Dorain” is in his well-known book, _Altavona_. - -MARY MACLEOD. PAGE 210 - -The most famous of Hebridean poets was born in Harris of the Outer -Hebrides in 1569. She may be regarded either as the last of the poets of -the Middle Scoto-Celtic period, or, more properly, as the first of the -moderns. She is generally spoken of in the Western Isles as Màiri -nighean Alastair Ruaidh (Mary, daughter of Alexander the Red). “Although -she could never either read or write, her poetry is pure and chaste in -its diction, melodious, though complicated, in its metre, clear and -graceful, and frequently pathetic” (Pattison). She died at Dunvegan, in -the Isle of Skye, in 1674, at the great age of 105. For some reason, -Mary Macleod was banished from Dunvegan by Macleod of Macleod, but his -heart was melted by the song here given, and the exile was recalled, and -that, too, with honour, and enabled to live in Macleod’s country -thenceforth in prosperity and happiness. - - -MODERN AND CONTEMPORARY SCOTO-CELTIC - -MONALTRI. PAGE 217 - -These lines tell their own tale. The translation given is that of Thomas -Pattison. - -HIGHLAND LULLABY. PAGE 218 - -This lullaby first appeared in the _Duanaire_, edited by D. C. -Macpherson (1864). It is supposed to be sung by a disconsolate mother -whose babe has been stolen by the fairies. In each verse she mentions -some impossible task she has performed, but still she has not found her -baby. _Coineachan_ is a term of endearment applied to a child. (Quoted -by “Fionn” in the _Celtic Monthly_ for September 1893.) - -BOAT SONG. PAGE 219 - -This boat song, so familiar to West Highlanders, is in the rendering of -Professor Blackie. - -JOHN STUART BLACKIE. (1809-1895.) PAGE 222 - -The late Professor Blackie was born in Glasgow and brought up for the -law. This he forsook for literature, and ultimately, in 1852, was -appointed to the Greek Chair in Edinburgh University. All particulars of -the brilliant Professor’s life and writings will be found in the -recently-published biography by Miss Anna Stoddart. Professor Blackie’s -name will always be held in affectionate regard for his unselfish -efforts to preserve and cultivate the Gaelic language and literature, -and because of his having been mainly instrumental in founding the Chair -of Celtic Literature in the University of Edinburgh. His poetical -writings are mostly to be found in _Lays and Legends of Ancient Greece_ -(1857), _Lyrical Poems_ (1860), and _Lays of the Highlands and Islands_ -(1872). - -ROBERT BUCHANAN. PAGE 224 - -The foremost Scoto-Celtic poet of our time, was born in Glasgow, 1841. -It would be needless to give particulars concerning the life and work of -so eminent a contemporary. Lovers of the Celtic Muse will doubtless be -familiar (or if not, ought to be) with Mr Buchanan’s _Book of Orm_. Much -of his early poetry is strongly imbued with the Celtic atmosphere. Those -who have read his several volumes of verse need no further guidance, but -readers unacquainted with the poetical work of one of the foremost poets -of our day should obtain the collective edition of his poems published -by Messrs Chatto & Windus. “The Flower of the World” (page 224), “The -Dream of the World without Death” (pages 228-234) are from _The Book of -Orm_; “The Strange Country” comes from _Miscellaneous Poems and Ballads_ -(1878-1883). No more memorable poem than “The Dream” has been written by -an Anglo-Celtic poet. - -LORD BYRON. (1788-1824.) PAGES 238-239 - -Byron is represented in _Lyra Celtica_ by virtue of his Celtic blood and -undoubtedly Celtic nature, rather than because there is much trace of -Celtic influence in his poetry. The two lyrics given here may be taken -as fairly representative of that part of his poetical work which may -with some reason be called Celtic, though, of course, there is nothing -in them which radically differentiates them from the lyrics of any -English poet. More than one eminent critic, foreign as well as British, -has claimed for Byron that he was the representative Celtic voice of the -early part of the century; but Byron was really much more the voice of -his own day and time than anything more restricted. - -CRODH CHAILLEAN. PAGE 240 - -This familiar Highland Milking Song is given in the translation of Dr -Alexander Stewart of Nether Lochaber. - -MACCRIMMON’S LAMENT. PAGE 241 - -Perhaps the most famous pipe-tune in the Highlands is the “Cumha mhic -Criomein,” composed by Donald Bàn MacCrimmon, on the occasion of the -Clan MacLeod, headed by their chief, embarking to join the Royalists in -1746. The Lament is said to have been composed by Donald Bàn under the -influence of a presentiment that he as well as many others of the clan -would never return; a presentiment fulfilled, for he was killed in a -skirmish near Moyhall. The tune and the chorus are old, but it is -commonly believed the poem was composed by Dr Norman Macleod; at any -rate, they first appeared in a Gaelic article on the MacCrimmons, which -he contributed in 1840 to “Cuairtear nan Gleann” (“Fionn,” the _Celtic -Monthly_). The translation here given is that of Professor Blackie. - -IAN CAMERON (“IAN MOR”). PAGE 242 - -Translated from the Gaelic by Miss Fiona Macleod. - -JOHN DAVIDSON. PAGE 243 - -Mr Davidson was born at Barrhead, near Paisley, on April 11th, 1857. -After his preliminary education at the Highlanders’ Academy, Greenock, -he went to Edinburgh University. For a time he taught in Greenock, and -also gained a certain amount of literary experience in occasional -contributions to the _Glasgow Herald_ and other papers. In 1886 he -published _Bruce: a Drama_, followed by _Smith: a Tragedy_ (1888), -_Scaramouch in Naxos: and other Places_ (1889), _In a Music Hall, and -other Poems_ (1891), _Fleet Street Eclogues_ (1893), _Ballads and Songs_ -(1894), _Second Series of Fleet Street Eclogues_ (1895), besides several -volumes of prose papers and fiction. Although _Bruce_ was Mr Davidson’s -first published work, he had begun to write at a much earlier period: -his _An Historical Pastoral_ was composed in 1877; _A Romantic Farce_ in -1878; while _Bruce_ was written four years before its publication. Mr -Davidson’s later poetical writings have been mainly in the form of songs -and lyrical ballads, and these have placed him in the foremost rank of -the younger poets of to-day. He has the widest range, the largest -manner, and the intensest note of any of the later Victorians. The two -poems by which he is represented here are eminently characteristic, and -none the less Celtic in their essential quality from the fact that the -one deals with a loafer of the London streets and the other with a -scenic rendering of an impression gained in Romney Marsh. Mr Davidson’s -latest writings are “The Ballad of an Artist’s Wife,” not as yet issued -in book form, and the just published second series of the _Fleet Street -Eclogues_ (John Lane). Both “A Loafer” and “In Romney Marsh” are from -_Ballads and Songs_. - -JEAN GLOVER. (1758-1800.) PAGE 246 - -The author of “O’er the Muir amang the Heather” was the daughter of a -Highland weaver settled in Kilmarnock. She married a strolling actor, -and her fugitive songs became familiar throughout the West of Scotland. -“O’er the Muir amang the Heather” has become a classic. - -GEORGE MACDONALD. PAGE 247 - -This popular Scottish novelist and poet was born at Huntly, in -Aberdeenshire, December 10, 1824. As a novelist he has almost as large -an audience as have any of his contemporary romancists. His poems are -less widely known, though in them he has expressed himself with great -variety and subtlety. The Celtic element is not conspicuous in Dr -Macdonald’s work either in prose or verse; but sometimes, as in the -little song “Oimè,” quoted here, it finds adequate expression. This song -is from his early volume _Within and Without_. - -RONALD CAMPBELL MACFIE. PAGE 249 - -The author of _Granite Dust_ (Kegan Paul) is one of the most promising -of the younger Celtic Scots. - -WILLIAM MACDONALD. PAGE 250 - -One of the band of young writers associated with _The Evergreen_ -(Patrick Geddes and Colleagues, Edinburgh). Mr Macdonald has not yet -issued his poems in book form. - -AMICE MACDONELL. PAGE 251 - -Miss Macdonell has not, so far as I know, published a volume. “Culloden -Moor” appeared in the _Celtic Monthly_ in June 1893. - -ALICE C. MACDONELL. PAGE 252 - -Miss Alice Macdonell of Keppoch has contributed many poems to Scottish -and other periodicals. “The Weaving of the Tartan” appeared in the -_Celtic Monthly_ for December 1894. - -WILLIAM MACGILLIVRAY. (1796-1852.) PAGE 254 - -The author of “The Thrush’s Song” was not a poet, but occasionally -indulged in the pleasure of verse-making. He was a well-known Highland -ornithologist, and it may be added that his attempt at an onomatopoeic -rendering of the song of the thrush has been pronounced by Buckland and -other ornithologists to be remarkably close. - -FIONA MACLEOD. PAGE 255 - -Miss Macleod is one of the younger writers most intimately associated -with the Celtic Renascence in Scotland. “The Prayer of Women” (see page -255) is from _Pharais: a Romance of the Isles_ (Frank Murray, Derby, -1894); “The Rune of Age” and “A Gaelic Milking Song” are from _The -Mountain Lovers_ (John Lane); the “Lullaby” and the two songs of Ethlenn -Stuart are from her last volume, _The Sin-Eater: and other Tales_ -(Patrick Geddes and Colleagues, Edinburgh). “The Closing Doors” has not -been published hitherto. The brief lyric, “The Sorrow of Delight,” was -contributed to an as yet unpublished fantastic sketch, _The Merchant of -Dreams_, written in collaboration with a friend. Such of the poems -scattered through her several volumes, and others, as she wishes to -preserve in connected form, will be published by Miss Macleod early in -1896 (Patrick Geddes and Colleagues), under the title of _Lyric Runes -and Fonnsheen_. - -NORMAN MACLEOD. PAGE 266 - -There is no Highlander held in more affectionate remembrance and -admiration than the late Dr Norman Macleod: and with justice; for no one -worked more arduously, understandingly, and sympathetically for the -cause of the Gaelic language, Gaelic literature, and the Gaelic people -than the famous poet-minister, who, to this day, is commonly spoken of -as “The Great Norman.” It was, however, Dr Norman the elder who wrote -“Fiunary,”--and not, as commonly stated, the late Dr Norman. His -“Farewell to Fiunary” is probably the most universally-known modern poem -in the West Highlands. (For critical remarks as to the authenticity of -this poem, see Dr Nigel M‘Neil’s _Literature of the Highlanders_, pp. -283-286.) - -SARAH ROBERTSON MATHESON. PAGE 267 - -Mrs Robertson Matheson, some of whose poems in periodicals have -attracted the attention of lovers of poetry, is chief secretary and -treasurer of the Clan Donnachaidh Society. The fine lyric, “A Kiss of -the King’s Hand,” appeared in the _Celtic Monthly_ for May 1894; but I -regret that version has inadvertently been followed, for it twice -misspells _tae_ for “to,” and in the third line of the third quatrain -has a misreading (“jewels” instead of “ruffles”). - -It may interest many readers to know that “A Kiss of the King’s Hand” -decided the descendant of Flora Macdonald to leave Mrs Robertson -Matheson the last heirloom of Scottish romance, the “ring of French -gold” given by Prince Charlie to Flora, and holding the lock of hair cut -from “the king’s head” by her and her mother. - -DUGALD MOORE. PAGE 268 - -“The First Ship” is so remarkable a poem that it is difficult to -understand how it has met with so little recognition, and escaped most, -if not all, of the Scottish and British anthologists. Dugald Moore was -the son of Highland parents, and was born in Glasgow in 1805. His first -book was entitled _The Bard of the North_, and consisted of a series of -poetical tales illustrative of Highland scenery and character (1833). -_The Hour of Retribution_ and _The Devoted One_ appeared respectively in -1835 and 1839. Moore died unmarried in the 36th year of his age (Jan. 2, -1841), and was buried in the Necropolis of Glasgow. It is a pity that -the poem could not have appeared without its fourth stanza, which is -inferior to the others. - -LADY CAROLINE NAIRNE. (1766-1845.) PAGE 269 - -Needless to say anything here concerning the “Flower of Strathearn.” -Baroness Nairne was mainly Celtic in blood and wholly Celtic in genius. -“The Land o’ the Leal” is now one of the most famous and most loved -lyrics in the English language. (Readers may be referred to _Life and -Songs of Baroness Nairne_, 1868.) - -ALEXANDER NICOLSON. PAGE 270 - -Besides this fine poem, “On Skye,” Sheriff Nicolson has translated the -“Birlinn” of Alexander Macdonald, and has written many moving verses -full of Gaelic sentiment of a robust kind. - -SIR NOËL PATON. PAGE 272 - -Joseph Noël Paton was born at Dunfermline on the 13th of December 1821; -and while his father was also of partial Celtic origin, Sir Noël is, -through his mother, the descendant of the last of the Scoto-Celtic -kings. Of his career as a painter it is not necessary to speak here. His -two volumes of poetry are _Poems by a Painter_ (1861) and _Spindrift_ -(1867). The best account of the life and work of this distinguished Scot -is the monograph recently published by Mr David Croal Thomson, as the -“Art-Annual” of _The Art Journal_. The two poems by which Sir Noël is -represented in this book are not to be found in either of his volumes, -and their appearance here is due to the courtesy of the author. - -WILLIAM RENTON. PAGE 274 - -Mr Renton was born in Perthshire, of Scoto-Celtic parents. “Mountain -Twilight” is taken from his first volume of poems called _Oils and Water -Colours_ (Hamilton, Edinburgh, 1876). Mr Renton’s only other volume of -verse is his _Songs_ (Fisher Unwin, 1893). - -LADY JOHN SCOTT. PAGE 275 - -The author of “Durisdeer” was of mixed Highland and Lowland descent. Her -poem has a permanent place in our literature because of its haunting -passion and pain. - -EARL OF SOUTHESK. PAGE 276 - -Lord Southesk (James Carnegie) was bom in 1827. He first made his name -in literature by his strange and vigorous _Jonas Fisher_ (1875). This -was followed by _Greenwood’s Farewell_ (1876), and _The Meda Maiden_ -(1877); though most of the poems contained in these two volumes, with -several others, are comprised in _The Burial of Isis_ (1884). - -JOHN CAMPBELL SHAIRP. PAGE 277 - -This able Scottish writer was of Celtic origin through his mother. -Readers unacquainted with the poems of the late Principal Shairp, and -ex-Professor of Poetry at Oxford, will do best to turn to the posthumous -volume, edited, with a memoir, by Francis Turner Palgrave, entitled -_Glen Dessary_ (Macmillan, 1888). - -UNA URQUHART. PAGE 279 - -I know nothing else of Gaelic or English verse by this young writer. “An -Old Tale of Three,” as it appears here, is a rendering of the original -by Miss Fiona Macleod. - -LOST LOVE. PAGE 280 - -The author of this poem is unknown. The original is in the Gaelic of the -Western Isles, and is one of the several fugitive songs rescued by -Thomas Pattison. The version given here, however, is not identical with -his, the first and last quatrains having been added by another hand. - - -CONTEMPORARY ANGLO-CELTIC POETS (WALES) - -GEORGE MEREDITH. PAGE 283 - -Mr George Meredith, who recently has been addressed in a dedication as -“The Prince of Celtdom,” is rather the sovereign of contemporary English -literature. Although of Welsh descent and sympathies, and with a nature -pre-eminently Celtic in its distinguishing characteristics, Mr Meredith -was born in Hampshire on February 12th, 1828. Part of his early -education was received in Germany, and after his return to England it -was intended that he should pursue the legal profession: an intention -set aside on account of an irresistible bias toward literature. His -first published writings were in verse: and now this early little book, -_Poems_, published in his twenty-third year (1851) is one of the rarest -treasures for the bibliophile. It is dedicated to Thomas Love Peacock, -whose intellectual influence upon the young writer is obvious. In 1850 -the poet married the daughter of Peacock, but it was not till a year or -two later that he definitely set himself to the profession of literature -as also a means of livelihood. It is characteristic of him that his -first prose book should be one of his most individual writings; for _The -Shaving of Shagpat_ might have been written at almost any period of its -author’s career. A fascinating and perplexing production it must indeed -have seemed at that time, published as it was in a year which, with the -exception of two radically distinct American works of pre-eminent note, -Longfellow’s _Hiawatha_ and Walt Whitman’s _Leaves of Grass_, was a -singularly barren one. The fantasy has always remained a favourite with -staunch Meredithians. It was followed two years later by the somewhat -akin _Farina_; and two years passed again before that first important -work appeared which so profoundly affected the minds and imagination of -Mr Meredith’s contemporaries--the now famous _Ordeal of Richard -Feverel_, (1859). Since that date Mr Meredith has given us what many -consider the greatest literary legacy of our time; and unquestionably he -has had no compeer in brilliant delineation of life at white heat. It is -unnecessary to specify the works of an author with which all lovers of -literature must be familiar; but a word must be added as to the delight -which the reading world has known this year in the publication of _The -Amazing Marriage_, one of the most brilliant and vivid of all Mr -Meredith’s romances, and, in its display of his characteristic quality -at his best, ranking with _Harry Richmond_, _The Egoist_, and _Diana of -the Crossways_. As a poet George Meredith is less widely known, or, -rather, is less widely accepted. There are, nevertheless, many who -regard his poetic achievement as perhaps the most essential part of what -he has given us. In depth of thought, in clarity of vision, and in -remarkable expressional subtlety,--often, if not invariably, set forth -in a lyric utterance whose only fault is that of an occasional apparent -incoherence due to rapidity of thought and eagerness of rhythmic -emotion--he stands here, as in all else, alone. From that -extraordinarily powerful study of contemporary life, expressed -emotionally and rhythmically in singularly convincing verse, _Modern -Love_, to his latest volume, _The Empty Purse_, there is a range of -rhythmic and lyric beauty which may well be a challenge to posterity to -redeem the relative neglect of the mass of Mr Meredith’s contemporaries. -I am not of those who consider Mr Meredith’s least popular poems as mere -cryptic utterances in verse; for everywhere I find the lyric -spirit,--hampered, at times, it is true, by a wind-rush of images, and -by a sudden drove of unshepherded words. But who could read “Love in the -Valley,” “The Lark Ascending,” “The Woods of Westermain,” “The -South-Wester,” “The Hymn to Colour,” to mention five only, without -recognising that here indeed we have one of the great poets of our time. -The poems by which, owing to the gracious courtesy of Mr Meredith--who -has consented to forego for once his great objection to the appearance -of any of his poems in miscellaneous collections--he is here -represented, are from his later volumes. The “Dirge in Woods,” “Outer -and Inner,” and the superb “Hymn to Colour,” are from _A Reading of -Earth_ (1888), the volume which contains “Hard Weather,” “The -South-Wester,” “The Thrush in February,” “The Appeasement of Demeter,” -“Woodland Peace,” the noble ode “Meditation under Stars,” and that -flawless and memorable sonnet, “Winter Heavens.” The “Night of Frost in -May” is from the volume entitled _The Empty Purse_ (1892). Mr Meredith’s -other volume of poetry, the favourite with most of his readers, is -_Poems and Lyrics of the Joy of Earth_ (1883). This book includes “The -Woods of Westermain,” “The Day of the Daughter of Hades,” “The Lark -Ascending,” “Phœbus with Admetus,” “Melampus,” “Love in a Valley,” and -the group of sonnets beginning with “Lucifer in Starlight,” and ending -with “Time and Sentiment.” All Mr Meredith’s poetical writings are now -published by Messrs Macmillan. - -SEBASTIAN EVANS. PAGE 292 - -Born in 1830, the grandson of the Rev. Lewis Evans, a well-known Welsh -astronomer, and the son of the Rev. Arthur Benoni Evans, a linguist, -scholar, and author. He was not the only one of this parentage who came -to some distinction, for his brother, John Evans, F.R.S., became -President of the Society of Antiquaries, and his sister, Anne, had some -repute as a poetess and musician. Sebastian Evans won a fair measure of -fugitive fame by his _Brother Fabian’s Manuscript and Other Poems_ -(Macmillan, 1865). In the early ’70’s Dr Evans published his second -volume, _In the Studio: a Decade of Poems_ (Macmillan). The true note of -his strangely subtle and illusive muse is not that of either irony or -audacity as commonly supposed, but rather a living belief in the passage -of the contemporary mind and aspiration from the sureties of the ancient -faith to the assurance of a still finer faith to come. Among his short -poems perhaps the most indicative is that entitled “The Banners”-- - -Lordly banners, waving to the stars, - Flap upon the night-wind, heavy with the dew, -Trustful youth is wending to the wars, - Strong in ancient faith to battle with the new. - -Lordly banners, trodden in the clay, - Lie upon the mountain dank with other dew, -Hapless Youth hath lost the bloody day, - Ancient faith is feeble, stronger is the new. - -Lordly banners, other than of yore, - Flap upon the night-wind, heavy with the dew: -Youth to battle girdeth him once more, - New and Old are feeble,--mighty is the True! - -EBENEZER JONES. (1820-1860.) PAGE 293 - -Of Welsh parentage and descent, Ebenezer Jones was born in Islington, -London. Much has been written upon the famous Chartist poet, both in his -relation to the socialistic movements in which he participated, and in -literary criticism of his two at one time much discussed volumes, -_Studies of Sensation and Event_ (1843), and _Studies of Resemblance and -Consent_ (1849); but perhaps the best critical summary of his life-work -is that of Mr Wm. J. Linton in Miles’ _Poets and Poetry of the Century_, -Vol. V. The two poems by which Ebenezer Jones is represented here are -respectively from his second and first volumes. - -EMILY DAVIS (MRS PFEIFFER). (1841-1890.) PAGE 296 - -Mrs Pfeiffer, many of whose poems achieved a wide popularity, was the -daughter of a Welsh gentleman settled in Oxfordshire, and an officer in -the army. She was born in Wales. Of her several volumes of verse, the -first was _Gerard’s Monument_, etc. (1873), and the best are _Sonnets -and Other Songs_, _Under the Aspens_ (1884), and _Sonnets_ (1887). - -ERNEST RHYS. PAGE 297 - -“The House of Hendra” is not given here intact: for the whole poem, see -_A London Rose_, etc. (Elkin Mathews). Mr Rhys is the most noteworthy of -the younger generation of Welsh poets and romancists, and may well be -accepted as the leader of the Neo-Celtic movement in Wales. He has in a -more marked degree than almost any of his compatriots of his own period -the gift of style; and already his enthusiasm, knowledge, and fine and -notable work in prose and verse have brought him to the front as the -recognised representative of young Wales. Of Welsh parentage, Mr Rhys -was born in London in 1860, spent much of his boyhood in South Wales, -and his youth and early manhood in the north-country, where he intended -to follow the profession of a mining engineer. However, he came to -London in the early ’eighties and settled down to literary work. His -first publication in book form was _The Great Cockney Tragedy_ (1891). -His poems first became known to the outside reading world through his -contributions to _The Book of the Rhymers’ Club_ (1893). In the -following year he published his first and as yet sole volume of verse: -_A London Rose: and Other Rhymes_, whence comes the fine “House of -Hendra” by which he is represented here. Besides other writings, in -prose, Mr Ernest Rhys was editor of the “Camelot Series” of popular -reprints and translations in 65 volumes (1885-1890), and now is critical -editor of _The Lyric Poets_ (Dent), one of the most delightful -poets-series extant. - - -CONTEMPORARY ANGLO-CELTIC POETS (MANX) - -THOMAS EDWARD BROWN. PAGE 307 - -Was born at Douglas, in the Isle of Man, in 1830. After a career of -exceptional distinction at Oxford, he was appointed Vice-Principal of -King William’s College in the Isle of Man (1855). Since 1863 he has been -assistant-master of Clifton College. The book by which Mr Brown is best -known is his admirable _Fo’c’sle Yarns_ (Macmillan, 1881 and 1889), -though the first of his tales in verse included therein, “Betsy Lee,” -appeared in _Macmillan’s Magazine_ in 1873 where it at once attracted -wide attention. He has also published _The Doctor_ (1887) and _The Manx -Witch_ (1889). The author of _Fo’c’sle Yarns_ is by far the most -noteworthy poetic representative of the Isle of Man. In range, depth of -insight, dramatic vigour, keen sympathy, and narrative faculty, all -transformed by the alchemy of his poetic vision, he is not only the -foremost Manx poet, but one of the most notable of living writers in -verse. It is probably because most of his poems deal almost wholly with -Manx scenes and characters, and are for the most part written in the -Manx dialect, that he is so little talked of by literary critics and so -little known to the reading world at large. Than “Betsy Lee” (_Fo’c’sle -Yarns_) there is no more moving, human, and beautiful poem, of the -narrative kind, written in our time. The fragmentary lines by which the -author is represented here were selected from one of his most -characteristic Manx poems, and give a good idea of the common parlance -of the islanders of to-day. It is from _The Doctor: and Other Poems_ -(Swan Sonnenschein, 1887). - -HALL CAINE. PAGE 309 - -This fine Manx ballad of “Graih my Chree” appeared this year in the -first number of _London Home_, to the editor and proprietor of which, as -well as to Mr Hall Caine, I am indebted for the permission to include -“Love of my Heart” here. Mr Caine, so celebrated as a novelist, has -published no volume of poems; but at rare intervals something of his in -verse has appeared. I think that his earliest appearance as a poet was -in _Sonnets of this Century_ (1886, and later editions), where he is -represented by two fine sonnets, “Where Lies the Land to which my Soul -would go?” and “After Sunset.” Mr Caine’s own first acknowledged book -was an anthology of sonnets (_Sonnets of Three Centuries_, Stock, 1882), -published in the author’s twenty-seventh year. Of his many books, the -best known are his _Recollections of Dante Gabriel Rossetti_; and his -romances, _The Shadow of a Crime_, _The Deemster_, _The Bondman_, _The -Scapegoat_, and _The Manxman_. Mr Hall Caine is himself a Manxman, -crossed with a strong strain of Cumberland blood. Both in his strength -and weakness he is eminently Celtic, after his own kind; for he could -belong to no other Celtic people than either the Manx or the Welsh. He -has, and not without good reason, been called the Walter Scott of Man. -Certainly, _The Deemster_ and _The Manxman_ alone have revealed Manxland -and Manx life and character to the great mass of English readers. - - -CONTEMPORARY ANGLO-CELTIC POETS (CORNISH) - -ARTHUR THOMAS QUILLER COUCH. PAGE 317 - -So well known as “Q,” was born at Bodwin, in Cornwall, of an old Cornish -family, in 1863. He left Trinity College, Oxford, for London; but, after -a brief experience of literary life in the metropolis, returned to the -“Duchy,” and has since resided there, mainly at Fowey. He is not only -the most noteworthy living Cornishman of letters, and the romancer _par -excellence_ of contemporary Cornwall and Cornish life, but is -acknowledged as one of the best story-tellers of the day. His first book -was _The Splendid Spur_ (1889), a stirring romance, which was followed -by _The Delectable Duchy_, _Noughts and Crosses_, and _I Saw Three -Ships_. He has published little poetry; and even in his slender volume, -_Green Bays_ (1893), there are not more than one or two poems, the other -verses being for the most part what are called “occasional.” If, -however, he had written nothing in verse except the lyric called “The -Splendid Spur,” he would be accounted a poet for remembrance. “The -White Moth” is the most distinctively Celtic poem he has written. In the -main, he is more Cornish than Celtic--in this a contrast to Dr Riccardo -Stephens, who is far more distinctively Celtic than Cornish. - -ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER. (1804-1875.) PAGE 319 - -The celebrated vicar of Morwenstow (born at Plymouth) came of an old -Cornish family, and spent the greater part of his life in the Duchy. In -1834 he became Vicar of Morwenstow, a remote parish on the Cornish -sea-board. His best-known book is _Cornish Ballads_ (1869); but the -reader who may not be acquainted with his writings should consult the -_Poetical Works, and Other Literary Remains, with a Memoir_ (1879). -Hawker has much of the sombre note which is supposed to be -characteristic of Celtic Cornwall. - -RICCARDO STEPHENS. PAGE 321 - -Dr Stephens is a Cornishman settled in Edinburgh, where he practises as -a physician. He has not, as yet, published any of his poems in book -form; but, none the less, has won (if necessarily, as yet, a limited) -reputation by his exceedingly vigorous and individual poems. He has -written several “Castle Ballads” (of which the very striking “Hell’s -Piper” given here is one)--poems suggested by legendary episodes -connected with Edinburgh Castle, or perhaps only vaguely influenced by -that romantically picturesque and grand vicinage--for Dr Stephens is one -of the many workers, thinkers, and dreamers who congregate in the -settlement founded by Professor Patrick Geddes on the site of Allan -Ramsay’s residence--“New Edinburgh,” as University Hall is sometimes -called, an apt name in more ways than one. Dr Stephens is a poet of -marked originality, and his work has all the Celtic fire and fervour, -with much of that sombre gloom which is held to be characteristically -Cornish. “Hell’s Piper” has lines in it of Dantesque vigour, as those -which depict, among “the shackled earthquakes,” the “reeking halls of -Hell,” and the torture-wrought denizens of that Inferno. “The Phantom -Piper” will never be forgotten by any one who has once read and been -thrilled by this highly-imaginative poem. - - -MODERN AND CONTEMPORARY BRETON - -THE POOR CLERK (IN BRETON, “AR C’HLOAREK PAOUR”) PAGE 331 - -is rather a mediæval than a modern folk-poem. The translation is that of -the late Tom Taylor (_Ballads and Lyrics_, Macmillan), who has the -following note upon it:--“The Klöarek is a seminarist of Tréguier, a -peasant who has a turn for books, or shows some vocation for the -priesthood. Their miserable life, hard study, and abnegation of family -life are provocative of regretful emotion, passionate and mystic -asceticism. The Klöarek is the poet and hero of most of the Breton -_Sônes_; Tréguier, therefore, is the nursery of the elegaic and -religious popular poetry of Brittany.” - -THE CROSS BY THE WAY (KROAZ ANN HENT). PAGE 332 - -_Vide_ preceding Note. This translation is from the same source as last. - -THE SECRETS OF THE CLERK, AND LOVE SONG. PAGES 335-337 - -See Note to “The Poor Clerk.” The first of these poems was probably -composed in the transition period--late mediæval or early modern. Both -are given in the rendering of Mr Alfred M. Williams (_vide_ “Folk-Songs -of Lower Brittany” in _Studies in Folk-Song and Popular Poetry_ (1895)). -“The Love Song” is modern--probably _circa_ 1800, or even 1750. - -HERVÉ NOËL LE BRETON. PAGE 338 - -For all particulars concerning this poet I must refer interested readers -to Mr W. J. Robertson’s brief memoir in that most delightful of all -books of translation, _A Century of French Verse_ (A. D. Innes & Co., -1895). This is without exception the ablest work of its kind we have. It -is the production of one who is unmistakably himself a poet, who has the -rare double power to translate literally, and at the same time with -subtle art and charm, so that the least possible loss in translation is -involved. In addition to these often exquisitely felicitous, and always -notably able and suggestive renderings, Mr Robertson has prefixed to -each representative selection a brief critical and biographical study of -the poet represented--short _études_ of remarkable insight and critical -merit. Of Hervé Noël le Breton he gives some interesting particulars. -The poet is of the ancient Armorican race, and was born in Nantes in -1851. He has not yet published any volume; and it is from an unpublished -collection, _Rêves et Symboles_, that Mr Robertson has drawn. Strangely -enough, neither in Tiercelin’s Breton Anthology nor anywhere else can I -find any allusion to Hervé Noël le Breton: and his name is unknown to M. -Louis Tiercelin, M. Anatole le Braz, and M. Charles Le Goffic, -respectively the most eminent living Breton anthologist, Breton -folk-lorist, and Breton poet-romancist and critic. For several reasons I -take it that Le Breton is an assumed name; and it is even possible that -the Armorican blood is only in the brain, and not in the body of the -author of _Rêves et Symboles_. “The Burden of Lost Souls” is in three -parts, of which that given here is the first. Here is the second: - - -THE BURDEN OF LOST SOULS. - - -II. - -This is our doom. To walk for ever and ever - The wilderness unblest, -To weary soul and sense in vain endeavour - And find no coign of rest; - -To feel the pulse of speech and passion thronging - On lips for ever dumb, -To gaze on parched skies relentless, longing - For clouds that will not come; - -Thirsty, to drink of loathsome waters crawling - With nameless things obscene, -To feel the dews from heaven like fire-drops falling, - And neither shade nor screen; - -To fill from springs illusive riddled vessels, - Like the Danaïdes, -To grapple with the wind that whirls and wrestles, - Knowing no lapse of ease; - -To weave fantastic webs that shrink and crumble - Before they leave the loom, -To build with travail aëry towers that tumble - And temples like the tomb; - -To watch the stately pomp and proud procession - Of splendid shapes and things, -And pine in silent solitary session - Because we have no wings; - -To woo from confused sleep forlorn the dismal - Oblivion of despair; -To seek in sudden glimpse of dreams abysmal - Sights beautiful and rare, -And waking, wild with terror, see the vision - Cancelled in swift eclipse, -Mocked by the pallid phantoms of derision, - With spectral eyes and lips; - -To turn in endless circles round these purlieus - With troops of spirits pale, -Whose everlasting song is like the curlew’s, - One ceaseless, changeless wail. - -Mr Robertson gives four poems by this poet: “_La Plainte des Damnés_,” -“_Vers les Etoiles_,” “_Le Tombeau du Poète_,” and “_Hymne au Sommeil_.” -His translation of the last-named also appears in this anthology. - -VILLIERS DE L’ISLE-ADAM. (1838-1889.) PAGE 342 - -This famous French novelist and poet was born at St Brieuc, in Brittany, -of parents who were each of old Breton stock. The full details of the -life and work of Philippe-Auguste-Mathias de Villiers de l’Isle-Adam, -son of the Marquis Joseph de Villiers de l’Isle-Adam and his wife Marie -Françoise le Nepveu de Carfort, can be read in the recently-published -_Life_, by the late Vicomte Robert du Pontavice de Heussey--an English -translation of which, by Lady Mary Lloyd, was issued last year by Mr -Heinemann. This distinguished writer lived in misfortune, and died amid -darker shadows than those he had too long been bitterly acquainted with. -His first volume of poems was published when he was little more than -twenty years old--as Mr Robertson says, “one of the most remarkable ever -written by so young a poet.” The young Breton poet came under the strong -personal influence of Baudelaire, and in the process he lost much of his -native Celtic fire and spirituality. Besides the poems given here, -“Confession” (“_D’aveu_”) and “Discouragement” (“_Découragement_”), Mr -Robertson translates, in his _Century of French Verse_, -“_Eblouissement_” and “_Les Présents_.” - -LECONTE DE LISLE. (1818-1894.) PAGE 344 - -“The great Creole poet, Charles Marie René Leconte, known as Leconte de -Lisle, was the child of a Breton father and a Gascon mother, and was -born at St Paul, in the isle of Bourbon (_Réunion_) in 1818. He had the -Celtic clearness of vision and love of beauty, and the vigour and -courage of the Pyrenean race. In his youth he travelled through the East -Indies, and the vivid impressions of tropical colour and warmth which -are visible in his poetry derive their value from the personal -observation of Nature in those regions” (W. J. Robertson, _A Century of -French Verse_). Leconte de Lisle, one of the greatest of modern French -poets, is assured of immortality by his beautiful trilogy:--_Poèmes -Antiques_ (1852), _Poèmes Barbares_ (1862), and _Poèmes Tragiques_ -(1884). The reader who, unfamiliar with this poet, wishes to know more -of Leconte de Lisle and his work, cannot do better than turn first to Mr -Robertson’s biographical and critical memoir in _A Century of French -Verse_. There, too, he will find five poems from _Poèmes Antiques_, -including the long “_Dies Iræ_”; two from _Poèmes Barbares_, and two -from _Poèmes Tragiques_. Of the two given here, the first (“The Black -Panther”) is from _Poèmes Barbares_, and “The Spring” (“_La Source_”) -from _Poèmes Antiques_. Leconte de Lisle strove after an ideal -perfection of form. The spirit of that almost flawless work of his, is -of intellectual emotion rather than of passion; but in colour, and -splendour of imagery, no romanticist can surpass him. He is of the great -minds who create, calm and serene. He is often classed with the two -great master-spirits of modern German and French literature; but, while -he has neither the lyric rush nor epic sweep of Victor Hugo, nor the -philosophical modernity and innate human sentiment of Gœthe, he is much -more akin to the latter than to the former. For the rest, to quote Mr -Robertson, “he gives the noblest expression to human revolt and desire, -to ideal dreams, and to the pure and sometimes pathetic love of external -nature.” - -LEO-KERMORVAN. PAGE 348 - -Leo-Kermorvan has been represented here as one of the most distinctively -Celtic of the contemporary Breton poets. In translating his “Taliesen,” -as well as Louis Tiercelin’s “By Menec’hi Shore,” I have endeavoured to -convey the atmosphere, as well as to be literal; and, partly to this -end, and partly because of a personal preference for unrhymed metrical -translation, have not ventured to make a rhymed paraphrase. M. Kermorvan -is a poet worthy to be named with his two most notable living -compatriots, Tristran Corbière and Charles Le Goffic. - -LOUIS TIERCELIN. PAGE 351 - -(See foregoing note.) M. Tiercelin is a Breton poet and critic, perhaps -best known as co-editor of the _Parnasse de la Bretagne_. No more -characteristic Breton poem, apart from folk-poetry, could close _Lyra -Celtica_. It is the keynote of the poetry that is common to all the -Celtic races. - - -THE CELTIC FRINGE - -BLISS CARMAN. PAGE 355 - -Mr Bliss Carman, the trans-Atlantic poet who, it seems to me, has the -most distinctive note of any American poet (and the word “American” is -used in its widest sense), is of Scoto-Celtic descent through his -father’s side, and of East-Anglian through the maternal side; but was -born of a family long settled in Canada--viz., at Fredericton, New -Brunswick, in 1861. His poetry is intensely individual, and with a lyric -note at once poignant and reserved. Work of very high quality is -expected of him, on both sides of the Atlantic; for his beautiful lyrics -and poems have appeared in the periodicals of both countries. His slight -volume, _Low Tide on Grand-Pré_ (1893), is published in this country by -Mr Nutt. About half of the _Songs from Vagabondia_ (written in -collaboration with Mr Richard Hovey) are of his authorship. This book, -published in 1894 by Messrs Stone & Kimball of Chicago, is to be had -here through Mr Elkin Mathews. It is from the _Songs_ that the stirring -war-chant of “Gamelbar” comes. - -ELLEN MACKAY HUTCHINSON. PAGE 361 - -This distinguished American lady is descended from old Highland stock. I -know of no other book by her than _Songs and Lyrics_ (Boston, Osgood & -Co., 1881), but that is one which all lovers of poetry should possess. -Miss Hutchinson’s name is best known in connection with that colossal -and invaluable work, the _Cyclopædia of American Literature_ (eleven -vols.), in which she was the collaborator of Mr Edmund Clarence Stedman. - -HUGH M‘CULLOCH. PAGE 364 - -This descendant of an old Highland family is the author of _The Quest of -Heracles_ (Stone & Kimball, Chicago, 1894). - -DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT. PAGE 365 - -Mr Scott is a member of one of the many Scoto-Celtic families settled in -Canada. He was born at Ottawa in 1862, and is the author of _The Magic -House_ (1893). - -THOMAS D’ARCY M‘CGEE. (1821-1868.) PAGE 366 - -This distinguished Irishman is to be accounted only an adopted American. -He emigrated to the States in 1842, edited _The Boston Pilot_, and in -1857 went to Montreal and entered the Canadian Parliament. It was when -returning from a night-session that he was assassinated in Ottawa by -Fenian malcontents. - -MARY C. G. GILLINGTON (MRS BYRON) AND ALICE E. GILLINGTON. PAGES 368-373 - -These two sisters, whose names have become so deservedly well-known by -their contributions to British and American periodicals, are of Celtic -blood, though born and resident in England. They are included here as -representative of the Anglo Celtic strain so potent in England itself. -The elder, Mrs Byron, was born in Cheshire in 1861. Their joint volume, -_Poems_, was published in 1892. Mr Elkin Mathews has just published a -volume entitled, _A Little Book of Lyrics_, by Mrs Byron. - - -FOOTNOTES: - -[1] Apropos, let me quote a word or two from Dr Douglas Hyde: “We all -remember the inimitable felicity with which that great English-speaking -Gael, Sir Walter Scott, has caught,” &c. (with this note) “Both -the Buccleugh Scots, and the other four branches of the name, were -originally Gaelic-speaking Celts.” - -[2] “Failte do Mharcus Latharna ’s do ’Mhnaoi oig Rioghail.” - -[3] Published by Mr Fisher Unwin at a shilling. The reader will have -to discount Mr Brooke’s over-emphasis on the word Irish, which he -frequently uses instead of Celtic, even when alluding to Scoto-Celtic -literature and influence. - -[4] “On the first day of the =Trogan-month=, we, to the number -of Fianna’s three battalions, practised to repair to Arran, and there -to have our fill of hunting until such time as from the tree-tops the -cuckoo would call in Ireland. More melodious than all birds whatsoever, -it was to give ear to the voices of the birds as they rose from the -billows, and from the island’s coast line; thrice fifty separate flocks -there are that encircled her, and they clad in all brilliance of all -colours; as blue, and green, and azure, and yellow.” - -[5] Readers should obtain Dr Hyde’s “Three Sorrows of Story-Telling” -(1/-), wherein the beautiful old tale of Deirdrê is re-told by one who -is at once a poet and a scholar. - -[6] Whence comes the “Prologue to Gaul,” given at p. 187 of this book. - -[7] =Dearg=-=drúchtach=--i.e. “Dewy-Red”--was the name of St -Columba’s boat. - -[8] That is, “Back turned to Ireland.” - -[9] Solitary cell. - -[10] i.e. the sheepskin or deerskin coverings for apertures, still used -in some remote shealings and =bothain=. - -[11] Shed. - -[12] Here probably the byre. - -[13] =Gracie óg mo-chridhe=--“Young Gracie, my heart.” - -[14] Pron. =Cawn dhu dee-lish=--i.e. “darling black head.” - -[15] The second line to the refrain translates the first. - -[16] Creek. - -[17] Piglings. - -[18] Potatoes. - -[19] My heart’s delight. - -[20] A large basket carried on the back. - -[21] =Maura du=, “Dear Mary.” - -[22] =Asthore machree=, “The darling of my heart.” - -[23] Pron. =Colleen Dhun=--a “brown (haired) girl.” - -[24] Low Country. - -[25] Mull. - -[26] =Eilidh= is pronounced Eily (liq.). - -[27] than. - -[28] of hers. - -[29] frightened. - -[30] Hobgoblins. - -[31] The Blackrock is a bold, dark, pillared mass of schist, which -rises midway on the shore of Widemouth Bay, near Bude, and is held -to be the lair of the troubled spirit of Featherstone the wrecker, -imprisoned therein until he shall have accomplished his doom. - -[32] The =bazvalan=, the bearer of the rod of broom. - -[33] Twilight. - -[34] Pronounce like English “hind.” - -[35] Gaelic pronunciation of Mull. - - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LYRA CELTICA *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.iq {display: block; margin-left: -.45em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.idtts {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em; -letter-spacing:.5em;} - -.sidenote {width:10%;padding-bottom:.5em;padding-top:.5em; -padding-left:.5em;padding-right:.5em;margin-left:.5em; -float:right;clear:right;margin-top:1em;text-align:center; -font-size:50%;color:black;background:#eeeeee;border:dashed 1px;} -</style> - </head> -<body> - -<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Lyra Celtica, by Elizabeth Amelia Sharp</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<table style='margin-left:0; border-collapse:collapse'> - <tr><td>Title:</td><td>Lyra Celtica</td></tr> - <tr><td></td><td>An Anthology of Representative Celtic Poetry</td></tr> -</table> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Editor: Elizabeth Amelia Sharp and J. Matthay</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Contributor: William Sharp</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: January 11, 2021 [eBook #64260]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Tim Lindell, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LYRA CELTICA ***</div> -<hr class="full" /> - -<div class="c"> -<a href="images/cover.jpg"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" height="500" alt="[Image -of the book's cover is unavailable.]" /></a> -</div> - -<div class="bbox"> - -<p class="c">THE COLLECTED WORKS OF<br /> “FIONA MACLEOD"<br /> -(WILLIAM SHARP)</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td class="rt">I.</td><td align="left">Pharais; The Mountain Lovers.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">II.</td><td align="left">The Sin-Eater; The Washer of the Ford, Etc.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">III.</td><td align="left">The Dominion of Dreams; Under the Dark Star.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">IV.</td><td align="left">The Divine Adventure; Iona; Studies in Spiritual History.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">V.</td><td align="left">The Winged Destiny; Studies in the Spiritual History of the Gael.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">VI.</td><td align="left">The Silence of Amor; Where the Forest Murmurs.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">VII.</td><td align="left">Poems and Dramas.</td></tr> -<tr><td> </td><td align="left">The Immortal Hour—<i>In paper covers.</i></td></tr> -</table> - -<p class="c">SELECTED WRITINGS OF<br /> WILLIAM SHARP</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td class="rt">I.</td><td align="left">Poems.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">II.</td><td align="left">Studies and Appreciations.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">III.</td><td align="left">Papers, Critical and Reminiscent.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">IV.</td><td align="left">Literary, Geography, and Travel Sketches.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt">V.</td><td align="left">Vistas: The Gipsy Christ and other Prose Imaginings.</td></tr> -</table> - -<p class="c"><i>Uniform with above, in two volumes</i><br /> -A MEMOIR OF WILLIAM SHARP<br /> -(FIONA MACLEOD)<br /> -<span class="smcap">Compiled by Mrs William Sharp</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="c">LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_i" id="page_i">{i}</a></span></p> - -<p class="hang"> -<i>The Celtic<br /> -Library</i><br /> -</p> - -<p class="c"><big>LYRA CELTICA</big></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_ii" id="page_ii">{ii}</a></span></p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">First Edition</span></td><td align="left">1896</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Second Edition</span> (<i>Revised and Enlarged</i>)</td><td align="left">1924</td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_iii" id="page_iii">{iii}</a></span></p> - -<h1> -LYRA CELTICA</h1> - -<p class="c">AN ANTHOLOGY OF REPRE-<br />SENTATIVE -CELTIC POETRY<br /> -<br /><small> -EDITED BY</small><br /> -E. A. SHARP <small>AND</small> J. MATTHAY<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<i>WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES</i><br /> -By WILLIAM SHARP<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -ANCIENT IRISH, ALBAN, GAELIC, BRETON,<br /> -CYMRIC, AND MODERN SCOTTISH AND<br /> -IRISH CELTIC POETRY<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -EDINBURGH: JOHN GRANT<br /> -31 GEORGE IV. BRIDGE<br /> -1924<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_iv" id="page_iv">{iv}</a></span> </p> - -<p class="c"> -PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY<br /> -OLIVER AND BOYD EDINBURGH<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_v" id="page_v">{v}</a></span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_vi" id="page_vi">{vi}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“ ... <i>a troubled Eden, rich</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>In throb of heart</i> ...”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">GEORGE MEREDITH<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_vii" id="page_vii">{vii}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h2>CONTENTS</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> - -<tr><td><b>INTRODUCTION</b> </td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#INTRODUCTION">xvii</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th>ANCIENT IRISH AND SCOTTISH</th></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Mystery of Amergin</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_3">3</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Song of Fionn</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_4">4</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Credhe’s Lament</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_5">5</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Cuchullin in his Chariot</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_6">6</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Deirdrê’s Lament for the Sons of Usnach</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_8">8</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Lament of Queen Maev</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_10">10</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The March of the Faërie Host</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_12">12</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Vision of a Fair Woman</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_13">13</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Fian Banners</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_14">14</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Rune of St Patrick</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_17">17</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Columcille cecenit</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_18">18</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Columcille fecit</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_20">20</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Song of Murdoch the Monk</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_22">22</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Domhnull Mac Fhionnlaidh: “The Aged Bard’s Wish”</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_23">23</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Ossian Sang</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_28">28</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Fingal and Ros-crana</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_29">29</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Night-Song of the Bards</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_31">31</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Death-Song of Ossian</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_41">41</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th>ANCIENT CORNISH</th></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Pool of Pilate</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_44">44</a>, <a href="#page_45">45</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Merlin the Diviner</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_46">46</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Vision of Seth</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_47">47</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th>EARLY ARMORICAN</th></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Dance of the Sword</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_53">53</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Lord Nann and the Fairy</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_55">55</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Alain the Fox</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_58">58</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Bran</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_60">60</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th>EARLY CYMRIC AND MEDIÆVAL WELSH</th></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Soul</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_67">67</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Llywarc’h Hên</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Gorwynion</td> -<td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_68">68</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The Tercets of Llywawrc’h</td> -<td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_72">72</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Taliesin</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Song to the Wind</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_73">73</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Aneurin</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Odes of the Months</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_75">75</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Dafydd ap Gwilym</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Summer</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_78">78</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">To the Lark</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_81">81</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Rhys Goch (of <span class="smcap">Eryri</span>)</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">To the Fox</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_82">82</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Rhys Goch ap Rhiccart</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Song of the Thrush</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_83">83</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th>IRISH (MODERN AND CONTEMPORARY)</th></tr> -<tr><td class="smcapp">“A.E.”</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Sacrifice</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_87">87</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The Great Breath</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_88">88</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">Mystery</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_89">89</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">By the Margin of the Great Deep</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_90">90</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The Breath of Light</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_91">91</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">William Allingham</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Æolian Harp</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_92">92</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The Fairies</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_93">93</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Thomas Boyd</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">To the Lianhuan Shee</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_95">95</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Emily Brontë</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Remembrance</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_97">97</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Stopford A. Brooke</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Earth and Man</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_98">98</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">Song</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_99">99</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">John K. Casey</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Maire, my Girl</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_101">101</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">Gracie Og Machree</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_103">103</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">George Darley</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Dirge</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_104">104</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Aubrey De Vere</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Little Black Rose</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_105">105</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">Epitaph</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_106">106</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Francis Fahy</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Killiney Far Away</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_107">107</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Sir Samuel Ferguson</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Cean Dubh Deelish</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_109">109</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">Molly Asthore</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_110">110</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The Fair Hills of Ireland</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_112">112</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Alfred Percival Graves</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Herring is King</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_113">113</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The Rose of Kenmare</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_115">115</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The Song of the Pratee</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_118">118</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">Irish Lullaby</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_120">120</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Gerald Griffin</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Eileen Aroon</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_121">121</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Nora Hopper</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Dark Man</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_123">123</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">April in Ireland</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_124">124</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The Wind among the Reeds</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_125">125</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Douglas Hyde</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">My Grief on the Sea</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_126">126</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The Cooleen</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_127">127</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The Breedyeen</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_128">128</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">Nelly of the Top-Knots</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_130">130</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">I shall not Die for Thee</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_132">132</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Lionel Johnson</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Red Wind</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_133">133</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">To Morfydd</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_134">134</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Denis Florence Maccarthy</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">A Lament</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_135">135</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">James Clarence Mangan</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Fair Hills of Eiré, O!</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_137">137</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">Dark Rosaleen</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_139">139</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The One Mystery</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_142">142</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Rosa Mulholland</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Wild Geese</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_144">144</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Roden Noël</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Lament for a Little Child</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_146">146</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The Swimmer</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_148">148</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The Dance</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_151">151</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">From “The Water-Nymph and the Boy”</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_152">152</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">A Casual Song</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_154">154</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The Pity of it</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_155">155</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The Old</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_157">157</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Charles P. O’Conor</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Maura Du of Ballyshannon</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_158">158</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">John Francis O’Donnell</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">A Spinning Song</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_160">160</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">John Boyle O’Reilly</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">A White Rose</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_161">161</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Arthur O’Shaughnessy</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Fountain of Tears</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_162">162</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Fanny Parnell</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">After Death</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_165">165</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">T. W. Rolleston</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Dead at Clonmacnois</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_166">166</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Dora Sigerson</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Unknown Ideal</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_167">167</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">George Sigerson</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Mo Cáilin Donn</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_168">168</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">John Todhunter</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">An Irish Love Song</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_170">170</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The Sunburst</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_171">171</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">Song</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_173">173</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Katherine Tynan</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Winter Sunset</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_174">174</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">Shamrock Song</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_176">176</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">Wild Geese</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_178">178</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Charles Weekes</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Dreams</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_179">179</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">Poppies</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_180">180</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">W. B. Yeats</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">They went forth to the Battle, but they always fell</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_181">181</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The White Birds</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_183">183</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The Lake of Innisfree</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_184">184</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th>SCOTO-CELTIC (MIDDLE PERIOD)</th></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Prologue to “Gaul”</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_187">187</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">In Hebrid Seas</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_189">189</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Cumha Ghriogair Mhic Griogair</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_191">191</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Drowned</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_194">194</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Alexander Macdonald</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Manning of the Birlinn</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_195">195</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Angus Mackenzie</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Lament of the Deer</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_201">201</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Duncan Bàn MacIntyre</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Ben Dorain</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_203">203</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The Hill-Water</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_208">208</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Mary Macleod</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Song for Macleod of Macleod</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_210">210</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th>MODERN AND CONTEMPORARY SCOTO-CELTIC</th></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Monaltri</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_217">217</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">An Coineachan—A Highland Lullaby</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_218">218</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">A Boat Song</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_219">219</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">John Stuart Blackie</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Old Soldier of the Gareloch Head</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_222">222</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Robert Buchanan</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Flower of the World</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_224">224</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The Strange Country</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_225">225</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The Dream of the World without Death</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_228">228</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The Faëry Foster-Mother</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_235">235</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Lord Byron</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">When we Two Parted</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_238">238</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">Stanzas for Music</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_239">239</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Colin’s Cattle</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_240">240</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">MacCrimmon’s Lament</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_241">241</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Ian Cameron</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Song</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_242">242</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">John Davidson</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">A Loafer</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_243">243</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">In Romney Marsh</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_245">245</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Jean Glover</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">O’er the Muir amang the Heather</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_246">246</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">George Macdonald</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Song</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_247">247</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Ronald Campbell Macfie</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Song</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_249">249</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">William Macdonald</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">A Spring Trouble</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_250">250</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Amice Macdonell</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Culloden Moor</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_251">251</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Alice C. Macdonell</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Weaving of the Tartan</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_252">252</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">William Macgillivray</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Thrush’s Song</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_254">254</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Fiona Macleod</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Prayer of Women</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_255">255</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The Rune of Age</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_257">257</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">A Milking Song</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_259">259</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">Lullaby</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_261">261</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The Songs of Ethlenn Stuart</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_262">262</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The Closing Doors</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_264">264</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The Sorrow of Delight</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_265">265</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Norman Macleod</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Farewell to Fiunary</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_266">266</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Sarah Robertson Matheson</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">A Kiss of the King’s Hand</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_267">267</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Dugald Moore</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The First Ship</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_268">268</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Lady Caroline Nairne</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Land o’ the Leal</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_269">269</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Alexander Nicolson</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Skye</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_270">270</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Sir Noël Paton</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Midnight by the Sea</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_272">272</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">In Shadowland</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_273">273</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">William Renton</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Mountain Twilight</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_274">274</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Lady John Scott</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Durisdeer</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_275">275</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Earl of Southesk</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">November’s Cadence</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_276">276</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">John Campbell Shairp</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Cailleach Bein-y-Vreich</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_277">277</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Una Urquhart</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">An Old Tale of Three</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_279">279</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Anon.</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Lost Love</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_280">280</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th>CONTEMPORARY ANGLO-CELTIC POETS<br /> -(WALES)</th></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">George Meredith</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Dirge in Woods</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_283">283</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">Outer and Inner</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_284">284</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">Night of Frost in May</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_286">286</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">Hymn to Colour</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_289">289</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Sebastian Evans</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Shadows</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_292">292</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Ebenezer Jones</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">When the World is Burning</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_293">293</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The Hand</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_294">294</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Emily Davis</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">A Song of Winter</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_296">296</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Ernest Rhys</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Night Ride</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_297">297</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The House of Hendra</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_298">298</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th>CONTEMPORARY ANGLO-CELTIC POETS<br /> -(MANX)</th></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">T. E. Brown</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Childhood of Kitty of the Sherragh Vane</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_307">307</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Hall Caine</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Graih my Chree</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_309">309</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th>CONTEMPORARY ANGLO-CELTIC POETS<br /> -(CORNISH)</th></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">A. T. Quiller Couch</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Splendid Spur</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_317">317</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The White Moth</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_318">318</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Stephen Hawker</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Featherstone’s Doom</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_319">319</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">Trebarrow</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_320">320</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Riccardo Stephens</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Witch Margaret</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_321">321</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">A Ballad</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_323">323</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">Hell’s Piper</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_325">325</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th>MODERN AND CONTEMPORARY BRETON</th></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Poor Clerk</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_331">331</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Cross by the Way</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_333">333</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Secrets of the Clerk</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_335">335</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Love Song</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_336">336</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Hervé-Noël le Breton</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Hymn to Sleep</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_338">338</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The Burden of Lost Souls</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_340">340</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Villiers de l’Isle-Adam</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Confession</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_342">342</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">Discouragement</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_343">343</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Leconte de Lisle</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Black Panther</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_344">344</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The Spring</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_346">346</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Leo-Kermorvan</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Return of Taliesen</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_348">348</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Louis Tiercelin</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">By Menec’hi Shore</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_351">351</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th>THE CELTIC FRINGE</th></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Bliss Carman</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Song</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_355">355</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The War-Song of Gamelbar</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_356">356</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">Golden Rowan</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_359">359</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">A Sea Child</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_360">360</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Ellen Mackay Hutchinson</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Quest</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_361">361</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">Moth Song</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_362">362</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">June</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_363">363</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Hugh M‘Culloch</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Scent o’ Pines</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_364">364</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Duncan Campbell Scott</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Reed-Player</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_365">365</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Thomas D’Arcy M‘CGee</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Celtic Cross</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_366">366</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Mary C. G. Byron</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Tryst of the Night</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_368">368</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Alice E. Gillington</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Doom-Bar</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_369">369</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The Seven Whistlers</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_371">371</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Shane Leslie</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Requiem</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_373">373</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Padraic Colum</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">An Old Woman of the Roads</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_374">374</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">A Cradle Song</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_375">375</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">James Stephens</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Coolun</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_376">376</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The Clouds</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_377">377</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Eleanor Hull</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Old Woman of Beare</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_378">378</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Thomas Macdonagh</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">From a “Litany of Beauty”</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_381">381</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Seosamh Maccathmhaoil</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">I will go with my Father a-ploughing</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_383">383</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">A Northern Love Song</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_384">384</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Patrick MacGill</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Fairy Workers</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_385">385</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Francis Ledwidge</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Shadow People</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_386">386</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">My Mother</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_387">387</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Gordon Bottomley</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Lyric from “The Crier by Night”</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_388">388</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">James H. Cousins</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Quest</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_389">389</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Padraic H. Pearse</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Fool</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_390">390</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Lord Dunsany</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">The Return of Song</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_392">392</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Kenneth Macleod</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Dance to your Shadow</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_393">393</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">Sea Longing</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_394">394</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">The Reiving Ship</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_395">395</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Marjory Kennedy-Fraser</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Land of Heart’s Desire</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_396">396</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">Ossian’s Midsummer Day-Dream</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_397">397</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="pdd">Kishmul’s Galley</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_398">398</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Agnes Mure Mackenzie</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Aignish on the Machair</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_399">399</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcapp">Neil Munro</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="pdd">Fingal’s Weeping</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_400">400</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>NOTES</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_403">403-450</a></td></tr> - -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xix" id="page_xix">{xix}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xviii" id="page_xviii">{xviii}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xx" id="page_xx">{xx}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xxi" id="page_xxi">{xxi}</a></span> </p> - -<h2><a name="INTRODUCTION" id="INTRODUCTION"></a>INTRODUCTION</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span>N this foreword I must deal cursorily with a great and fascinating -subject, for “Lyra Celtica” has extended beyond its original limits, and -Text and Notes have absorbed much of the space which had been allotted -for a preliminary dissertation on the distinguishing qualities and -characteristics of Celtic literature.</p> - -<p>For most readers, the interest of an anthology is independent of any -introductory remarks: the appeal is in the wares, not in the running -commentary of the hawker. For those, however, who have looked for a -detailed synthesis, as well as for the Celticists who may have expected -an ample, or, at least, a more adequately representative selection from -the older Celtic literatures, I have a brief word to say before passing -on to the matter in hand.</p> - -<p>In the first place, this volume is no more than an early, and, in a -sense, merely arbitrary, gleaning from an abundant harvest. For “Lyra -Celtica” is not so much the introduction to a much larger, more organic, -and more adequately representative work, to be called “Anthologia -Celtica,” but is rather the outcome of the latter, itself culled from a -vast mass of material, ancient, mediæval, and modern. It is, moreover, -intentionally given over mainly to modern poetry. “Anthologia Celtica” -may not appear for a year or two hence, perhaps not for several years; -for a systematic effort to compile a scholarly anthology, on -chronological and comparative lines, of the ancient poetry of Irish and -Scottish Gaeldom, of the Cymric, Armorican, and other<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xxii" id="page_xxii">{xxii}</a></span> Brythonic bards, -is a task not to be lightly undertaken, or fulfilled in anything like -satisfactory degree without that patience and care which only -enthusiastic love of the subject can give, and for which the extrinsic -reward is payable in rainbow-gold alone.</p> - -<p>In the second place, all that was intended to be written here, will be -given more fully and more systematically in a volume to be published -later: “An Introduction to the Study of Celtic Literature.” Therein an -effort is made to illustrate the distinguishing imaginative qualities of -the several Celtic races; to trace the origins, dispersion, interfusion, -and concentration of the early Celtic, Picto-Celtic, and later Goidelic -and Brythonic peoples, and to reflect Celtic mythopœic and authentic -history through Celtic poetry and legendary lore. Concurrently there is -an endeavour to relate, in natural order, the development of the -literature of contemporary Wales, Brittany, Ireland, and Celtic -Scotland, from their ancient Cymric, Armorican, Erse, and Alban-Gaelic -congeners.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>It is not yet thirty years ago since Matthew Arnold published his -memorable and beautiful essay on Celtic Literature, so superficial in -its knowledge, it is true, but informed by so keen and fine an -interpretative spirit; yet already, since 1868, the writings of Celtic -specialists constitute quite a library.</p> - -<p>Of recent years we have had many works of the greatest value in Celtic -ethnology, philology, history, archæology, art, legendary ballads and -romances, folk-lore, and literature. Of all the Celtic literatures, that -which was least known, when Arnold wrote, was the Scoto-Gaelic; but now -with books such as Skene’s “Celtic Scotland,” Campbell’s “Popular Tales -of the West Highlands,” with its invaluable supplementary matter, Dr -Cameron’s “Reliquiæ Celticæ,” and many others, there is no difficulty -for the would-be student. Again,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xxiii" id="page_xxiii">{xxiii}</a></span> it is impossible to overrate the value -of popular books at once so able, so trustworthy, and so readily -attainable, as Professor Rhys’s “Celtic Britain,” or Dr Douglas Hyde’s -“Story of Early Gaelic Literature”; while Breton literature, ancient or -modern, has found almost as many, and certainly as able and -enthusiastic, exponents as that of Wales or that of Ireland. In Ireland -there is, with Mr Standish Hayes O’Grady, Dr Douglas Hyde, Dr Sigerson, -and many more, quite an army of workers in every branch of Celtic -science and literature; in Scotland one less numerous perhaps, but not -less ardent and justly enthusiastic; and in Wales the old Cymric spirit -survives unabated, from the Butt of Anglesea to the marches of Hereford. -In Brittany there was, till the other day, Hersart de la Villemarqué, -and now there are M. de Jubainville, M. Loth, M. Anatole Le Braz, M. -Auguste Brizeux, Charles Le Goffic, Louis Tiercelin, and many more -philologists and other students, poets, romancists, and critics. -Cornwall has not been neglected, nor has Man, and even the outlying -fringe of Celtdom has found interpreters and expounders. In France the -“Revue Celtique”; in Ireland, Scotland, and Wales, Gaelic or Welsh or -Anglo-Celtic periodicals and “Transactions,” stimulate a wider and -deeper interest, and do inestimable service. The writings of men such as -Renan, De Jubainville, Valroger, and other French Celticists: of -Windisch, Kuno Meyer, and other Germans: of English specialists such as -Mr Whitley Stokes, Mr Alfred Nutt, and others: these, together, and in -all their different ways of approach, are, along with the writings of -native specialists in Ireland, Wales, and Scotland, accomplishing a work -greater than is now to be measured or even accurately apprehended.</p> - -<p>To all who would know something authentic concerning the history of the -Celtic race since its occupation of these Isles, and of a large section, -and latterly of a corner, of Western Europe, I would recommend -Professor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xxiv" id="page_xxiv">{xxiv}</a></span> Rhys’s admirable little book, “Celtic Britain,” a volume -within the reach of all. In the Irish National Library, the volumes of -which are sold at a trifling sum, may be had Dr Douglas Hyde’s lucid and -excellent exposition of early Gaelic literature; and, among valuable -popular contributions to Anglo-Celtic Literature, mention should be made -of the Rev. Nigel MacNeill’s “Literature of the Highlanders.” These -three books alone, each priced at a moderate sum, will give a reader, -hitherto ignorant of the subject, much trustworthy information on the -history, ethnology, and literature of the Irish and Scottish Gael. I -know of no “popular” book on early Welsh literature, and certainly none -that, in trustworthiness, has superseded Stephens’s “Literature of the -Cymri.” Mr Norris has introduced us to much ancient Cornish writing -which it would have been a pity to let lapse uncollected: and of MM. -Villemarqué, De Jubainville, Valroger, Le Braz, and other Breton -specialists I have already spoken.</p> - -<p>It would seem reserved for this coming century, says Dr Hyde, unless a -vigorous, sustained, and national effort at once be made, to catch the -last tones of “that beautiful, unmixed Aryan language which, with the -exception of that glorious Greek which has now renewed its youth like -the eagle, has left the longest, most luminous, and most consecutive -literary track behind it of any of the vernacular tongues of Europe.” -But, alas, a stronger law than that which man can make or unmake, or -nations can resolve, is slowly disintegrating the subsoil wherefrom the -roots of the Celtic speech draw the sole nurture which can give it the -beauty and fragrance of life.</p> - -<p>Some idea of the vastness of the mass of the as yet untranslated Celtic -literature may be had from the notes in books by Dr Douglas Hyde, J. F. -Campbell, Alfred Nutt, and other specialists. In the National Libraries -in Great Britain alone it is estimated that, if all the inedited MSS. -were printed, they would fill at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xxv" id="page_xxv">{xxv}</a></span> least twelve hundred or fourteen -hundred octavo volumes. Those who would realise more adequately the -extent and importance of this early literature should, besides the -authorities already mentioned, consult Eugene O’Curry’s invaluable -“Manners and Customs,” and in particular the section of 130 pp. devoted -to Education and Literature in Ancient Erinn, which deals with the most -important Irish-Gaelic poets from the earliest times down to the -eleventh century: the likewise invaluable “Myvyrian Archaiology,” which -sets forth an imposing list of Cymric poets, with much information -concerning life in Ancient Wales: and books such as Campbell’s “Leabhar -na Féinne,” and “Tales of the West Highlands,” MacNeill’s “Literature of -the Highlanders,” and (though for students rather than the general -reader) the writings of Skene, Anderson, Whitley Stokes, Nutt, and many -others.</p> - -<p>Modern Irish-Celtic literature may be said to date from O’Donovan’s -superb redaction and amplification of “The Annals of the Four Masters,” -one of the monumental achievements in world-literature, on the side of -scholarship; and from Keating’s “History of Ireland,” on the side of -popular writing. Since O’Donovan and Keating, the literary activity of -Ireland has again and again re-asserted itself, and is once more so much -in evidence, in Celtic scholarship and in Anglo-Celtic romance and -poetry, that the not over-ready attention of England is perforce drawn -to it.</p> - -<p>The contemporary Anglo-Celtic poetry of Ireland has a quality which no -other English poetry possesses in like degree: the quality which Matthew -Arnold defined as natural magic—“Celtic poetry drenched in the dew of -natural magic.” Obviously, the lover of poetry may at once object that -Shakespere, Milton, Coleridge, Shelley, Keats, are English, and Byron, -Burns, and Scott are Scottish, and not distinctively Anglo-Celtic. Well, -of Shakespere’s ancestry we know little; and if Celtic enthusiasts -maintain that he must<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xxvi" id="page_xxvi">{xxvi}</a></span> have had a strong Celtic strain in his blood, -they may be innocent blasphemers, but do not deserve crucifixion for -their iniquity. Milton was of Welsh blood through his maternal descent; -and Keats is a Celtic name. Keats’ mother’s name is Welsh of the Welsh, -while his genius is as convincingly Celtic in its distinguishing -qualities as though he were able to trace his descent from Oisìn or -Fergus Honey-Mouth of “the Fingalians.” Keats, born a Cockney, is -pre-eminently a Celtic poet, by virtue of the nationality of the brain -if for no other authentic reason; while Moore, born in Ireland of Celtic -ancestry, is the least Celtic of all modern poets of eminence. So far as -we know, Coleridge and Shelley are of unmixed English blood, though who -can say there was nothing atavistic in their genius, and that the wild -lyricism of the one and the glamour and magic of the other were not in -part the expression of some “ancestral voice”?</p> - -<p>Of the three great modern Scots, it is still a debatable point if Burns -was not more Celtic than “Lowland,” that is, by paternal as well as by -maternal descent; and it surely is almost unquestionable that, in the -geography of the soul, Burns’ natal spot must be sought in the Fortunate -Isles of Celtdom. Byron, of course, though far more British than -Scottish, and again more Scottish than Celtic, had a strong Celtic -strain in his blood; and Scott, as it happens, was of the ancient stock, -and not “the typical Lowlander” he is so often designated.<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></p> - -<p>The truth is, that just as in Scotland we may come upon a type which is -unmistakably national without being either Anglo-Saxon or Celtic or -Anglo-Celtic,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xxvii" id="page_xxvii">{xxvii}</a></span> but which, rightly or wrongly, we take to be Pictish (and -possibly a survival of an older race still), so, throughout our whole -country, and in Sussex and Hampshire, as well as in Connemara or Argyll, -we may at any moment encounter the Celtic brain in the Anglo-Saxon -flesh. In Scotland, in particular, it may be doubted if there are many -families native to the soil who have not at least a Celtic strain. -People are apt to forget that Celtic Scotland does not mean only the -Western Isles and the Highlands, and that the whole country was at one -time Celtic (Goidelic), and before that was again Celtic, when Brythonic -or Cymric Scotland and the Dalriadic Scoto-Irish of Argyll, and the -northern Picts, who were probably Gaels, or of kindred Celtic origin, -held the land, and sowed the human seed whence arose much of the finest -harvest of a later Scotland.</p> - -<p>Here I may conveniently quote a significant passage from “Celtic -Britain”:—</p> - -<p>“This means, from the Celtic point of view, that the Goidelic race of -history is not wholly Celtic or Aryan, but inherits in part a claim to -the soil of these islands, derived from possession at a time when, as -yet, no Aryan waggoner had driven into Europe; and it is, perhaps, from -their Kynesian ancestry that the Irish of the present day have inherited -the lively humour and ready wit, which, among other characteristics, -distinguish them from the Celts of the Brythonic branch, most of whom, -especially the Kymry, are a people still more mixed, as they consist of -the Goidelic element of the compound nature already suggested, with an -ample mixture of Brythonic blood, introduced mostly by the Ordovices. -And as to Welsh, it is, roughly speaking, the Brythonic language, as -spoken by the Ordovices, and as learned by the Goidelic peoples they -overshadowed in the Principality of Wales. To this its four chief -dialects still correspond, being those, respectively, of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xxviii" id="page_xxviii">{xxviii}</a></span> Powys, Gwent -or Siluria, Dyved or Demetia, and Venedot or Gwynedd.</p> - -<p>“Skulls are harder than consonants, and races lurk when languages slink -away. The lineal descendants of the neolithic aborigines are ever among -us, possibly even those of a still earlier race. On the other hand, we -can imagine the Kynesian impatiently hearing out the last echoes of -palæolithic speech; we can guess dimly how the Goidel gradually silenced -the Kynesian; we can detect the former coming slowly round to the -keynote of the Brython; and, lastly, we know how the Englishman is -engaged, linguistically speaking, in drowning the voice of both of them -in our own day. Such, to take another metaphor, are some of the lines -one would have to draw in the somewhat confused picture we have -suggested of one wave of speech chasing another, and forcing it to dash -itself into oblivion on the western confines of the Aryan world; and -that we should fondly dream English likely to be the last, comes only -from our being unable to see into a distant future pregnant with untold -changes of no less grave a nature than have taken place in the dreary -wastes of the past.”</p> - -<p>To return: among the great English and Scottish writers of to-day two -may be taken as examples of this brain-kinship with a race physically -alien. Much of the poetry of Algernon Charles Swinburne is distinctively -Celtic, particularly in its lyric fire and wonderful glow and colour, as -well as its epithetical luxuriance; but, indeed, this is hardly a good -instance after all, for Mr Swinburne’s north-country ancestry is not -without definite Celtic admixture. “Tristram of Lyonesse” is, in its own -way, as Celtic as “The Voyage of St Brendan,” and with more of innate -inevitableness than in those lovely Celtic reflections in the -essentially English brain of Tennyson, “The Dream” and “The Voyage of -Maelduin.”</p> - -<p>As for Robert Louis Stevenson, come of Lowland<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xxix" id="page_xxix">{xxix}</a></span> stock, and, as he said -himself once, “made up o’ Lallan dust, body and soul,” there is not, so -far as I know, any proof that a near paternal or maternal ancestor was -of Celtic blood. But who, that has studied his genius, can question the -Celtic strain in him, or who believe that, though “the Lallan dust” may -have been unadulterate for generations, the brain which conceived and -wrought “The Merry Men” and “Thrawn Janet” was not attuned to Celtic -music? There is a poem of his which seems to me typically Celtic in its -indescribable haunting charm, its air of I know not what rare music, its -deep yearning emotion, and its cosmic note—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“In the highlands, in the country places,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the old plain men have rosy faces,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the young fair maidens<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Quiet eyes;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where essential silence cheers and blesses<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And forever in the hill-recesses<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her more lovely music<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Broods and dies,<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O to mount again where erst I haunted;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the low green meadows<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bright with sward;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And when even dies, the million tinted,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the night has come, and planets glinted,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lo, the valley hollow<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lamp-bestarred!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O to dream, O to awake and wander<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There, and with delight to take and render,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through the trance of silence,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Quiet breath;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lo! for there, among the flowers, and grasses,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Only the mightier movement sounds and passes;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Only winds and rivers,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Life and death.”<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xxx" id="page_xxx">{xxx}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p>Of course there is a certain poignant note common to all poetry, and he -might be a zealous Celticist, but a poor worshipper of Apollo, who would -try to limit this charm of exquisite regret and longing to Celtic -poetry. It is an unfrontiered land, this pleasant country in the -geography of the soul which we call Bohemia; and here all parochial and -national, and even racial distinctions fall away, and Firdausi and -Oisìn, Omar the Tentmaker and Colum the Saint, and all and every -“Honey-Mouth” of every land and time, move in equal fellowship. Even in -one of the most haunting quatrains by any modern Anglo-Celtic poet—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“O wind, O mighty melancholy wind,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Blow through me, blow!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou blowest forgotten things into my mind,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">From long ago”—<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">we must not forget the elder music of one who is among the truest of the -poets of Nature whom the world has seen: though neither in brain nor, so -far as we know, in blood, had Wordsworth any kinship with the Celt—the -music “Of old, unhappy, far-off things.”</p> - -<p>By a natural association, “Ossian” comes to mind. It is pleasant to -think that a book like “Lyra Celtica” appears just at the centenary of -James Macpherson. Macpherson died in 1796, but long before his death his -reputed “Ossian” had become one of the most vital influences in -literature. This is not the occasion to go into the “Ossian” dispute. It -must suffice to say that the concensus of qualified opinion decides—(1) -That Macpherson’s “Ossian” is not a genuine rendering of ancient -originals; (2) that he worked incoherently upon a genuine but -unsystematised, unsifted, and fragmentary basis, without which, however, -he could have achieved nothing; (3) that inherent evidence disproves -Macpherson’s sole or even main authorship as well as “Ossian’s,” and -that he was at most no more than a skilful artificer;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xxxi" id="page_xxxi">{xxxi}</a></span> (4) that, if he -were the sole author, he would be one of the few poetic creators of the -first rank, and worthy of all possible honour; (5) that no single work -in our literature has had so wide-reaching, so potent, and so enduring -an influence.</p> - -<p>Much of the tragic gloom, of which “Ossian” is a true mirror, colours -even contemporary Scoto-Celtic poetry; and though in Gaelic there is -much humorous verse, and much poetry of a blithe, bright, and even -joyous nature, the dominant characteristic is that of gloom, the gloom -of unavailing regret, of mournful longing, a lament for what cannot be -again. True, in a Gaelic poem by Mary Mackellar, a contemporary Highland -poet, we hear of</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Spioraid aosmhoir tìr nan Gàidheal,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ciod an diugh a’s fàth do ’n ghàirich<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Dhùisg thu comhdaichte le aighear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As an uaigh ’s an robh thu’d ’chadal?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">(Spirit of the Gaelic earth<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wherefore is this mirth unwonted<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That hath waked thee from the tomb,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And to triumph turned thy gloom?)—<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">but, alas! that fine line, “Spioraid aosmhoir tìr nan Gàidheal” is not -an invocation to the Gaelic muse to arouse herself to a new and blither -music, but is simply part of some congratulatory lines of a “Welcome to -the Marquis of Lorne on his union with the Princess Louise”!<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></p> - -<p>The “Spirit of the Gaelic earth” does not make for mirth, as a rule, at -least in the Highlands, save in verse of a frankly Bacchanalian or -satiric kind.</p> - -<p>In this, there is a marked contrast with the Irish-<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xxxii" id="page_xxxii">{xxxii}</a></span>Gaelic, whose muse -is laughter-loving though ever with “dewy dark eyes.”</p> - -<p>If, however, the blithe and delightful peasant poetry of Mr Alfred -Percival Graves, and that so beautifully translated and paraphrased by -Dr Douglas Hyde, be characteristically Irish, so also is such typically -Celtic poetry as this lyric by the latest Irish singer, Miss Moira -O’Neill—</p> - -<h2>“SEA WRACK.”</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The wrack was dark an’ shiny where it floated in the sea,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There was no room in the brown boat but only him an’ me;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Him to cut the sea wrack—me to mind the boat,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ not a word between us the hours we were afloat.<br /></span> -<span class="i6">The wet wrack,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">The sea wrack,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">The wrack was strong to cut.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We laid it on the grey rocks to wither in the sun;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ what should call my lad then to sail from Cushendun?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With a low moon, a full tide, a swell upon the deep,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Him to sail the old boat—me to fall asleep.<br /></span> -<span class="i6">The dry wrack,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">The sea wrack,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">The wrack was dead so soon.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There’s a fire low upon the rocks to burn the wrack to kelp;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There’s a boat gone down upon the Moyle, an’ sorra one to help.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Him beneath the salt sea—me upon the shore—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By sunlight or moonlight we’ll lift the wrack no more.<br /></span> -<span class="i6">The dark wrack,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">The sea wrack,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">The wrack may drift ashore.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xxxiii" id="page_xxxiii">{xxxiii}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p>When we come to examine the literature of the four great divisions of -the Celtic race, a vast survey lies before us, with innumerable vistas. -A lifetime might well be given to the study of any one of the ancient -Erse, Alban-Gaelic, Cymric, and Armorican literatures: a lifetime that -would yet have to leave much undiscovered, much unrelated. There is room -for every student. In old Irish literature alone, though so many -enthusiasts are now working towards its greater elucidation and the -transference of the better part of it into Anglo-Celtic literature, -there remain whole tracts, and even regions, of unexploited land. In a -score of ways, pioneers have been clearing the ground for us: -philologists like Windisch, Loth, Kuno Meyer, Whitley Stokes; literary -scholars like S. Hayes O’Grady, Campbell of Islay, Cameron of Brodick, -Dr Douglas Hyde; folklorists innumerable, in Scotland, Wales, and -Ireland; romancists like Standish O’Grady, who write across the angle of -the historic imagination, and romancists like W. B. Yeats, who write -across the angle of the poetic imagination; and poets, an ever-growing -band of sweet singers, who catch for us the fugitive airs, the exquisite -fleeting cadences, the haunting, indefinable music of an earlier day.</p> - -<p>From Ireland the Neo-Celtic Renascence has extended through Gaeldom. The -concurrent Welsh development may be independent of this Irish influence, -and probably is: largely because the poetic imagination of the Cymri of -to-day was stirred from within, by the stimulus to the national genius -through the world-wide attention drawn by the publication of the -“Mabinogion,” as in turn the Gaelic imagination was stirred by the -incalculable influence of “Ossian”—an influence so great, so deep, so -wide-reaching, that, as already said, were Macpherson to be proved the -sole author, were it convincingly demonstrable that he was, not a more -or less confused and unscholarly interpreter, but himself a creator, -himself “Ossian,” he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xxxiv" id="page_xxxiv">{xxxiv}</a></span> would deserve to rank with the three or four great -ancients and moderns who have dug, deep and wide, new channels for the -surging flow of human thought. Possibly, at any rate, this may prove to -be one good reason for the independence of the Welsh development from -any Irish stimulus—an impulse from within always being more potent and -enduring than one from without; but, fundamentally, this independence is -due to an organic difference. In a word, the Celtic genius is broadly -divisible, even at this day, into two great sections: the Goidelic and -the Brythonic or Cymric—let us say, is represented by the Welsh Celt -and the Gaelic Celt. Those readers or students who approach the -literature of either, ancient or modern, but particularly the latter, -and expect to find identity both of sentiment and in method of -expression, will ultimately be as disappointed as one who should, with -the same idea, approach Spanish and Portuguese, or Dutch and German, or -Provençal and French. In every respect, save that of ancient kinship, -the Welsh and the Gaels differ materially. There is, perhaps, more -likeness between the Highlander and the Welshman than between the latter -and the Irishman; but even here the distinctions are considerable, and -the Gaelic islesman of Barra or Uist is as different a creature from the -native of Glamorgan or Caermarthen as though no racial cousinship united -them. But, in the instance of Welsh and Irish, the unlikeness is so -marked that the best analogue is that of the Frenchman and the German. -The Irish are the French of the Celtic races, the Welsh the Germans. The -two people are distinct in their outer and inner life as well as in -their literature; and for a Connaught man or a Hebridean to go through -Wales would be as foreign an experience as for a Welshman to find -himself among the Catholic islesmen of South Uist, or among the moorside -villages of Connemara.</p> - -<p>To-day the Gael and Cymri are foreigners. Strangely<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xxxv" id="page_xxxv">{xxxv}</a></span> enough, the section -of the Celtic race most akin to the Welsh is the Manx—a Goidelic -people, and with a Gaelic dialect. The Gael himself, however, does not -stand out distinctly. Although there is a far greater likeness between -the Scoto-Celt and the Irish-Celt than between either and the Welshman, -there are traits which unmistakably distinguish them. In Ireland itself, -the Celt of the south-east and south differs in more respects than mere -dialect from his kinsman by the Connaught shore or of the hills of -Connemara; as, in Scotland, there is a marked distinction between the -“Tuathach” (North Highlander) and the “Deasach” (the South and West -Highlander). A Farquharson or a Gordon from Aberdeenshire has to shake -hands across the arms of many a Mackenzie and Macgregor, many a Cameron -and Macpherson, before he can link in brotherly grip with a MacNeill of -Barra, a Macdonald of Skye, a Macleod of the Lewis. These distinctions, -of course, are in their nature parochial rather than racial; but they -are highly indicative of a fundamental weakness in the Celtic nature, -and suggest a cogent reason for the failure of the race to cohere into -one compact and indispersable nation, as the central Teutonic races -merged into “Germany,” as Gauls, Normans, and Provençals merged into -“France,” and as the Brythons, the Teutonic outlanders (Frisians, -Angles, Jutes, &c.), Saxons, Danes, Normans, and Anglo-Celts merged into -“England,” and, later, into “Great Britain,” into the “British Empire.”</p> - -<p>The most marked Celtic national homogeneity is to be found in Wales. -Wales has ever persisted, and still persists in her moat and her -drawbridge. In the preservation of her language is her safeguard. -Without Welsh, Wales would be as English as Cumberland or Cornwall. In -this way only, knit indissolubly to the flank of England as she is, and -without any natural eastern frontier of mountain range or sea, can she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xxxvi" id="page_xxxvi">{xxxvi}</a></span> -isolate herself; and I am convinced that herein we have one main reason -for the passionate attachment of the Cymri of to-day to their ancient -language—an attachment as strong among the unlettered as among ardent -scholars, and even among those who have no heed for the beauty of -traditional literature or, indeed, heed of any kind other than for the -narrow personal interests of domesticity.</p> - -<p>But this very isolation of Wales, through her language, has, no doubt, -interfered materially with the development of her Anglo-Celtic -literature. Contrasted with that of Ireland or that of Scotland, how -astonishingly meagre it is. All Ireland is aflame with song; Scotland is -again becoming the land of old romance. Here and there are a few -writers, a poet-romancist like Mr Ernest Rhys, a poet like the late -Emily Davis, a few novelists who are Welsh by the accident of birth -rather than by the nationality of the brain. For, of course, Mr George -Meredith stands so far above all localisation of this kind that it would -be out of place to rank him merely as the head of contemporary Wales. He -is the foremost Anglo-Celtic voice of to-day; so emphatically foremost, -by the distinguishing qualities of his genius, that if to-morrow he were -proved to be come of a stock of long unmixed Saxon ancestry never -dissociated from that southern country of which he is by birth a native, -we should be justified in abiding by the far more significant and -important lineage of the brain.</p> - -<p>But this great exception apart, the difference alluded to is -extraordinary. Wales is so animated by national enthusiasms, pride, and -incalculable hereditary uplift, that her silence—in English, that -is—can hardly be accounted for away from the supposition that, in -closing her ears against English, she has also set her lips against -utterance in that tongue.</p> - -<p>The Scoto-Celtic writers of to-day, both in prose and poetry, have -produced more Anglo-Celtic literature than<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xxxvii" id="page_xxxvii">{xxxvii}</a></span> Wales has done since the -beginning of the century, and with a range, a vitality, a beauty, far -beyond anything that has come forth from modern Cymru; and Ireland, -again, in poetry at any rate, has given us even more than Scotland.</p> - -<p>The Celtic Renascence, of which so much has been written of late—that -is, the re-birth of the Celtic genius in the brain of Anglo-Celtic poets -and the brotherhood of dreamers—is, fundamentally, the outcome of -“Ossian,” and, immediately, of the rising of the sap in the Irish -nation.</p> - -<p>Of the immense and never yet approximately defined Irish-Celtic -influence in literature a fine and true word has been said by one of the -ablest of the Irish fellowship; and I would strongly urge every reader -to obtain Mr Stopford Brooke’s admirable and stimulating little essay -“On the Need and Use of getting Irish Literature into the English -Tongue.”<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> With its conclusion, every lover of English poetry and -romance will agree.</p> - -<p>“When we have got the old [Celtic] legendary tales rendered into fine -prose and verse, I believe we shall open out English poetry to a new and -exciting world, an immense range of subjects, entirely fresh and full of -inspiration. Therefore, as I said, get them out into English, and then -we may bring England and [Celtdom] into a union which never can suffer -separation, and send another imaginative force on earth which may (like -Arthur’s tale) create Poetry for another thousand years.”</p> - -<p>These are inspiring words, and should find an eager response.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xxxviii" id="page_xxxviii">{xxxviii}</a></span></p> - -<p>More and more we may hope that the beautiful poetry of Ireland, ancient -and modern, with its incommunicable charm and exquisite spontaneity; -that the strange, elemental, sombre imagination of the West Highlander -and of the Gael of the Isles; and that the vivid spell of the old Welsh -bards, will, before long, become a still greater, a still more -regenerating, and a lasting force and influence in our English -literature.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>In the Notes I have something to say concerning each of the many ancient -and modern writers drawn upon for this representative anthology, so need -not here enter into further detail of the kind.</p> - -<p>Obviously, it would be impossible to make a work of this nature as -welcome to the Celtic scholar as to the general reader. No one in the -least degree acquainted with ancient Gaelic and Cymric literature could -fail to note how merely superficial this section of “Lyra Celtica” is. -Therefore, let me again aver that this anthology has been compiled, not -for the specialist, but for the lover of poetry; and to serve, for the -many who have no knowledge of “Anglo-Celtic” as distinct from -“Anglo-Saxon” poetry, as a small Pisgah whence to gain a glimpse into a -strange and beautiful land, a land wherein, as in a certain design by -William Blake, the sun, the moon, and the morning star all shine -together, and where the horizons are spanned by fugitive rainbows ever -marvellously dissolving and more marvellously re-forming.</p> - -<p>The effort of the Editor has been to give, not always the finest or most -unquestionably authentic examples of early Celtic poetry, but the most -characteristic. Thus only could some idea be conveyed of the physiognomy -of this ancient literature.</p> - -<p>In the first section, that representative of Early Gaelic, a long period -of time is covered. A whole<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xxxix" id="page_xxxix">{xxxix}</a></span> heroic age lies between that strange -pantheistic utterance of Amergin, who is now accepted as the earliest -Erse poet of whom we have authentic record, and the hymns of Columba: -and the quaint “Shaving Hymn” of Murdoch the Monk, though it precedes -the Ossianic fragments, relates to a much nearer period of history than -they do. Of these Ossianic fragments, it is not needful to say more here -than that, in their actual form, they are no more genuinely old than, -for example, are many of the lovely fantasias on old themes by modern -Irish poets. They are, at most, fundamentally ancient, and are given -here on this plea, and not as the translations of Macpherson. The day is -gone when the stupid outcry against Macpherson’s “Ossian,” as no more -than a gigantic fraud, finds a response among lovers of literature. We -all know, now, that Macpherson’s “Ossian” is not a genuine translation -of authentic <span class="gesh">Dana Oisìn mhic Fhionn</span>, but, for all its great and enduring -beauty, a clumsily-constructed, self-contradictory, and sometimes -grotesquely impossible rendering of disconnected, fugitive, and, for the -most part, oral lore. Of the genuineness of this legendary lore there is -no longer any doubt in the minds of those native and alien students, who -alone are qualified to pronounce a definite verdict on this long -disputed point. It would have been easy to select other Ossianic -fragments; but as, in this anthology, the spirit and not the letter was -everything, it was considered advisable to make as apt a compromise with -Macpherson’s “Ossian” as practicable. Ancient poetry of the nature of -pieces such as “The Song of Fionn” (page 4) convey little to the -ordinary reader, not only on account of their puzzling allusions to -events and persons of whom the Englishman is not likely to have heard, -or from the strangeness of their style, as because of the remoteness of -the underlying sentiment and mental standpoint. And of this there can be -no<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xl" id="page_xl">{xl}</a></span> question: that the ancient poetry, the antique spirit, breathes -throughout this eighteenth-century restoration, and gives it enduring -life, charm, and all the spell of cosmic imagination. It may well be, -indeed, that the literary historian has another signal discovery to -make, and, in definitively dissociating Oisìn of the Féinn and Ossian of -Badenoch, prove convincingly that James Macpherson was not even the -author (of the greater part at any rate) of the matter that has been -interpolated into the original, inchoate, traditional bardic lore.</p> - -<p>However much or little appeal “Ossian” may have for English readers of -to-day, there can surely be no doubt that all who have the spirit of -poetry must recognise the charm of the ancient Celtic imagination in -compositions such as “Credhe’s Lament” (page 5). This lovely haunting -lament, from the “Book of Lismore,” comes in its English form from that -invaluable work of Mr S. Hayes O’Grady, “Silva Gadelica.” Of how much -Celtic poetry, modern as well as ancient, is not this, though variously -expressed, the refrain: “Melodious is the crane, and O melodious is the -crane, in the marshlands of Druim-dá-thrén! ’tis she that may not save -her brood alive!”</p> - -<p>For the remarkable continuity of both expression and sentiment which -characterises Celtic poetry, ancient and modern, let the student turn, -for example, to the most famous Gaelic poem in Scotland to-day, Duncan -Bàn Macintyre’s “Ben Dorain,” and compare it with this “Lay of Arran” by -Caeilte, the Ossianic bard—Arran, no longer Arran of the many stags, -but still one of the loveliest of the Scottish isles, and touched on -every headland and hill with the sunset glamour of the past.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xli" id="page_xli">{xli}</a></span></p> - -<h2>CAEILTE—LAY OF ARRAN.<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a></h2> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“Arran of the many stags—the sea impinges on her very shoulders! -an island in which whole companies were fed—and with ridges among -which blue spears were reddened! Skittish deer are on her -pinnacles, soft blackberries upon her waving heather; cool water -there is upon her rivers, and mast upon her russet oaks! Greyhounds -there were in her, and beagles; blaeberries and sloes of the -blackthorn; dwellings with their backs set close against her woods, -and the deer fed scattered by her oaken thickets! A crimson crop -grew on her rocks, in all her glades a faultless grass; over her -crags affording friendly refuge, leaping went on and fawns were -skipping! Smooth were her level spots—her wild swine they were -fat; cheerful her fields (this is a tale that may be credited), her -nuts hung on her forest hazel’s boughs, and there was sailing of -long galleys past her! Right pleasant their condition all when the -fair weather sets in: under her rivers’ brinks trouts lie; the -sea-gulls wheeling round her grand cliff answer one the other—at -every fitting time delectable is Arran!”</p></div> - -<p>Again, most readers will be able to apprehend the delight of the -barbaric outlook in compositions such as “Cuchullin in His Chariot,” -which has been excerpted<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xlii" id="page_xlii">{xlii}</a></span> from Hector MacLean’s “Ultonian Hero Ballads”; -or the fantastic beauty of “The March of the Faerie Host,” as rendered -by Prof. Kuno Meyer after the original in “The Book of Lismore”; or the -lovely portrait of a beautiful woman, by a Highland poet of old, the -“Aisling air Dhreach Mna; or, Vision of a Fair Woman.” Possibly, too, -even Celtic scholars may not be displeased to read here English metrical -paraphrases, such as Sir Samuel Ferguson’s “Lament of Deirdrê for the -Sons of Usnach,”<a name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> or Mr T. W. Rolleston’s haunting “The Lament of -Queen Maev”; or, again, in dubiously authentic fragments such as “Fingal -and Ros-crana,” to have an opportunity to trace the “inner self” of many -a familiar ballad or legend.</p> - -<p>The Breton section, also, is represented equally slightly, though -perhaps not inadequately, all things considered. “The Dance of the -Sword” is, probably, fundamentally one of the most ancient of Celtic -bardic utterances. In the modern selection, it will be a surprise to -many readers to encounter names so familiar to lovers of French poetry -as Leconte de Lisle and Villiers de l’Isle-Adam. There are many -contemporary Breton poets of distinction, but it was feasible to select -no more than one or two. Auguste Brizeux and Charles Le Goffic may be -taken as typical exemplars of the historically re-creative and the -individually impressionistic methods. Unfortunately neither is -represented here. It was desirable to select at least one poet who still -uses the old Armorican tongue; but in my translation from -Leo-Kermorvan’s “Taliesen” (as again in that of Tiercelin’s “By Menec’hi -Shore”), I have not attempted a rhymed version, as in the original, or -in the French version<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xliii" id="page_xliii">{xliii}</a></span> published in the “Anthologie.” There are very few -translators who can be faithful both to the sound and sense, in the -attempt concurrently to reproduce identity of form, music, and -substance; and, as a rule, therefore, rhythmic prose, or an unrhymed -metrical version, is likely to prove more interesting as well as more -truly interpretative.</p> - -<p>Out of the rich garth of ancient and mediæval Welsh poetry, the Editor -has culled only a few blossoms. They contain, at least, something of -that lyric love of Nature which is so distinctively Celtic, and is the -chief charm of the poetic literature of Wales. It is earnestly to be -hoped that some poet-scholar will give us before long, in English, an -anthology of the best contemporary Welsh poetry.</p> - -<p>Of living poets who write in Gaelic, there are more in Scotland than in -Ireland. The Hebrides have been a nest of singers, since Mary Macleod -down to the youngest of the Uist poets of to-day; and though there is -not at present any Alexander Macdonald or Duncan Bàn Macintyre, there -are many singers who have a sweet and fine note, and many writers whose -poems have beauty, grace, and distinction. Perhaps the last fine product -of the pseudo-antique school is the “Sean Dàna”<a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> of Dr John Smith, -late in the last century; but occasionally there occurs in our own day a -noteworthy instance of the re-telling of the old tales in the old way. -In “The Celtic Monthly,” and other periodicals, much good Gaelic verse -is to be found, and it is no exaggeration to say that at this moment -there are more than a hundred Gaelic singers in Western Scotland whose -poetry is as fresh and winsome, and, in point of form as well as -substance, as beautiful, as any that is being produced throughout the -rest of the realm. The Gaelic Muse has<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xliv" id="page_xliv">{xliv}</a></span> also found a home in Canada, and -it is interesting to note that one of the longest of recent Gaelic poems -was written by a Highlander in far-away Burmah.</p> - -<p>“The Highlander” (and in this and the following passage I quote the -words of Professor Mackinnon, from his Inaugural Address on his -succession to the Celtic Chair at Edinburgh University) “The Highlander -may be truly described as the child of music and song. For many a long -year his language is the language, for the most part, of the uneducated -classes. And yet, amid surroundings which too often are but mean and -wretched, without the advantages of education beyond what his native -glen supplied, he has contrived to enliven his lot by the cultivation of -such literature as the local bards, the traditions of the clan, and the -popular tales of the district supplied. He has attempted, not -unsuccessfully, to live not for the day and hour alone, but, in a true -sense, to live the life of the spirit! He has produced a mass of lyric -poetry which, in rhythmical flow, purity of sentiment, and beauty of -expression, can compare favourably with the literature of more powerful -and more highly-civilised communities.</p> - -<p>“In the highest efforts of Gaelic literature, in the prose of Norman -Macleod, in the masterpieces of the lyric poets, in the “Sean Dàna” of -Dr Smith, and above all, in the poems of Ossian, whether composed by -James Macpherson or the son of Fingal, the intellect of the Scottish -Celt, in its various moods and qualities, finds its deepest and fullest -expression. Here we have humour, pathos, passion, vehemence, a rush of -feeling and emotion not always under restraint, and apt to run into -exaggeration and hyperbole—characteristics which enter largely into the -mental and spiritual organisation of the people. But above and beneath -all these, there is a touch of melancholy, a ‘cry of the weary,’ -pervading the spirit of the Celt. Ossian gives expression to this -sentiment in the touching line which Matthew Arnold,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xlv" id="page_xlv">{xlv}</a></span> the most -sympathetic and penetrating critic of the Celtic imagination, with the -true instinct of genius, prefixes to his charming volume, ‘On the Study -of Celtic Literature’:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>They went forth to the war, but they always fell.’<span class="lftspc">”</span><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Professor Mackinnon goes on to adduce a familiar legend, which may again -be quoted, for we are all now waiting for that longed-for blast which -shall arouse the spell-bound trance wherein sleeps “Anima Celtica.” The -<span class="gesh">Féinn</span>, he says, were laid spell-bound in a cave which no man knew of. At -the mouth of the cave hung a horn, which if ever any man should come and -blow three times, the spell would be broken, and the <span class="gesh">Féinn</span> would arise, -alive and well. A hunter, one day wandering in the mist, came on this -cave, saw the horn, and knew what it meant. He looked in and saw the -<span class="gesh">Féinn</span> lying asleep all round the cave. He lifted the horn and blew one -blast. He looked in again, and saw that the <span class="gesh">Féinn</span> had wakened, but lay -still with their eyes staring, like those of dead men. He took the horn -again, blew another blast, and instantly the <span class="gesh">Féinn</span> all moved, each -resting on his elbow. Terrified at their aspect, the hunter turned and -fled homewards. He told what he had seen, and, accompanied by friends, -went to search for the cave. They could not find it; it has never again -been found; and so there still sit, each resting on his elbow, waiting -for the final blast to rouse them into life, the spell-bound heroes of -the old Celtic world.</p> - -<p>Of the modern and larger section of “Lyra Celtica” I need say little -here. To avoid confusion, the Editor has refrained from representing -poets whose “Celtic strain” is more or less obviously disputable; hence -the wise ignoring of the claims even of Scott and Burns. Byron was more -Celtic in blood than in brain, and is represented really by virtue of -this accidental kinship.</p> - -<p>Ireland, Scotland, Wales, Man, Cornwall, and Brit<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xlvi" id="page_xlvi">{xlvi}</a></span>tany are all more or -less adequately represented; and among the poets are some whose voices -will be new to most readers. One or two writers, also, have been drawn -upon as representatives of the distinctively Anglo-Celtic section of -England. Finally, “greater Gaeldom”—the realm of the Irish and Scottish -Gaels in the United States, Canada, and Australasia—is also -represented; and one, at any rate, of these outlanders is a poet who has -won distinction on both sides of the Atlantic.</p> - -<p>If it be advisable to select one poet, still “with a future,” as -pre-eminently representative of the Celtic genius of to-day, I think -there can be little doubt that W. B. Yeats’ name is that which would -occur first to most lovers of contemporary poetry. He has grace of touch -and distinction of form beyond any of the younger poets of Great -Britain, and there is throughout his work a haunting beauty, and a -haunting sense of beauty everywhere perceived with joy and longing, that -make its appeal irresistible for those who feel it at all. He is equally -happy whether he deals with antique or with contemporary themes, and in -almost every poem he has written there is that exquisite remoteness, -that dream-like music, and that transporting charm which Matthew Arnold -held to be one of the primary tests of poetry, and, in particular, of -Celtic poetry.</p> - -<p>As an example of Mr Yeats’ narrative method, with legendary themes, I -may quote this from his beautiful “Wanderings of Oisìn” (rather -affectedly and quite needlessly altered to <span class="gesh">Usheen</span> in the latest -version)—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“Fled foam underneath us, and round us a wandering and milky smoke,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">High as the saddle-girth, covering away from our glances the tide;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And those that fled, and that followed, from the foampale distance broke;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The immortal desire of immortals we saw in their faces, and sighed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xlvii" id="page_xlvii">{xlvii}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I mused on the chase with the Fenians, and Bran, Sgeolan, Lomair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And never a song sang Neave, and over my fingertips<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Came now the sliding of tears and sweeping of mist-cold hair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And now the warmth of sighs, and after the quiver of lips.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Were we days long or hours long in riding, when rolled in a grisly peace,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An isle lay level before us, with dripping hazel and oak?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And we stood on a sea’s edge we saw not; for whiter than new washed fleece<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fled foam underneath us, and round us a wandering and milky smoke.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And we rode on the plains of the sea’s edge—the sea’s edge barren and gray,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gray sands on the green of the grasses and over the dripping trees,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dripping and doubling landward, as though they would hasten away<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like an army of old men longing for rest from the moan of the seas.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But the trees grew taller and closer, immense in their wrinkling bark;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dropping—a murmurous dropping—old silence and that one sound;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For no live creatures lived there, no weasels moved in the dark—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Long sighs arose in our spirits, beneath us bubbled the ground.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And the ears of the horse went sinking away in the hollow night,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For, as drift from a sailor slow drowning the gleams of the world and the sun,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xlviii" id="page_xlviii">{xlviii}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ceased on our hands and our faces, on hazel and oak leaf, the light,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the stars were blotted above us, and the whole of the world was one.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">Often, too, there occur in his verse new and striking imagery, as in the -superb epithetical value of the fourth line in the concluding stanza of -“The Madness of King Goll,” one of the most beautiful of his poems—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“And now I wander in the woods<br /></span> -<span class="i2">When summer gluts the golden bees,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or in autumnal solitudes<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Arise the leopard-coloured trees;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or when along the wintry strands<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The cormorants shiver on their rocks;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I wander on, and wave my hands,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And sing, and shake my heavy locks.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The gray wolf knows me; by one ear<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I lead along the woodland deer;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The hares ran by me growing bold.<br /></span> -<span class="i0"><span class="gesh">They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter<br /> round me, the beech leaves old.</span>”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">Indeed, through all his work, “They will not hush; the leaves a-flutter, -the beech leaves old”—the mystic leaves of life, touched by the wind of -old romance. We can imagine him hearing often that fairy lure which his -“Stolen Child” listed and yielded to—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“Come away, O human child!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the waters and the wild<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With a fairy, hand in hand,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For the world’s more full of weeping than<br /> you can understand.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>For him always there is the Beauty of Beauty, the Passion of Passion: -the “Rose of the World.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xlix" id="page_xlix">{xlix}</a></span>”</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For these red lips, with all their mournful pride,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Mournful that no new wonder may betide,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And Usna’s children died.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We and the labouring world are passing by:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Amid men’s souls, that waver and give place,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Like the pale waters in their wintry race,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Under the passing stars, foam of the sky,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Lives on this lonely face.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">It is the lonely face that haunts the dreams of poets of all races and -ages: that “Lady Beauty” enthroned</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“Under the arch of life, where love and death,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Terror and mystery, guard her shrine....”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">The vision of which we follow—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“How passionately, and irretrievably,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In what fond flight, how many ways and days!”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">And of all races, none has so worshipped the “Rose of the World” as has -the Celt.</p> - -<p>“No other human tribe,” says Renan, “has carried so much mystery into -love. No other has conceived with more delicacy the ideal of woman, nor -been more dominated by her. It is a kind of intoxication, a madness, a -giddiness. Read the strange <span class="gesh">mabinogi</span> of ‘Pérédur,’ or its French -imitation, ‘Parceval le Gallois’; these pages are dewy, so to say, with -feminine sentiment. Woman appears there as a sort of vague vision -intermediate between man and the supernatural world. There is no other -literature which offers anything analogous to this. Compare Guinevere -and Iseult to those Scandinavian furies Gudruna and Chrimhilde, and you -will acknowledge that woman, as chivalry conceived her—that ideal of -sweetness and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_l" id="page_l">{l}</a></span> beauty set up as the supreme object of life—is a -creation neither classic, Christian, nor Germanic, but in reality -Celtic.”</p> - -<p>And having quoted from Ernest Renan, himself one of the greatest of -modern Celts, and a Celt in brain and genius as well as by blood, race, -and birth, let me interpolate here a paraphrase of some words of his in -that essay on “La Poesie de la Race Celtique,” which was to intellectual -France what Matthew Arnold’s essay was to intellectual England.</p> - -<p>If, he says, the eminence of races should be estimated according to the -purity of their blood and inviolability of national character, there -could be none able to dispute supremacy with the Celtic race. Never has -human family lived more isolated from the world, nor less affected by -foreign admixture.</p> - -<p>Restricted by conquest to forgotten isles and peninsulas, the Celtic -race has habitually striven to oppose an impassable barrier to all alien -influences. It has ever trusted in itself, and in itself alone, and has -drawn its mental and spiritual nurture from its own resources.</p> - -<p>Hence that powerful individuality, that hatred of the stranger, which up -to our day has formed the essential characteristic of the Celtic -peoples. The civilisation of Rome hardly reached them, and left among -them but few traces. The Germanic invasion flowed back on them, but it -did not affect them at all. At the present hour they still resist an -invasion, dangerous in quite another way, that of modern civilisation, -so destructive of local varieties and national types. Ireland in -particular (and there, perhaps, is the secret of her irremediable -weakness) is the sole country of Europe where the native can produce -authentic documents of his remote unbroken lineage, and designate with -certainty, up to pre-historic ages, the race from which he sprang.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_li" id="page_li">{li}</a></span></p> - -<p>One does not enough reflect on how strange it is that an ancient race -should continue down to our day, and almost under our eyes, in some -islands and peninsulas of the West, its own life, more and more diverted -from it, it is true, by the noise from without, but still faithful to -its language, its memories, its ideals, and its genius. We are -especially apt to forget that this small race, contracted now to the -extreme confines of Europe, in the midst of those rocks and mountains -where its enemies have driven it, is in possession of a literature, -which in the Middle Ages exerted an immense influence, changed the -current of European imagination, and imposed upon almost the whole of -Christianity its poetical motifs. It is, however, only necessary to open -authentic monuments of Celtic genius to convince oneself that the race -which created these has had its own original method of thought and -feeling; and that nowhere does the eternal illusion dress itself in more -seductive colours. In the grand concert of the human species, no family -equals this, for penetrating voices which go to the heart. Alas! if it, -also, is condemned to disappear, this fading glory of the West! Arthur -will not return to his enchanted isle, and Saint Patrick was right in -saying to Ossian: “The heroes whom you mourn are dead; can they live -again?”</p> - -<p>A strange melancholy characterises the genius of the Celtic race. For -all the blithe songs and happy abandon of so many Irish singers, the -Irish themselves have given us the most poignant, the most -hauntingly-sad lyric cries in all modern literature. Renan fully -recognises this, and how, even in the heroic age, the melancholy of -inappeasible regret, of insatiable longing, is as obvious as in our own -day, when spiritual weariness is as an added crown of thorns. Whence -comes this sadness, he asks? Take the songs of the sixth century bards; -they mourn more defeats than they sing victories. The history of the -Celtic race itself is but a long com<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_lii" id="page_lii">{lii}</a></span>plaint, the lament of exiles, the -grief of despairing flights beyond the seas. If occasionally it seems to -make merry, a tear ever lurks behind the smile; it rarely knows that -singular forgetfulness of the human state and of its destinies which is -called gaiety. But, if its songs of joy end in elegies, nothing equals -the delicious sadness of these national melodies.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, concludes the most famous of modern Breton writers, we are -still far from believing that the Celtic race has said its last word. -After having exercised all the godly and worldly chivalries, sought with -Pérédur the Holy Graal and the Beautiful, dreamed with Saint Brandan of -mystical Atlantides, who knows what the Celtic genius would produce in -the domain of the intelligence if it should embolden itself to make its -entrance into the world, and if it subjected its rich and profound -nature to the conditions of modern thought? Few races have had a -poetical infancy as complete as the Celtic—mythology, lyricism, epic, -romanesque imagination, religious enthusiasm, nothing have they lacked. -Why should philosophic thought be lacking? Germany, which had begun by -science and criticism, has finished with poetry; why should not the -Celtic races, which began with poetry, not end with a new and vivid -criticism of actual life as it now is? It is not so far from the one to -the other as we are apt to suppose; the poetical races are the -philosophical races, and philosophy is at bottom but a manner of poetry -like any other. When one thinks that Germany fronted, less than a -century ago, the revelation of its genius; that everywhere national -idiosyncrasies, which seemed effaced, have suddenly risen again in our -day more alive than ever, one is persuaded that it is rash to set a law -for the discontinuances and awakenings of races. Modern civilisation, -which seemed made to absorb them, may, perhaps, be but the forcing-house -for a new and more superb efflorescence.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_liii" id="page_liii">{liii}</a></span></p> - -<p>No, it is no “disastrous end”: whether the Celtic peoples be slowly -perishing or are spreading innumerable fibres of life towards a richer -and fuller, if a less national and distinctive existence. From Renan, -the high priest of the Breton faith, to the latest of his kindred of the -Gael, there is a strange new uprising of hope. It is realised that the -Dream is nigh dreamed: and then ...</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“Till the soil—bid cities rise—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Be strong, O Celt—be rich, be wise—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But still, with those divine grave eyes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Respect the realm of Mysteries.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Let me conclude, then, in the words of the most recent of those many -eager young Celtic writers whose songs and romances are charming the now -intent mind of the Anglo-Saxon. “A doomed and passing race. Yes, but not -wholly so. The Celt has at last reached his horizon. There is no shore -beyond. He knows it. This has been the burden of his song since Malvina -led the blind Oisìn to his grave by the sea. ‘Even the Children of Light -must go down into darkness.’ But this apparition of a passing race is no -more than the fulfilment of a glorious resurrection before our very -eyes. For the genius of the Celtic race stands out now with averted -torch, and the light of it is a glory before the eyes, and the flame of -it is blown into the hearts of the mightier conquering people. The Celt -falls, but his spirit rises in the heart and the brain of the -Anglo-Celtic peoples, with whom are the destinies of the generations to -come.”</p> - -<p class="rt">WILLIAM SHARP.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_liv" id="page_liv">{liv}</a></span></p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><i>Read these faint runes of Mystery,</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>O Celt, at home and o’er the sea;</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>The bond is loosed—the poor are free—</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>The world’s great future rests with thee!</i><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><i>Till the soil—bid cities rise—</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>Be strong, O Celt—be rich, be wise—</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>But still, with those divine grave eyes,</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>Respect the realm of Mysteries.</i><br /></span> -<span class="i8"><i>The Book of Orm.</i><br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_1" id="page_1">{1}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h2>I<br /> -ANCIENT IRISH<br /> -AND SCOTTISH</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2">{2}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3">{3}</a></span> </p> - -<h3>The Mystery of Amergin.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">ANCIENT ERSE</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">I am the wind which breathes upon the sea,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">I am the wave of the ocean,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">I am the murmur of the billows,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">I am the ox of the seven combats,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">I am the vulture upon the rocks,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">I am a beam of the sun,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">I am the fairest of plants,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">I am a wild boar in valour,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">I am a salmon in the water,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">I am a lake in the plain,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">I am a word of science,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">I am the point of the lance of battle,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">I am the God who creates in the head [i.e. of man] the fire [i.e. the thought].<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who is it who throws light into the meeting on the mountain?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who announces the ages of the moon [If not I]?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who teaches the place where couches the sun [If not I]?<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4">{4}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Song of Fionn.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">May-day, delightful time! How beautiful the colour!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The blackbirds sing their full lay. Would that Læg were here!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The cuckoos sing in constant strains. How welcome is the noble<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Brilliance of the seasons ever! On the margin of the branching woods<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The summer swallows skim the stream: the swift horses seek the pool:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The heather spreads out her long hair: the weak fair bog-down grows.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sudden consternation attacks the signs; the planets, in their courses running, exert an influence:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The sea is lulled to rest, flowers cover the earth.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5">{5}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Credhe’s Lament.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">ANCIENT ERSE</div> - -<p>The haven roars, and O the haven roars, over the rushing race of -<span class="gesh">Rinn-dá-bharc</span>! the drowning of the warrior of loch dá chonn, that is -what the wave impinging on the strand laments. Melodious is the crane, -and O melodious is the crane, in the marshlands of <span class="gesh">Druim-dá-thrén</span>! ’tis -she that may not save her brood alive: the wild dog of two colours is -intent upon her nestlings. A woeful note, and O a woeful note, is that -which the thrush in Drumqueen emits! but not more cheerful is the wail -that the blackbird makes in Letterlee. A woeful sound, and O a woeful -sound, is that the deer utters in Drumdaleish! dead lies the doe of -<span class="gesh">Druim Silenn</span>: the mighty stag bells after her. Sore suffering to me, and -O suffering sore, is the hero’s death—his death, that used to lie with -me!... Sore suffering to me is Cael, and O Cael is a suffering sore, -that by my side he is in dead man’s form! That the wave should have -swept over his white body—that is what hath distracted me, so great was -his delightfulness. A dismal roar, and O a dismal roar, is that the -shore-surf makes upon the strand! seeing that the same hath drowned the -comely noble man, to me it is an affliction that Cael ever sought to -encounter it. A woeful booming, and O a boom of woe, is that which the -wave makes upon the northward beach! beating as it does against the -polished rock, lamenting for Cael, now that he is gone. A woeful fight, -and O a fight of woe, is that the wave wages against the southern shore! -As for me my span is determined!... A woeful melody, and O a melody of -woe, is that which the heavy surge of Tullachleish emits! As for me: the -calamity that is fallen upon me having shattered me, for me prosperity -exists no more. Since now Crimthann’s son is drowned, one that I may -love after him there is not in being. Many a chief is fallen by his -hand, and in the battle his shield never uttered outcry!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6">{6}</a></span></p> - -<h3>Cuchullin in his Chariot.</h3> - -<p class="c">“What is the cause of thy journey or thy story?”</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">The cause of my journey and my story<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The men of Erin, yonder, as we see them,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Coming towards you on the plain.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The chariot on which is the fold, figured and cerulean,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Which is made strongly, handy, solid;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where were active, and where were vigorous;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And where were full-wise, the noble hearted folk;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the prolific, faithful city;—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fine, hard, stone-bedecked, well-shafted;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Four large-chested horses in that splendid chariot;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Comely, frolicsome.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="c">“What do we see in that chariot?”</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">The white-bellied, white-haired, small-eared,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thin-sided, thin-hoofed, horse-large, steed-large horses;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With fine, shining, polished bridles;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like a gem; or like red sparkling fire;—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like the motion of a fawn, wounded;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like the rustling of a loud wind in winter;—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Coming to you in that chariot.—<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="c">“What do we see in that chariot?”</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">We see in that chariot,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The strong, broad-chested, nimble, gray horses,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So mighty, so broad-chested, so fleet, so choice;—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Which would wrench the sea skerries from the rocks.—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The lively, shielded, powerful horses;—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So mettlesome, so active, so clear-shining;—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like the talon of an eagle ’gainst a fierce beast;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Which are called the beautiful Large-Gray—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The fond, large <span class="gesh">Meactroigh</span>.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7">{7}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="sidenote">ANCIENT ERSE</div> - -<p class="c">“What do we see in that chariot?”</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">We see in that chariot,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The horses; which are white-headed, white-hoofed,<br /> slender-legged,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fine-haired, sturdy, imperious;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Satin-bannered, wide-chested;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Small-aged, small-haired, small-eared;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Large-hearted, large-shaped, large-nostriled;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Slender-waisted, long-bodied,—and they are foal-like;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Handsome, playful, brilliant, wild-leaping;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Which are called the <span class="gesh">Dubh</span>-<span class="gesh">Seimhlinn</span>.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="c">“Who sits in that chariot?”</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">He who sits in that chariot,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is the warrior, able, powerful, well-worded,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Polished, brilliant, very graceful.—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There are seven sights on his eye;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And we think that that is good vision to him;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There are six bony, fat fingers,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On each hand that comes from his shoulder;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There are seven kinds of fair hair on his head;—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Brown hair next his head’s skin,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And smooth red hair over that;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And fair-yellow hair, of the colour of gold;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And clasps on the top, holding it fast;—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whose name is Cuchullin, <span class="gesh">Seimh</span>-<span class="gesh">suailte</span>,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Son of Aodh, son of Agh, son of other Aodh.—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His face is like red sparkles;—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fast-moving on the plain like mountain fleet-mist;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or like the speed of a hill hind;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or like a hare on rented level ground.—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It was a frequent step—a fast step—a joyful step;—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The horses coming towards us:—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like snow hewing the slopes;—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The panting and the snorting,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of the horses coming towards thee.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8">{8}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Deirdrê’s Lament for the Sons of Usnach</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The lions of the hill are gone,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I am left alone—alone—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dig the grave both wide and deep,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For I am sick, and fain would sleep!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The falcons of the wood are flown,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I am left alone—alone—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dig the grave both deep and wide,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And let us slumber side by side.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The dragons of the rock are sleeping,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sleep that wakes not for our weeping—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dig the grave, and make it ready,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lay me on my true-love’s body.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Lay their spears and bucklers bright<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By the warriors’ sides aright;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Many a day the three before me<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On their linkèd bucklers bore me.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Lay upon the low grave floor,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Neath each head, the blue claymore;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Many a time the noble three<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Reddened their blue blades for me.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Lay the collars, as is meet,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of the greyhounds at their feet;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Many a time for me have they<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Brought the tall red deer to bay.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In the falcon’s jesses throw,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hook and arrow, line and bow;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Never again, by stream or plain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shall the gentle woodsmen go.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sweet companions, were ye ever—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Harsh to me, your sister, never;<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9">{9}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="sidenote">ANCIENT ERSE</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Woods and wilds, and misty valleys,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Were with you as good’s a palace.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O, to hear my true-love singing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sweet as sounds of trumpets ringing;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like the sway of ocean swelling<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rolled his deep voice round our dwelling.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O! to hear the echoes pealing<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Round our green and fairy shealing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the three, with soaring chorus,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Passed the silent skylark o’er us.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Echo now, sleep, morn and even—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lark alone enchant the heaven!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ardan’s lips are scant of breath,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Neesa’s tongue is cold in death.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Stag, exult on glen and mountain—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Salmon, leap from loch to fountain—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Heron, in the free air warm ye—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Usnach’s sons no more will harm ye!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Erin’s stay no more you are,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rulers of the ridge of war;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Never more ’twill be your fate<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To keep the beam of battle straight!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Woe is me! by fraud and wrong,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Traitors false and tyrants strong,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fell Clan Usnach, bought and sold,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For Barach’s feast and Conor’s gold!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Woe to Eman, roof and wall!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Woe to Red Branch, hearth and hall!—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tenfold woe and black dishonour<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the foul and false Clan Conor!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Dig the grave both wide and deep,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sick I am, and fain would sleep!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dig the grave and make it ready,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lay me on my true-love’s body.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10">{10}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Lament of Queen Maev.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Raise the Cromlech high!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Mac Moghcorb is slain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And other men’s renown<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Has leave to live again.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Cold at last he lies<br /></span> -<span class="i2">’Neath the burial stone.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All the blood he shed<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Could not save his own.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Stately, strong he went,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Through his nobles all,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When we paced together<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Up the banquet-hall.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Dazzling white as lime,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Was his body fair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Cherry-red his cheeks,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Raven-black his hair.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Razor-sharp his spear,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And the shield he bore,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">High as champion’s head—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">His arm was like an oar.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Never aught but truth<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Spake my noble king;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Valour all his trust<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In all his warfaring.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">As the forkèd pole<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Holds the roof-tree’s weight,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So my hero’s arm<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Held the battle straight.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Terror went before him,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Death behind his back,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Well the wolves of Erinn<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Knew his chariot’s track.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11">{11}</a></span> -</div> - -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Seven bloody battles<br /></span> -<span class="i2">He broke upon his foes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In each a hundred heroes<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Fell beneath his blows.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Once he fought at Fossud,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thrice at Ath-finn-fail.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Twas my king that conquered<br /></span> -<span class="i2">At bloody Ath-an-Scaìl.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">At the Boundary Stream<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Fought the Royal Hound,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And for Bernas battle<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Stands his name renowned.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Here he fought with Leinster—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Last of all his frays—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the Hill of Cucorb’s Fate<br /></span> -<span class="i2">High his Cromlech raise.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12">{12}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The March of the Faerie Host.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In well-devised battle array,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ahead of their fair chieftain<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They march amidst blue spears,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">White curly-headed bands.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They scatter the battalions of the foe,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They ravage every land I have attacked,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Splendidly they march to combat<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An impetuous, distinguished, avenging host!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">No wonder though their strength be great:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sons of kings and queens are one and all.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On all their heads are<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beautiful golden-yellow manes:<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">With smooth, comely bodies,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With bright blue-starred eyes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With pure crystal teeth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With thin red lips:<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Good they are at man-slaying.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13">{13}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="sidenote">ANCIENT ERSE</div> - -<h3>Vision of a Fair Woman.<br /><br /> -(Aisling air Dhreach Mna.)</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Tell us some of the charms of the stars:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Close and well set were her ivory teeth;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">White as the canna upon the moor<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was her bosom the tartan bright beneath.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Her well-rounded forehead shone<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Soft and fair as the mountain-snow;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her two breasts were heaving full;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To them did the hearts of heroes flow.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Her lips were ruddier than the rose;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tender and tunefully sweet her tongue;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">White as the foam adown her side<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her delicate fingers extended hung.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Smooth as the dusky down of the elk<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Appeared her shady eyebrows to me;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lovely her cheeks were, like berries red;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From every guile she was wholly free.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Her countenance looked like the gentle buds<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Unfolding their beauty in early spring;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her yellow locks like the gold-browed hills;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And her eyes like the radiance the sunbeams bring.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14">{14}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Fian Banners.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The Norland King stood on the height<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And scanned the rolling sea;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He proudly eyed his gallant ships<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That rode triumphantly.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And then he looked where lay his camp,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Along the rocky coast,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And where were seen the heroes brave<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of Lochlin’s famous host.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then to the land he turn’d, and there<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A fierce-like hero came;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Above him was a flag of gold,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That waved and shone like flame.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Sweet bard,” thus spoke the Norland King,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“What banner comes in sight?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The valiant chief that leads the host,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Who is that man of might?”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“That,” said the bard, “is young MacDoon,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">His is that banner bright;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When forth the Féinn to battle go,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">He’s foremost in the fight.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Sweet bard, another comes; I see<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A blood-red banner toss’d<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Above a mighty hero’s head<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Who waves it o’er a host?”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“That banner,” quoth the bard, “belongs<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To good and valiant Rayne;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beneath it feet are bathed in blood<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And heads are cleft in twain.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Sweet bard, what banner now I see<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A leader fierce and strong<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15">{15}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Behind it moves with heroes brave<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Who furious round him throng?”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“That is the banner of Great Gaul:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That silken shred of gold,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is first to march and last to turn,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And flight ne’er stained its fold.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Sweet bard, another now I see,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">High o’er a host it glows,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tell whether it has ever shone<br /></span> -<span class="i2">O’er fields of slaughtered foes?”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“That gory flag is Cailt’s,” quoth he,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“It proudly peers in sight;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It won its fame on many a field<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In fierce and bloody fight.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Sweet bard, another still I see;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A host it flutters o’er;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like bird above the roaring surge<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That laves the storm-swept shore.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“The Broom of Peril,” quoth the bard,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“Young Oscur’s banner, see:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Amidst the conflict of dread chiefs<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The proudest name has he.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The banner of great Fionn we raised;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The Sunbeam gleaming far,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With golden spangles of renown<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From many a field of war.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The flag was fastened to its staff<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With nine strong chains of gold,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With nine times nine chiefs for each chain;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Before it foes oft rolled.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16">{16}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Redeem your pledge to me,” said Fionn;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“And show your deeds of might<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To Lochlin as you did before<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In many a gory fight.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Like torrents from the mountain heights<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That roll resistless on;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So down upon the foe we rushed,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And victory won.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17">{17}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="sidenote">OLD GAELIC</div> - -<h3>The Rune of St Patrick.<br /><br /> -“The Faedh Fiada”; or, “The Cry of the Deer.”</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">At Tara to-day in this fateful hour<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I place all Heaven with its power,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the sun with its brightness,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the snow with its whiteness,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And fire with all the strength it hath,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And lightning with its rapid wrath,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the winds with their swiftness along their path,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the sea with its deepness,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the rocks with their steepness,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the earth with its starkness:<br /></span> -<span class="i4">All these I place,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">By God’s almighty help and grace,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Between myself and the powers of darkness.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18">{18}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Columcille cecenit.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O, Son of my God, what a pride, what a pleasure<br /></span> -<span class="i4">To plough the blue sea!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The waves of the fountain of deluge to measure<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Dear Eiré to thee.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We are rounding Moy-n-Olurg, we sweep by its head, and<br /></span> -<span class="i4">We plunge through Loch Foyle,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whose swans could enchant with their music the dead, and<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Make pleasure of toil.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The host of the gulls come with joyous commotion<br /></span> -<span class="i4">And screaming and sport,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I welcome my own “Dewy-Red” from the ocean<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Arriving in port.<a name="FNanchor_7_7" id="FNanchor_7_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O Eiré, were wealth my desire, what a wealth were<br /></span> -<span class="i4">To gain far from thee,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the land of the stranger, but there even health were<br /></span> -<span class="i4">A sickness to me!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Alas for the voyage O high King of Heaven<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Enjoined upon me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For that I on the red plain of bloody Cooldrevin<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Was present to see.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">How happy the son is of Dima; no sorrow<br /></span> -<span class="i4">For him is designed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He is having, this hour, round his own hill in Durrow<br /></span> -<span class="i4">The wish of his mind.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The sounds of the winds in the elms, like the strings of<br /></span> -<span class="i4">A harp being played,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The note of the blackbird that claps with the wings of<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Delight in the glade.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19">{19}</a></span></div> -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">With him in Ros-Grencha the cattle are lowing<br /></span> -<span class="i4">At earliest dawn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the brink of the summer the pigeons are cooing<br /></span> -<span class="i4">And doves in the lawn.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Three things am I leaving behind me, the very<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Most dear that I know,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tir-Leedach I’m leaving, and Durrow and Derry,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Alas, I must go!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Yet my visit and feasting with Comgall have eased me<br /></span> -<span class="i4">At Cainneach’s right hand,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all but thy government, Eiré, has pleased me,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Thou waterfall land.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20">{20}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Columcille fecit.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Delightful would it be to me to be in Uchd Ailiun<br /></span> -<span class="i4">On the pinnacle of a rock,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That I might often see<br /></span> -<span class="i4">The face of the ocean;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That I might see its heaving waves<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Over the wide ocean,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When they chant music to their Father<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Upon the world’s course;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That I might see its level sparkling strand,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">It would be no cause of sorrow;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That I might hear the song of the wonderful birds,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Source of happiness;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That I might hear the thunder of the crowding waves<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Upon the rocks;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That I might hear the roar by the side of the church<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Of the surrounding sea;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That I might see its noble flocks<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Over the watery ocean;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That I might see the sea-monsters,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">The greatest of all wonders;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That I might see its ebb and flood<br /></span> -<span class="i4">In their career;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That my mystical name might be, I say,<br /></span> -<span class="i4"><span class="gesh">Cul ri Erin</span>;<a name="FNanchor_8_8" id="FNanchor_8_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a><br /></span> -<span class="i0">That contrition might come upon my heart<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Upon looking at her;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That I might bewail my evils all,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Though it were difficult to compute them;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That I might bless the Lord<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Who conserves all,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Heaven with its countless bright orders,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Land, strand and flood;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21">{21}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">That I might search the books all,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">That would be good for my soul;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">At times kneeling to beloved Heaven;<br /></span> -<span class="i4">At times psalm singing;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">At times contemplating the King of Heaven,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Holy the chief;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">At times at work without compulsion,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">This would be delightful.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">At times plucking duilisc from the rocks;<br /></span> -<span class="i4">At times at fishing;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">At times giving food to the poor;<br /></span> -<span class="i4">At times in a <span class="gesh">carcair</span>:<a name="FNanchor_9_9" id="FNanchor_9_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a><br /></span> -<span class="i0">The best advice in the presence of God<br /></span> -<span class="i4">To me has been vouchsafed.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The King whose servant I am will not let<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Anything deceive me.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22">{22}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Song of Murdoch the Monk.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Murdoch, whet thy knife, that we may shave our crowns to the Great King.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Let us sweetly give our vow, and the hair of both our heads to the Trinity.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I will shave mine to Mary; this is the doing of a true heart:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To Mary shave thou these locks, well-formed, soft-eyed man.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Seldom hast thou had, handsome man, a knife on thy hair to shave it;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oftener has a sweet, soft queen comb’d her hair beside thee.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whenever it was that we did bathe, with Brian of the well-curled locks,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And once on a time that I did bathe at the well of the fair-haired Boroimhe,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I strove in swimming with Ua Chais, on the cold waters of the Fergus.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When he came ashore from the stream, Ua Chais and I strove in a race:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">These two knives, one to each, were given us by Duncan Cairbreach;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">No knives were better: shave gently then, Murdoch.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whet your sword, Cathal, which wins the fertile Banva;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ne’er was thy wrath heard without fighting, brave, red-handed Cathal.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Preserve our shaved heads from cold and from heat, gentle daughter of Iodehim,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Preserve us in the land of heat, softest branch of Mary.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23">{23}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="sidenote">DOMHNULL MAC FHIONNLAIDH</div> - -<h3>The Aged Bard’s Wish.<br /><br /> -(Miann a’ Bhaird Aosda.)</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O, lay me by the gentle stream<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Which glides with stealing course;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lay my head beneath the shady boughs,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And thou, O sun, be mild upon my rest.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There, in the flowery grass,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the breeze sighs softly on the bank,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My feet shall be bathed with the dew<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When it falls on the silent vale.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There, on my lone green heap,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The primrose and the daisy shall bloom over my head,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the wild bright star of St John<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shall bend beside my cheek.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Above, on the steeps of the glen,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Green flowering boughs shall spread,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And sweet, from the still grey craigs,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The birds shall pour their songs.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There, from the ivied craig,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The gushing spring shall flow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the son of the rock shall repeat<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The murmur of its fall.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The hinds shall call around my bed;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The hill shall answer to their voice,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When a thousand shall descend on the field,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And feed around my rest.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The calves shall sport beside me<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By the stream of the level plain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the little kids, weary of their strife,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shall sleep beneath my arm.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24">{24}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Far in the gentle breeze<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The stag cries on the field;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The herds answer on the hill,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And descend to meet the sound.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I hear the steps of the hunter!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His whistling darts—his dog upon the hill.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The joy of youth returns to my cheek<br /></span> -<span class="i0">At the sound of the coming chase!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My strength returns at the sounds of the wood;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The cry of hounds—the thrill of strings.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hark! the death-shout—“<span class="gesh">The deer has fallen!</span>”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I spring to life on the hill!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I see the bounding dog,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My companion on the heath;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The beloved hill of our chase,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The echoing craig of woods.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I see the sheltering cave<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Which often received us from the night,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the glowing tree and the joyful cup<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Revived us with their cheer.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Glad was the smoking feast of deer,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Our drink was from Loch Treig, our music its hum of waves;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Though ghosts shrieked on the echoing hills,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sweet was our rest in the cave.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I see the mighty mountain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Chief of a thousand hills;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The dream of deer is in its locks,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Its head is the bed of clouds.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I see the ridge of hinds, the steep of the sloping glen,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The wood of cuckoos at its foot,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The blue height of a thousand pines,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of wolves, and roes, and elks.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25">{25}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="sidenote">DOMHNULL MAC FHIONNLAIDH</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Like the breeze on the lake of firs<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The little ducks skim on the pool,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">At its head is the strath of pines,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The red rowan bends on its bank.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There, on the gliding wave,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The fair swan spreads her wing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The broad white wing which never fails<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When she soars amidst the clouds.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Far wandering over ocean<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She seeks the cold dwelling of seals,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where no sail bends the mast,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor prow divides the wave.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Come to the woody hills<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With the lament of thy love;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Return, O swan, from the isle of waves,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And sing from thy course on high.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Raise thy mournful song—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pour the sad tale of thy grief;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The son of the rock shall hear the sound,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And repeat thy strain of woe.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Spread thy wing over ocean,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mount up on the strength of the winds;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pleasant to my ear is thy sound,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The song of thy wounded heart.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O youth! thou who hast departed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And left my grey and helpless hairs,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What land has heard on its winds<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy cry come o’er its rocks?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Are the tears in thy eye, O maiden?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou of the lovely brow and lily hand;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Brightness be around thee for ever!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou shalt return no more from the narrow bed!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26">{26}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Tell me, O winds! since now I see them not,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where grow the murmuring reeds?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The reeds which sigh where rest the trout<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On their still transparent fins.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O raise and bear me on your hands,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lay my head beneath the young boughs,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That their shade may veil my eyes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the sun shall rise on high.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And thou, O gentle sleep!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whose course is with the stars of night;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Be near with thy dreams of song<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To bring back my days of joy.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My soul beholds the maid!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the shade of the mighty oak,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her white hand beneath her golden hair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her soft eye on her beloved.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He is near—but she is silent,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His beating heart is lost in song,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Their souls beam from their eyes—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Deer stand on the hill!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The song has ceased!—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Their bosoms meet;—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like the young and stainless rose<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her lips are pressed to his!—<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Blessed be that commune sweet!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Recalling the joy which returns no more—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Blessed be thy soul, my love!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou maid with the bright flowing locks.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Hast thou forsaken me, O dream!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Once more return again!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Alas! thou art gone, and I am sad—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bless thee, my love—farewell!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27">{27}</a></span></div> -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Friends of my youth, farewell!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Farewell, ye maids of love!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I see you now no more—with you is summer still,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With me—the winter night!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O lay me by the roaring fall,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By the sound of the murmuring craig,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Let the cruit and the shell be near,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the shield of my father’s wars.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O breeze of Ocean come,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With the sound of thy gentle course,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Raise me on thy wings, O wind,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And bear me to the isle of rest;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Where the heroes of old are gone,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the sleep which shall wake no more<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Open the hall of Ossian and Daol—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The night is come—the bard departs!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Behold my dim grey mist!—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I go to the dwelling of bards on the hill!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Give me the airy cruit and shell for the way—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And now—my own loved cruit and shell—farewell!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28">{28}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Ossian Sang.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sweet is the voice in the land of gold,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And sweeter the music of birds that soar,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the cry of the heron is heard on the wold,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And the waves break softly on Bundatrore.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Down floats on the murmuring of the breeze<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The call of the cuckoo from Cossahun,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The blackbird is warbling among the trees,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And soft is the kiss of the warming sun.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The cry of the eagle of Assaroe<br /></span> -<span class="i2">O’er the court of Mac Morne to me is sweet,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And sweet is the cry of the bird below<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Where the wave and the wind and the tall cliff meet.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Finn mac Cool is the father of me,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Whom seven battalions of Fenians fear:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When he launches his hounds on the open lea<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Grand is their cry as they rouse the deer.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29">{29}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="sidenote">OLD GAELIC</div> - -<h3>Fingal and Ros-crana.</h3> - -<p class="nind">ROS-CRANA.</p> - -<p>By night, came a dream to Ros-crana! I feel my beating soul. No vision -of the forms of the dead came to the blue eyes of Erin. But, rising from -the wave of the north, I beheld him bright in his locks. I beheld the -son of the king. My beating soul is high. I laid my head down in night: -again ascended the form. Why delayest thou thy coming, young rider of -stormy waves!</p> - -<p>But, there, far-distant, he comes; where seas roll their green ridges in -mist! Young dweller of my soul; why dost thou delay——</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">FINGAL.</p> - -<p>It was the soft voice of Moi-lena! the pleasant breeze of the valley of -roes! But why dost thou hide thee in shades? Young love of heroes, rise. -Are not thy steps covered with light? In thy groves thou appearest, -Ros-crana, like the sun in the gathering of clouds. Why dost thou hide -thee in shades? Young love of heroes, rise.</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">ROS-CRANA.</p> - -<p>My fluttering soul is high! Let me turn from steps of the king. He has -heard my secret voice, and shall my blue eyes roll in his presence? Roe -of the hill of moss, toward thy dwelling I move. Meet me, ye breezes of -Mora! as I move through the valley of the winds. But why should he -ascend his ocean? Son of heroes, my soul is thine! my steps shall not -move to the desert; the light of Ros-crana is here.</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">FINGAL.</p> - -<p>It was the light tread of a ghost, the fair dweller of eddying winds. -Why deceivest thou me with thy voice?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30">{30}</a></span> Here let me rest in shades. -Shouldst thou stretch thy white arm from thy grove, thou sunbeam of -Cormac of Erin——</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">ROS-CRANA.</p> - -<p>He is gone; and my blue eyes are dim; faint-rolling, in all my tears. -But, there, I behold him, alone; king of Selma, my soul is thine. Ah me! -what clanging of armour! Colc-ulla of Atha is near!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31">{31}</a></span></p> - -<div class="sidenote">OLD GAELIC</div> - -<h3>The Night-Song of the Bards.</h3> - -<p>[Five bards passing the night in the house of a chief, who was a poet -himself, went severally to make their observations on, and returned with -an extempore description of, night.]</p> - -<p class="nind">FIRST BARD.</p> - -<p>Night is dull and dark. The clouds rest on the hills. No star with green -trembling beam; no moon looks from the sky. I hear the blast in the -wood, but I hear it distant far. The stream of the valley murmurs; but -its murmur is sullen and sad. From the tree at the grave of the dead the -long-howling owl is heard. I see a dim form on the plain! It is a ghost! -it fades, it flies. Some funeral shall pass this way: the meteor marks -the path.</p> - -<p>The distant dog is howling from the hut of the hill. The stag lies on -the mountain moss: the hind is at his side. She hears the wind in his -branchy horns. She starts, but lies again.</p> - -<p>The roe is in the cleft of the rock; the heath-cock’s head is beneath -his wing. No beast, no bird is abroad, but the owl and the howling fox: -she on a leafless tree; he in a cloud on the hill.</p> - -<p>Dark, panting, trembling, sad, the traveller has lost his way. Through -shrubs, through thorns, he goes, along the gurgling rill. He fears the -rock and the fen. He fears the ghost of night. The old tree groans to -the blast; the falling branch resounds. The wind drives the withered -burrs, clung together, along the grass. It is the light tread of a -ghost! He trembles amidst the night.</p> - -<p>Dark, dusky, howling, is night, cloudy, windy, and full of ghosts! The -dead are abroad! my friends, receive me from the night.</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">SECOND BARD.</p> - -<p>The wind is up, the shower descends. The spirit of the mountain shrieks. -Woods fall from high. Windows<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32">{32}</a></span> flap.<a name="FNanchor_10_10" id="FNanchor_10_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a> The growing river roars. The -traveller attempts the ford. Hark! that shriek! he dies! The storm -drives the horse from the hill, the goat, the lowing cow. They tremble -as drives the shower, beside the shouldering bank.</p> - -<p>The hunter starts from sleep, in his lonely hut; he wakes the fire -decayed. His wet dogs smoke around him. He fills the chinks with heath. -Loud roar two mountain streams which meet beside his booth.<a name="FNanchor_11_11" id="FNanchor_11_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a></p> - -<p>Sad on the side of a hill the wandering shepherd sits. The tree resounds -above him. The stream roars down the rock. He waits for the rising moon -to guide him to his home.</p> - -<p>Ghosts ride on the storm to-night. Sweet is their voice between the -squalls of wind. Their songs are of other worlds.</p> - -<p>The rain is past. The dry wind blows. Streams roar, and windows flap. -Cold drops fall from the roof. I see the starry sky. But the shower -gathers again. The west is gloomy and dark. Night is stormy and dismal; -receive me, my friends, from night.</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">THIRD BARD.</p> - -<p>The wind still sounds between the hills, and whistles through the grass -of the rock. The firs fall from their place. The turfy hut is torn. The -clouds, divided, fly over the sky, and show the burning stars. The -meteor, token of death! flies sparkling through the gloom. It rests on -the hill. I see the withered fern, the dark-browed rock, the fallen oak. -Who is that in his shroud beneath the tree, by the stream?</p> - -<p>The waves dark-tumble on the lake, and lash its rocky sides. The boat is -brimful in the cove; the oars on the rocking tide. A maid sits sad -beside the rock,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33">{33}</a></span> and eyes the rolling stream. Her lover promised to -come. She saw his boat, when yet it was light, on the lake. Is this his -broken boat on the shore? Are these his groans on the wind?</p> - -<p>Hark! the hail rattles around. The flaky snow descends. The tops of the -hills are white. The stormy winds abate. Various is the night and cold; -receive me, my friends, from night.</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">FOURTH BARD.</p> - -<p>Night is calm and fair; blue, starry, settled is night. The winds, with -the clouds, are gone. They sink behind the hill. The moon is up on the -mountain. Trees glister, streams shine on the rock. Bright rolls the -settled lake; bright the stream of the vale.</p> - -<p>I see the trees overturned; the shocks of corn on the plain. The wakeful -hind rebuilds the shocks, and whistles on the distant field.</p> - -<p>Calm, settled, fair is night! Who comes from the place of the dead? That -form with the robe of snow, white arms, and dark-brown hair! It is the -daughter of the chief of the people: she that lately fell! Come, let us -view thee, O maid! Thou that hast been the delight of heroes! The blast -drives the phantom away; white, without form, it ascends the hill.</p> - -<p>The breezes drive the blue mist, slowly, over the narrow vale. It rises -on the hill, and joins its head to heaven. Night is settled, calm, blue, -starry, bright with the moon. Receive me not, my friends, for lovely is -the night.</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">FIFTH BARD.</p> - -<p>Night is calm, but dreary. The moon is in a cloud in the west. Slow -moves that pale beam along the shaded hill. The distant wave is heard. -The torrent murmurs on the rock. The cock is heard from the booth.<a name="FNanchor_12_12" id="FNanchor_12_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_12_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a> -More than half the night is past. The house-wife, groping in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34">{34}</a></span> the gloom, -re-kindles the settled fire. The hunter thinks that day approaches, and -calls his bounding dogs. He ascends the hill, and whistles on his way. A -blast removes the cloud. He sees the starry plough of the north. Much of -the night is to pass. He nods by the mossy rock.</p> - -<p>Hark! the whirlwind is in the wood! A low murmur in the vale! It is the -mighty army of the dead returning from the air.</p> - -<p>The moon rests behind the hill. The beam is still on that lofty rock. -Long are the shadows of the trees. Now it is dark over all. Night is -dreary, silent, and dark; receive me, my friends, from night.</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">THE CHIEF.</p> - -<p>Let clouds rest on the hills: spirits fly, and travellers fear. Let the -winds of the woods arise, the sounding storms descend. Roar streams and -windows flap, and green-winged meteors fly! Rise the pale moon from -behind her hills, or inclose her head in clouds! Night is alike to me, -blue, stormy, or gloomy the sky. Night flies before the beam, when it is -poured on the hill. The young day returns from his clouds, but we return -no more.</p> - -<p>Where are our chiefs of old? Where are our kings of mighty name? The -fields of their battles are silent. Scarce their mossy tombs remain. We -shall also be forgot. This lofty house shall fall. Our sons shall not -behold the ruins in grass. They shall ask of the aged, “Where stood the -walls of our fathers?”</p> - -<p>Raise the song, and strike the harp; send round the shells of joy. -Suspend a hundred tapers on high. Youths and maids begin the dance. Let -some grey bard be near me, to tell the deeds of other times; of kings -renowned in our land, of chiefs we behold no more. Thus let the night -pass until morning shall appear in our halls. Then let the bow be at -hand, the dogs, the youths of the chase. We shall ascend the hill with -day, and awake the deer.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35">{35}</a></span></p> - -<div class="sidenote">OSSIAN</div> - -<h3>Comala.</h3> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr valign="top"><td>FINGAL<br /> -HYDALLAN <br /> -COMALA</td> - -<td>MELILCOMA<br /> -DERSAGRENA <br /> -BARDS</td> - -<td>}Daughters of<br /> -}Morni</td></tr> -</table> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">DERSAGRENA.</p> - -<p>The chase is over. No noise on Ardven but the torrent’s roar! Daughter -of Morni, come from Crona’s banks. Lay down the bow and take the harp. -Let the night come on with songs, let our joy be great on Ardven.</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">MELILCOMA.</p> - -<p>Night comes apace, thou blue-eyed maid! Grey night grows dim along the -plain. I saw a deer at Crona’s stream; a mossy bank he seemed through -the gloom, but soon he bounded away. A meteor played round his branching -horns! The awful faces of other times looked from the clouds of Crona!</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">DERSAGRENA.</p> - -<p>These are the signs of Fingal’s death. The king of shields is fallen! -and Caracul prevails. Rise, Comala, from thy rock: daughter of Sarno, -rise in tears! The youth of thy love is low; his ghost is on our hills.</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">MELILCOMA.</p> - -<p>There Comala sits forlorn! two grey dogs near shake their rough ears, -and catch the flying breeze. Her red cheek rests upon her arm, the -mountain-wind is in her hair. She turns her blue eyes toward the fields -of his promise. Where art thou, O Fingal? The night is gathering around!</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">COMALA.</p> - -<p>O Carun of the streams! Why do I behold thy waters rolling in blood? Has -the noise of the battle<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36">{36}</a></span> been heard; and sleeps the King of Morven? -Rise, moon, thou daughter of the sky! Look from between thy clouds, rise -that I may behold the gleam of his steel, on the field of his promise. -Or rather let the meteor, that lights our fathers through the night, -come, with its red beam, to show me the way to my fallen hero. Who will -defend me from sorrow? Who from the love of Hydallan? Long shall Comala -look before she can behold Fingal in the midst of his host; bright as -the coming forth of the morning, in the cloud of an early shower.</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">HYDALLAN.</p> - -<p>Dwell, thou mist of gloomy Crona, dwell on the path of the king! Hide -his steps from mine eyes, let me remember my friend no more. The bands -of battle are scattered, no crowding tread is round the noise of his -steel. O Carun! roll thy streams of blood, the chief of the people is -low.</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">COMALA.</p> - -<p>Who fell on Carun’s sounding banks, son of the cloudy night? Was he -white as the snow of Ardven? Blooming as the bow of the shower? Was his -hair like the mist of the hill, soft and curling in the day of the sun? -Was he like the thunder of heaven in battle? Fleet as the roe of the -desert?</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">HYDALLAN.</p> - -<p>O that I might behold his love, fair leaning from her rock! Her red eye -dim in tears, her blushing cheek half hid in her locks! Blow, O gentle -breeze! Lift thou the heavy locks of the maid, that I may behold her -white arm, her lovely cheek in her grief.</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">COMALA.</p> - -<p>And is the son of Comhal fallen, chief of the mournful tale? The thunder -rolls on the hill! The lightning<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37">{37}</a></span> flies on wings of fire! They frighten -not Comala; for Fingal is low. Say, chief of the mournful tale, fell the -breaker of the shields?</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">HYDALLAN.</p> - -<p>The nations are scattered on their hills; they shall hear the voice of -the king no more.</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">COMALA.</p> - -<p>Confusion pursue thee over thy plains! Ruin overtake thee, thou king of -the world! Few be thy steps to thy grave; and let one virgin mourn thee! -Let her be like Comala, tearful in the days of her youth! Why hast thou -told me, Hydallan, that my hero fell? I might have hoped a little while -his return, I might have thought I saw him on the distant rock; a tree -might have deceived me with his appearance; the wind of the hill might -have been the sound of his horn in mine ear. O that I were on the banks -of Carun! that my tears might be warm on his cheek!</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">HYDALLAN.</p> - -<p>He lies not on the banks of Carun; on Ardven heroes raise his tomb. Look -on them, O moon! from thy clouds; be thy beam bright on his breast, that -Comala may behold him in the light of his armour!</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">COMALA.</p> - -<p>Stop, ye sons of the grave, till I behold my love! He left me at the -chase alone. I knew not that he went to war. He said he would return -with the night; the King of Morven is returned! Why didst thou not tell -me that he would fall, O trembling dweller of the rock? Thou sawest him -in the blood of his youth; but thou didst not tell Comala!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38">{38}</a></span></p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">MELILCOMA.</p> - -<p>What sound is that on Ardven? Who is that, bright in the vale? Who comes -like the strength of rivers, when their crowded waters glitter to the -moon?</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">COMALA.</p> - -<p>Who is it but the foe of Comala, the son of the king of the world? Ghost -of Fingal! Do thou from thy cloud direct Comala’s bow. Let him fall like -the hart of the desert. It is Fingal in the crowd of his ghosts. Why -dost thou come, my love, to frighten and please my soul?</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">FINGAL.</p> - -<p>Raise, ye bards, the song; raise the wars of the streamy Carun! Caracul -has fled from our arms along the fields of his pride. He sets far -distant like a meteor, that incloses a spirit of night, when the winds -drive it over the heath, and the dark woods are gleaming around. I heard -a voice, or was it the breeze of my hills? Is it the huntress of Ardven, -the white-handed daughter of Sarno? Look from thy rocks, my love; let me -hear the voice of Comala!</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">COMALA.</p> - -<p>Take me to the cave of my rest, O lovely son of death!</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">FINGAL.</p> - -<p>Come to the cave of my rest. The storm is past, the sun is on our -fields. Come to the cave of my rest, huntress of echoing Ardven!</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">COMALA.</p> - -<p>He is returned with his fame. I feel the right hand of his wars. But I -must rest beside the rock till my soul returns from my fear. O let the -harp be near! Raise the song, ye daughters of Morni!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39">{39}</a></span></p> - -<div class="sidenote">OSSIAN</div> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">DERSAGRENA.</p> - -<p>Comala has slain three deer on Ardven, the fire ascends on the rock; go -to the feast of Comala, king of the woody Morven!</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">FINGAL.</p> - -<p>Raise, ye sons of song, the wars of the streamy Carun; that my -white-handed maid may rejoice: while I behold the feast of my love.</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">BARDS.</p> - -<p>Roll, streamy Carun, roll in joy, the sons of battle are fled! The steed -is not seen on our fields; the wings of their pride spread in other -lands. The sun will now rise in peace, and the shadows descend in joy. -The voice of the chase will be heard; the shields hang in the hall. Our -delight will be in the war of the ocean, our hands shall grow red in the -blood of Lochlin. Roll, streamy Carun, roll in joy, the sons of battle -fled!</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">MELILCOMA.</p> - -<p>Descend, ye light mists from high! Ye moonbeams, lift her soul! Pale -lies the maid at the rock. Comala is no more!</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">FINGAL.</p> - -<p>Is the daughter of Sarno dead, the white-bosomed maid of my love? Meet -me, Comala, on my heaths, when I sit alone at the streams of my hills!</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">HYDALLAN.</p> - -<p>Ceased the voice of the huntress of Ardven? Why did I trouble the soul -of the maid? When shall I see thee, with joy, in the chase of the -dark-brown hinds?</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">FINGAL.</p> - -<p>Youth of the gloomy brow! No more shalt thou feast in my halls. Thou -shalt not pursue my chase, my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40">{40}</a></span> foes shall not fall by thy sword. Lead me -to the place of her rest that I may behold her beauty. Pale she lies at -the rock, cold winds lift her hair. Her bow-string sounds in the blast, -her arrow was broken in her fall. Raise the praise of the daughter of -Sarno! Give her name to the winds of Heaven!</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="nind">BARDS.</p> - -<p>See! Meteors gleam around the maid! See! Moonbeams lift her soul! Around -her, from their clouds, bend the awful faces of her fathers; Sarno of -the gloomy brow! The red-rolling eyes of Fidallan! When shall thy white -hand arise? When shall thy voice be heard on our rocks? The maids shall -seek thee on the heath but they shall not find thee. Thou shalt come, at -times, to their dreams, to settle peace in their soul. Thy voice shall -remain in their ears, they shall think with joy on the dreams of their -rest. Meteors gleam around the maid, and moon-beams lift her soul.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41">{41}</a></span></p> - -<div class="sidenote">OSSIAN</div> - -<h3>The Death-Song of Ossian.</h3> - -<p>Such were the words of the bards in the days of song; when the king -heard the music of harps, the tales of other times! The chiefs gathered -from all their hills, and heard the lovely sound. They praised the Voice -of Cona! The first among a thousand bards! But age is now on my tongue; -my soul has failed! I hear, at times, the ghosts of the bards, and learn -their pleasant song. But memory fails on my mind. I hear the call of -years! They say, as they pass along, why does Ossian sing? Soon shall he -lie in the narrow house, and no bard shall raise his fame! Roll on, ye -dark-brown years; ye bring no joy on your course! Let the tomb open to -Ossian, for his strength has failed. The sons of song are gone to rest. -My voice remains, like a blast, that roars, lonely, on a sea-surrounded -rock, after the winds are laid. The dark moss whistles there; the -distant mariner sees the waving trees!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42">{42}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43">{43}</a></span> </p> - -<h2>II<br /><br /> -ANCIENT<br /> -CORNISH<br /><br /> -</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44">{44}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="The_Pool_of_Pilate" id="The_Pool_of_Pilate"></a><i>The Pool of Pilate.</i></h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">[<i>Wayfarer loq.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><i>Guel yv thy’mmo vy may fe</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>mos the wolhy ow dule</i><br /></span> -<span class="i4"><i>a Thesempes</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>me a vyn omma yn dour</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>may fons y guyn ha glan lour</i><br /></span> -<span class="i4"><i>a vostethes</i><br /></span> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">. . . . . .</span><br /><br /> -<span class="i0"><i>Ellas pan fema gynys</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>ancow sur yw dynythys</i><br /></span> -<span class="i4"><i>Scon thy’mmo vy</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>ny’m bus bywe na fella</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>an dour re wruk thy’m henna</i><br /></span> -<span class="i4"><i>yn pur deffry.</i><br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45">{45}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="sidenote">ANCIENT CORNISH</div> - -<h2><a name="The_Pool_of_Pilate2" id="The_Pool_of_Pilate2"></a>The Pool of Pilate.</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">[Wayfarer loq.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">It is best to me that it be so<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Go to wash my hands<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Immediately<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I will, here in the water,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That they may be white, and clean enough<br /></span> -<span class="i4">From dirt.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="c">[He washes his hands in the water and dies immediately.]</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Alas that I was born!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Death surely is come<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Soon to me.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Life is no longer for me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The water has done that to me<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Very clearly.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46">{46}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h2>Merlin the Diviner.</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Merlin! Merlin! where art thou going<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So early in the day, with thy black dog?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oi! oi! oi! ioi! oi!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I have come here to search the way,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To find the red egg;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The red egg of the marine serpent,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By the sea-side in the hollow of the stone.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I am going to seek in the valley<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The green water-cress, and the golden grass,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the top branch of the oak,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the wood by the side of the fountain.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Merlin! Merlin! retrace your steps;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Leave the branch on the oak,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the green water-cress in the valley,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As well as the golden grass;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And leave the red egg of the marine serpent,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the foam by the hollow of the stone.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Merlin! Merlin! retrace thy steps,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There is no diviner but God.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47">{47}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="sidenote">ANCIENT CORNISH DRAMA</div> - -<h2><a name="The_Vision_of_Seth" id="The_Vision_of_Seth"></a>The Vision of Seth.</h2> - -<p>[Adam bids Seth journey to the Gate of Paradise—the way to be known to -him because of the burnt imprints of the feet of himself and Eve on the -day they were driven forth, sere marks never grass-grown since—and, -after telling him to ask for the oil of mercy, blesses him, and sees him -go.]</p> - -<p> </p> -<p class="cnid">CHERUBIN.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Seth, what is thy errand,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That thou wouldst come so long a way?<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Tell me soon.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p> </p> -<p class="cnid">SETH.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O angel, I will tell thee:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My father is old and weary,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">He would not wish to live longer;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And through me he prayed thee<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To tell the truth<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of the oil promised to him<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of mercy in the last day.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p> </p> -<p class="cnid">CHERUBIN.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Within the gate put thy head,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And behold it all, nor fear,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Whatever thou seest,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And look on all sides;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Examine well every particular;<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Search out everything diligently.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p> </p> -<p class="cnid">SETH.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Very joyfully I will do it;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I am glad to have permission<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To know what is there,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To tell it to my father.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48">{48}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p class="c">[And he looks, and turns round, saying:—]</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Fair field is this;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Unhappy he who lost the country:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the tree, it is to me<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A great wonder that it is dry;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But I believe that it is dry,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all made bare, for the sin<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Which my father and mother sinned.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like the prints of their feet,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They are all dry, like herbs.<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Alas, that the morsel was eaten.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p> </p> -<p class="cnid">CHERUBIN.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O Seth, thou art come<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Within the Gate of Paradise;<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Tell me what thou sawest.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p> </p> -<p class="cnid">SETH.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">All the beauty that I saw<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The tongue of no man in the world can<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Tell it ever.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of good fruit, and fair flowers,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Minstrels and sweet song,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">A fountain bright as silver;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And four springs, large indeed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Flowing from it,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">That there is a desire to look at them.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In it there is a tree,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">High with many boughs;<br /></span> -<span class="i4">But they are all bare, without leaves.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And around it, bark<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There was none, from the stem to the head<br /></span> -<span class="i4">All its boughs are bare.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And at the bottom, when I looked,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I saw its roots<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Even into hell descending,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In the midst of great darkness.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49">{49}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">And its branches growing up,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Even to heaven high in light;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And it was without bark altogether,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Both the head and the boughs.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p> </p> -<p class="cnid">CHERUBIN.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Look yet again within,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all else thou shalt see<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Before thou come from it.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p> </p> -<p class="cnid">SETH.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I am happy that I have permission;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I will go to the gate immediately,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">That I may see further good.<br /></span> - -<span class="i6">[He goes, and looks, and returns.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p> </p> -<p class="cnid">CHERUBIN.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Dost thou see more now,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Than what there was just now?<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p> </p> -<p class="cnid">SETH.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There is a serpent in the tree;<br /></span> -<span class="i4">An ugly beast, without fail.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p> </p> -<p class="cnid">CHERUBIN.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Go yet a third time to it,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And look better at the tree.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Look, what you can see in it,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Besides roots and branches.<br /></span> - -<span class="i6">[Again he goes up.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p> </p> -<p class="cnid">SETH.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Cherub, angel of the God of grace,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the tree I saw,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">High up on the branches,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A little child newly born;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And he was swathed in cloths,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">And bound fast with napkins.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50">{50}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p> </p> -<p class="cnid">CHERUBIN.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The Son of God it was whom thou sawest,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like a little child swathed.<br /></span> -<span class="i4">He will redeem Adam, thy father,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With his flesh and blood too,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the time is come,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">And thy mother, and all the good people.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He is the oil of mercy,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Which was promised to thy father;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through his death, clearly,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">All the world will be saved.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p> </p> -<p class="cnid">SETH.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Blessed be he:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">O God, now I am happy;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Knowing the truth all plainly,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I will go from thee.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p> </p> -<p class="cnid">CHERUBIN.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Take three kernels of the apple,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Which Adam, thy father, ate.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When he dies, put them, without fail,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Between his teeth and tongue.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From them thou wilt see<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Three trees grow presently;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For he will not live more than three days<br /></span> -<span class="i2">After thou reachest home.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p> </p> -<p class="cnid">SETH.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Blessed be thou every day;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I honour thee ever very truly:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My father will be very joyful,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">If he soon passes from life.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51">{51}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h2>III<br /><br /> -ANCIENT ARMORICAN<br /><br /> -(Breton)</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52">{52}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53">{53}</a></span> </p> - -<div class="sidenote">ANCIENT BRETON</div> - -<h3>The Dance of the Sword.<br /><br /> -(Ha Korol ar C’Hleze.)</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Blood, wine, and glee,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sun, to thee,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Blood, wine, and glee!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Fire! fire! steel, Oh! steel!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Fire, fire! steel and fire!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Oak! oak, earth, and waves!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Waves, oak, earth and oak!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Glee of dance and song,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And battle-throng,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Battle, dance, and song!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Fire! fire! steel, etc.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Let the sword blades swing<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In a ring,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Let the sword blades swing!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Fire! fire! steel, etc.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Song of the blue steel,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Death to feel,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Song of the blue steel!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Fire! fire! steel, etc.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Fight, whereof the sword<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Is the Lord,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fight of the fell sword!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Fire! fire! steel, etc.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sword, thou mighty king<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of battle’s ring,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sword thou mighty king!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Fire! fire! steel, etc.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54">{54}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">With the rainbow’s light<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Be thou bright,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With the rainbow’s light!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Fire! fire! steel, Oh! steel!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Fire, fire! steel and fire!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Oak! oak, earth and waves!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Waves, oak, earth, and oak!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55">{55}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="sidenote">ANCIENT BRETON</div> - -<h3>The Lord Nann and the Fairy.<br /><br /> -(Aotron Nann Hag ar Gorrigan.)</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The good Lord Nann and his fair bride<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Were young when wedlock’s knot was tied—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Were young when death did them divide.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But yesterday that lady fair<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Two babes as white as snow did bear;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A man-child and a girl they were.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“Now, say what is thy heart’s desire,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For making me a man-child’s sire?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Tis thine, whate’er thou may’st require,—<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“What food soe’er thee lists to take,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Meat of the woodcock from the lake,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Meat of the wild deer from the brake.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“Oh, the meat of the deer is dainty food!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To eat thereof would do me good,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But I grudge to send thee to the wood.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The Lord of Nann, when this he heard,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hath gripp’d his oak spear with never a word;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His bonny black horse he hath leap’d upon,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And forth to the greenwood hath he gone.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">By the skirts of the wood as he did go,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He was ware of a hind as white as snow.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Oh, fast she ran, and fast he rode,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That the earth it shook where his horse-hoofs trode.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Oh, fast he rode, and fast she ran,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That the sweat to drop from his brow began—<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">That the sweat on his horse’s flank stood white;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So he rode and rode till the fall o’ the night.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56">{56}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When he came to a stream that fed a lawn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hard by the grot of a Corrigaun.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The grass grew thick by the streamlet’s brink,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And he lighted down off his horse to drink.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The Corrigaun sat by the fountain fair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A-combing her long and yellow hair.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A-combing her hair with a comb of gold,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">(Not poor, I trow, are those maidens cold).—<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“Now who’s the bold wight that dares come here<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To trouble my fairy fountain clear?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“Either thou straight shall wed with me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or pine for four long years and three;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or dead in three days’ space shall be.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“I will not wed with thee, I ween,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For wedded man a year I’ve been;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“Nor yet for seven years will I pine,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor die in three days for spell of thine;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“For spell of thine I will not die,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But when it pleaseth God on high.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“But here, and now, I’d leave my life,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ere take a Corrigaun to wife.<br /></span> -<span class="idtts">. . . . . . . . . . <br /></span> -<span class="iq">“O mother, mother! for love of me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Now make my bed, and speedily,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For I am sick as a man can be.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“Oh, never the tale to my lady tell;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Three days and ye’ll hear my passing bell;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Corrigaun hath cast her spell.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Three days they pass’d, three days were sped,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To her mother-in-law the ladye said;<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57">{57}</a></span></div> - -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“Now tell me, madam, now tell me, pray,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wherefore the death-bells toll to-day?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“Why chaunt the priests in the street below,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All clad in their vestments white as snow?”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“A strange poor man, who harbour’d here,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He died last night, my daughter dear.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“But tell me, madam, my lord, your son—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My husband—whither is he gone?”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“But to the town, my child, he’s gone;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And at your side he’ll be back anon.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“What gown for my churching were’t best to wear,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My gown of grain, or of watchet fair?”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“The fashion of late, my child, hath grown,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That women for churching black should don.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">As through the churchyard porch she stept,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She saw the grave where her husband slept.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“Who of our blood is lately dead,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That our ground is new raked and spread?”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“The truth I may no more forbear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My son—your own poor lord—lies there!”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She threw herself on her knees amain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And from her knees ne’er rose again.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">That night they laid her, dead and cold,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beside her lord, beneath the mould;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When, lo!—a marvel to behold!—<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Next morn from the grave two oak-trees fair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shot lusty boughs high up in air;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And in their boughs—oh wondrous sight!—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Two happy doves, all snowy white—<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">That sang, as ever the morn did rise,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And then flew up—into the skies!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58">{58}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Alain the Fox.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The bearded fox is yelping, yelp, yelping through the glades;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Woe to the foreign rabbits! His eyes are two keen blades.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">His teeth are keen; his feet are swift; his nails are red with blood.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Alain the fox is yelping war: yelp, yelping in the wood.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The Bretons making sharp their arms of terror I did see,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It was on cuirasses of Gaul, not stones of Brittany.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The Bretons reaping did I see, upon the fields of war;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It was not notched reaping-hooks, but swords of steel they bore.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They reapt no wheat of our own land, they reaped not our rye;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But the beardless ears, the beardless ears of Gaul and Saxony.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I saw upon the threshing-floor the Bretons threshing corn:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I saw the beaten chaff fly out from beardless ears off-torn.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">It was not with their wooden flails the Bretons thresht the wheat;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But with their iron boar-spears and with their horses’ feet.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I heard the cry when threshing’s done, the joy-cry onward borne<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Far, far from Mont-Saint-Michel to the valleys of Elorn:<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">From the abbey of Saint Gildas far on to the Land’s-End rocks.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In Brittany’s four corners give a glory to the Fox!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59">{59}</a></span></div> -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">From age to age give glory to the Fox a thousand times!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But weep ye for the rhymer, though he recollect his rhymes!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">For he that sang this song the first since then hath never sung:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ah me, alas! Unhappy man! The Gauls cut out his tongue.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But though no more he hath a tongue, a heart is always his:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He has both hand and heart to shoot his arrowy melodies.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60">{60}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Bran.<br /><br /> -(The Crow.)</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">Wounded full sore is Bran the knight;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For he was at Kerloan fight;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">At Kerloan fight, by wild seashore<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was Bran-Vor’s grandson wounded sore;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And, though we gained the victory,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was captive borne beyond the sea.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">He when he came beyond the sea,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the close keep wept bitterly.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“They leap at home with joyous cry<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While, woe is me, in bed I lie.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Could I but find a messenger,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who to my mother news would bear!”<br /></span> -<span class="i2">They quickly found a messenger;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His best thus gave the warrior:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“Heed thou to dress in other guise,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My messenger, dress beggar-wise!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Take thou my ring, my ring of gold,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That she thy news as truth may hold!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Unto my country straightway go,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It to my lady mother show!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Should she come free her son from hold,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A flag of white do thou unfold!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But if with thee she come not back,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Unfurl, ah me, a pennon black!”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">So, when to Leon-land he came,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">At supper table sat the dame,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">At table with her family,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The harpers playing as should be.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“Dame of the castle, hail! I bring<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From Bran your son this golden ring,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">His golden ring and letter too;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Read it, oh read it, straightway through!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61">{61}</a></span>”<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“Ye harpers, cease ye, play no more,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For with great grief my heart is sore!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My son (cease harpers, play no more!)<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In prison, and I did not know!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Prepare to-night a ship for me!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To-morrow I go across the sea.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">The morning of the next, next day<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Lord Bran question’d, as he lay:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“Sentinel, sentinel, soothly say!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Seest thou no vessel on its way?”<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“My lord the knight, I nought espy<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Except the great sea and the sky.”<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The Lord Bran askt him yet once more,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whenas the day’s course half was o’er;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“Sentinel, sentinel, soothly say!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Seest thou no vessel on its way?”<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“I can see nothing, my lord the knight,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Except the sea-birds i’ their flight.”<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The Lord Bran askt him yet again,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whenas the day was on the wane;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“Sentinel, sentinel, soothly say!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Seest thou no vessel on its way?”<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Then that false sentinel, the while<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Smiling a mischief-working smile;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“I see afar a misty form—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A ship sore beaten by the storm.”<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“The flag? Quick give the answer back!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The banner? Is it white or black?”<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“Far as I see, ’tis black, Sir knight,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I swear it by the coal’s red light.”<br /></span> -<span class="i2">When this the sorrowing knight had heard<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Again he never spoke a word;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But turn’d aside his visage wan;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And then the fever fit began.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">Now of the townsmen askt the dame,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When at the last to shore she came,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62">{62}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i2">“What is the news here, townsmen, tell!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That thus I hear them toll the bell?”<br /></span> -<span class="i2">An aged man the lady heard,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And thus he answer’d to her word:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“We in the prison held a knight;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And he hath died here in the night.”<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Scarcely to end his words were brought,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the high tower that lady sought;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Shedding salt tears and running fast,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her white hair scatter’d in the blast,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">So that the townsmen wonderingly<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Full sorely marvell’d her to see;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Whenas they saw a lady strange,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through their streets so sadly range<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Each one in thought did musing stand;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Who is the lady, from what land?”<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Soon as the donjon’s foot she reacht,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The porter that poor dame beseecht;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“Ope, quickly ope, the gate for me!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My son! My son! Him would I see!”<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Slowly the great gate open drew;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Herself upon her son she threw,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Close in her arms his corpse to strain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The lady never rose again.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">There is a tree, that doth look o’er<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From Kerloan’s battle-field to th’ shore;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">An oak. Before great Evan’s face<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Saxons fled in that same place.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Upon that oak in clear moonlight,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Together come the birds at night;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Black birds and white, but sea birds all;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On each one’s brow a blood-stain small,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With them a raven gray and old;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With her a crow comes young and bold.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Both with soil’d wings, both wearied are;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They come beyond the seas from far:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63">{63}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i2">And the birds sing so lovelily<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That silence comes on the great sea.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">All sing in concert sweet and low<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Except the raven and the crow.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Once was the crow heard murmuring:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Sing, little birds, ye well may sing!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sing, for this is your own countrie!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ye died not far from Brittany!”<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65">{65}</a></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64">{64}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>IV<br /><br /> -EARLY CYMRIC AND MEDIÆVAL WELSH<br /><br /> -</h3> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66">{66}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67">{67}</a></span> </p> - -<h3>The Soul.<br /> -(From “The Black Book of Caermarthen.”)</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">EARLY CYMRIC</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Soul, since I was made in necessity blameless<br /></span> -<span class="i0">True it is, woe is me that thou shouldst have come to my design,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Neither for my own sake, nor for death, nor for end, nor for beginning.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It was with seven faculties that I was thus blessed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With seven created beings I was placed for purification;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I was gleaming fire when I was caused to exist;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I was dust of the earth, and grief could not reach me;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I was a high wind, being less evil than good;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I was a mist on a mountain seeking supplies of stags;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I was blossoms of trees on the face of the earth.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If the Lord had blessed me, He would have placed me on matter.<br /></span><br /> -<span class="i12">Soul, since I was made——<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68">{68}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="sidenote">LLYWARC’H HEN</div> - -<h3>The Gorwynion.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The tops of the ash glisten, that are white and stately,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When growing on the top of the dingle:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The breast rackt with pain, longing is its complaint.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Brightly glitters the top of the cliff at the long midnight hour;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Every ingenious person will be honoured:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Tis the duty of the fair, to afford sleep to him that is in pain.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Brightly glistens the willow tops; the fish are merry in the lakes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Blustering is the wind over the tops of the small branches:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nature over learning doth prevail.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Brightly glisten the tops of the furze; have confidence with the wise,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But from the unwise tear thyself afar;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Besides God there is none that sees futurity.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Brightly glisten the clover tops: the timid has no heart;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wearied out are the jealous ones:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Cares attend the weak.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Brightly glisten the tops of reed-grass; furious is the jealous,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If any should perchance offend him:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Tis the maxim of the prudent to love with sincerity.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Brightly glare the tops of the mountains from the blustering of winter,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Full are the stalks of reeds; heavy is oppression:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Against famine bashfulness will vanish.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Brightly glare the tops of mountains assail’d by winter cold;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Brittle are the reeds; the mead is incrusted over;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Playful is the heedless in banishment.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69">{69}</a></span></div> -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Bright are the tops of the oaks, bitter are the ash branches;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Before the duck, the dividing waves are seen:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Confident is deceit; care is deeply rooted in my heart.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Brightly glisten the tops of the oaks, bitter are the ash branches;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sweet is the sheltering hedge; the wave is a noisy grinner;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The cheek cannot conceal the trouble of the heart.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Bright is the top of the eglantine; hardship dispenses with forms,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Let everyone keep his fire-side:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The greatest blemish is ill-manners.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Brightly glitters the top of the broom; may the lover have a home;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Very yellow seem the clustered branches;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shallow is the ford; sleep visits the contented mind.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Brightly glitters the top of the apple-tree; the prosperous is circumspect.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the long day the stagnant pool is warm;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thick is the veil on the light of the blind prisoner.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Very glittering are the hazel-tops by the hill of Dig;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Every prudent one will be free from harm;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Tis the act of the mighty to keep a treaty.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Glittering are the tops of the reeds; the fat are drowsy<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the young imbibe instruction;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">None but the foolish will break faith.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Glittering is the top of the lily; let every bold one be a drinker;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The word of a tribe is superior;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Tis usual for the unjust to break his word.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70">{70}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Bright are the tops of heath; miscarriage attends the timid;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Boldly laves the water on its banks.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tis the maxim of the just to keep his word.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The tops of the rushes glitter; the kine are gentle;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Running are my tears this day,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Social comfort from man there is not.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Glittering are the tops of fern, yellow is the wild marygold;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The sea is a fence for blind ones:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Swift and active are the young men.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Glittering are the tops of the service-tree; care attends the old;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The bees frequent the wilds;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Vengeance only to God belongs.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Brightly glitters the tops of the oak; incessant is the tempest;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The bees are high in their flight, brittle is the charr’d brushwood,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The wanton is apt to laugh too frequently.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The hazel grove brightly glitters, even and uniform seem the brakes;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And with leaves the oaks envelop themselves;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Happy is he who sees the one he loves!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Glittering seems the top of the oak; coolly purls the stream;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I wish to obtain the top of the birchen grove;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Abruptly goes the arrow of the haughty to give pain.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Brightly glitters the top of the hard holly, that opens its golden leaves;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When all are asleep on the surrounding walls,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">God slumbers not when He means to give deliverance.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71">{71}</a></span></div> -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Glittering are the tops of the willows, brittle and tender;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the long day of summer the war-horse flags,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Those that have mutual friendships will not offend.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Glittering are the tops of rushes, the stems are full of prickles;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When drawn under the pillow;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The wanton mind will be haughty.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Bright is the top of the hawthorn; confident is the fight of the steed;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It behoves the dependant to be grateful;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">May it be good what the speedy messenger brings.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Glittering are the tops of cresses; warlike is the steed;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Trees are fair ornaments of the ground;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Joyful is the soul with the one it loves.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Brightly glares the top of the bush, valuable is the steed;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Reason joined with strength is effectual;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Let the unskilful be void of strength.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Glittering are the tops of the brakes, birds are their fair jewels;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The long day is the gift of the radiant light,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mercy was formed by God, the most beneficent.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Glittering are the elmwood tops, sweet the music of the grove;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Boisterous among the trees the wind doth whistle;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Interceding with the obdurate will not avail.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Glittering are the tops of elder-trees; bold is the solitary songster;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Accustomed is the violent to oppress;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By want of care the food in hand may be lost.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72">{72}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Tercets of Llywarc’h.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Entangling is the snare, clustered is the ash;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The ducks are in the pond; white breaks the wave;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">More powerful than a hundred is the counsel of the heart.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Long the night, boisterous is the sea-shore;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Usual a tumult in a congregation;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The vicious will not agree with the good.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Long the night, boisterous is the mountain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The wind whistles over the tops of trees;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ill-nature will not deceive the discreet.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The saplings of the green-topped birch<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Will extricate my foot from the shackle;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Disclose not thy secret to a youth.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The saplings of oaks in the grove<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Will extricate my foot from the chain;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Disclose no secret to a maid.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The saplings of the leafy oaks<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Will extricate my foot from the prison;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Divulge no secret to a babbler.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The saplings of bramble have berries on them;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The thrush is on her nest;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The liar will never be silent.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Rain without, the fern is drenched;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">White the gravel of the sea; there is spray on the margin;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Reason is the fairest lamp for man.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Rain without, near is the shelter,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The furze yellow; the cow-parsnip withered and dry;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">God the Creator! why hast thou made me a coward?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Rain without, my hair is drenched;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Full of complaint is the feeble; steep the cliff;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pale white is the sea; salt is the brine.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Rain without, the ocean is drenched;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The wind whistles over the tops of the reeds;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">After every feat, still without the genius.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73">{73}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Song to the Wind.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">TALIESIN</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Discover thou what is<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The strong creature from before the flood,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Without flesh, without bone,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Without vein, without blood,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Without head, without feet;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It will neither be older nor younger<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Than at the beginning;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For fear of a denial,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">These are no rude wants<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With creatures.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Great God! how the sea whitens<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When first it comes!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Great are its gusts<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When it comes from the south;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Great are its evaporations<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When it strikes on coasts.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It is in the field, it is in the wood,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Without hand and without foot,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Without signs of old age,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Though it be co-eval<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With the five ages or periods;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And older still,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Though they be numberless years.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It is also so wide;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As the surface of the earth;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And it was not born,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor was it seen.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It will cause consternation<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wherever God willeth.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On sea, and on land,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It neither sees, nor is seen.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Its course is devious,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And will not come when desired<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On land and on sea<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It is indispensable.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74">{74}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">It is without an equal,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It is four-sided;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It is not confined,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It is incomparable;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It comes from four quarters;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It will not be advised,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It will not be without advice.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It commences its journey<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Above the marble rock.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It is sonorous, it is dumb,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It is mild,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It is strong, it is bold,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When it glances over the land.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It is silent, it is vocal,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It is clamorous,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It is the most noisy<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the face of the earth.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It is good, it is bad,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It is extremely injurious.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It is concealed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Because sight cannot perceive it.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It is noxious, it is beneficial;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It is yonder, it is here;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It will discompose,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But will not repair the injury;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It will not suffer for its doings,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Seeing it is blameless.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It is wet, it is dry,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It frequently comes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Proceeding from the heat of the sun,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the coldness of the moon.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The moon is less beneficial,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Inasmuch as her heat is less.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">One Being has prepared it,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Out of all creatures,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By a tremendous blast,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To wreak vengeance<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On Maelgwn Gwynedd.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75">{75}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Odes of the Months.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">ANEURIN</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Month of January—smoky is the vale;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Weary the wine-bearer; strolling the minstrel;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lean the cow; seldom the hum of the bee;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Empty the milking fold; void of meat the kiln;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Slender the horse; very silent the bird;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Long to the early dawn; short the afternoon;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Justly spoke Cynfelyn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Prudence is the best guide for man.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Month of February—scarce are the dainties;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wakeful the adder to generate its poison;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Habitual is reproach from frequent acknowledgment;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The hired ox has not skill to complain;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Three things produce dreadful evils,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A woman’s counsel, murder, and way-laying;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Best is the dog upon a morning in spring;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Alas! to him who murders his maid!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Month of March—great is the forwardness of the birds,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Severe is the cold wind upon the headlands;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Serene weather will be longer than the crops;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Longer continues anger than grief;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Every one feels dread;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Every bird wings to its mate.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Every thing springs through the earth;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But the dead, strong is his prison!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Month of April—aerial is the horizon;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fatigued the oxen; bare the land;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Common is the visitor without an invitation;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Poor the deer; blithesome the hare;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Everyone claims his labour;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Happy his state who governs himself;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Common is separation with virtuous children;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Common, after presumption, is a long cessation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76">{76}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Month of May—wanton is the lascivious;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sheltering the ditch to everyone who loves it;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Joyous the aged in his robes;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Loquacious the cuckoo in the rural vales;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Easy is society where there is affection;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Covered with foliage are the woods, sportive the amorous,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There comes as often to the market,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The skin of the lamb as the skin of the sheep.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Month of June—beautiful are the fields;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Smooth the sea, pleasing the strand;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beautifully long the day, playful the ladies;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Full the flocks, apt to be firm the bog;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">God loves all tranquillity;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The devil loves all mischief;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Every one covets honour;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Every mighty one, feeble his end.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Month of July—the hay is apt to smoke;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ardent the heat, dissolved the snow;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The vagrant does not love a long confederacy;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There is no success to the progeny of an unchaste person;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bare the farm-yard—partly empty the circular eminence;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Clean the perfect person, disgraceful the boasting word;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Justly spoke the foster-son of Mary,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“God judges, though man may prate.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Month of August—covered with foam is the beach;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Blithesome the bee, full the hive;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Better the work of the sickle than the bow;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fuller the stack than the theatre.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He that will neither work nor pray,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is not worthy to have bread;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Justly spoke Saint Breda,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Evil will not be approached less than good.”<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77">{77}</a></span></div> -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Month of September—benign are the planets;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tending to please, the sea and the hamlet;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Common is it for steeds and men to be fatigued;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Common is it to possess all kinds of fruit:—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A princely girl was born,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To be our leader from painful slavery;—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Justly spake Saint Berned,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“God does not sleep when he gives deliverance.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Month of October—penetrable is the shelter;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yellow the tops of the birch, solitary the summer dwelling;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Full of fat the birds and the fish;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Less and less the milk of the cow and the goat;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Alas! to him who merits disgrace by sin!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Death is better than frequent extravagance;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Three things follow every crime,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fasting, prayer, and charity.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Month of November—very fat are the swine;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Let the shepherd go; let the minstrel come;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bloody the blade, full the barn;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pleased the sea, tasteless the caldron;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Long the night, active the prisoner;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Respected is every one who possesses property;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For three things men are not often concerned,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sorrow, angry look, and an illiberal miser.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Month of December—the shoe is covered with dirt:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Heavy the land, flagging the sun;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bare are the trees, still is the muscle;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Cheerful the cock, and determined the thief;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whilst the twelve months proceed so sprightly,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Round the youthful mind, is the spoiler Satan;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Justly spoke Yscolan,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“God is better than an evil prophecy.”<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78">{78}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Summer.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Thou Summer! father of delight,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With thy dense spray and thickets deep;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gemm’d monarch, with thy rapt’rous light.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rousing thy subject glens from sleep!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Proud has thy march of triumph been,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou prophet, prince of forest green!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Artificer of wood and tree,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou painter of unrivalled skill,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who ever scatters gems like thee,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And gorgeous webs on park and hill?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till vale and hill with radiant dyes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Become another Paradise!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And thou hast sprinkled leaves and flow’rs,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And goodly chains of leafy bow’rs;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And bid thy youthful warblers sing<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On oak and knoll, the song of spring,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And black-birds’ note of ecstacy<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Burst loudly from the woodbine tree,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till all the world is thronged with gladness—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her multitudes have done with sadness!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O Summer! do I ask in vain?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thus in thy glory wilt thou deign<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My messenger to be?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hence from the bowels of the land<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of wild, wild Gwyneth to the strand<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of fair Glamorgan—ocean’s band—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sweet margin of the sea!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To dear Glamorgan, when we part,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh bear a thousand times my heart!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My blessing give a thousand times,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And crown with joy her glowing climes?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Take on her lovely vales thy stand,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And tread and trample round the land,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The beauteous shore whose harvest lies<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All sheltered from inclement skies.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79">{79}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Radiant with corn and vineyards sweet,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The lakes of fish and mansions neat,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With halls of stone where kindness dwells,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And where each hospitable lord<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Heaps for the stranger guest his board!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And where the generous wine cup swells;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With trees that bear a luscious pear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So thickly clustering everywhere,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That the fair country of my love<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Looks dense as one continuous grove!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her lofty woods with warblers teem,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her fields with flow’rs that love the stream;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her valleys varied crops display,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Eight kinds of corn, and three of hay;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bright parlour, with her trefoiled floor!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sweet garden, spread on ocean’s shore!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Glamorgan’s bounteous knights award<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bright mead and burnished gold to me:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Glamorgan boasts of many a bard,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Well skilled in harp and vocal glee:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The districts round her border spread<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From her have drawn their daily bread—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her milk, her meat, her varied stores,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Have been the life of distant shores!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And court and hamlet food have found<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From the rich soil of Britain’s southern bound.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And wilt thou then obey my power,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou Summer, in thy brightest hour?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To her thy glorious hues unfold<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In one rich embassy of gold!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her morns with bliss and splendour light,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And fondly kiss her mansions white;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fling wealth and verdure o’er her bow’rs!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And for her gather all thy flow’rs!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Glance o’er her castles, white with lime,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With genial glimmerings sublime;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Plant on the verdant coast thy feet,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80">{80}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her lofty hills, her woodlands greet.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh! lavish blossoms with thy hand<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O’er all the forests of the land;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And let thy gifts like floods descending,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O’er every hill and glen be blending;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Let orchard, garden, vine express<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy fulness and thy fruitfulness—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O’er all the land of beauty fling<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The costly traces of thy wing!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And thus ’mid all thy radiant flowers,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy thickening leaves and glossy bowers,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The poet’s task shall be to glean<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Roses and flowers that softly bloom<br /></span> -<span class="i0">(The jewel of the forest’s gloom!),<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And trefoils wove in pavement green,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With sad humility to grace<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His golden Ivor’s resting-place.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81">{81}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>To the Lark.<br /><br /> -T’R Ehedydd.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">DAVYDD AB GWILYM</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sentinel of the morning light!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Reveller of the spring!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How sweetly, nobly wild thy flight,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Thy boundless journeying:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Far from thy brethren of the woods, alone,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A hermit chorister before God’s throne!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Oh! wilt thou climb yon heavens for me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yon rampart’s starry height,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou interlude of melody<br /></span> -<span class="i4">’Twixt darkness and the light,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And seek with heav’n’s first dawn upon thy crest,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My lady love, the moonbeam of the west?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">No woodland caroller art thou;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Far from the archer’s eye,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy course is o’er the mountain’s brow,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Thy music in the sky:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then fearless float thy path of cloud along,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou earthly denizen of angel song.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82">{82}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>To the Fox.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The wretch my starry bird who slew,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beast of the flameless ember hue,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Assassin, glutton of the night,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mixed of all creatures that defile,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Land lobster, fugitive of light,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou coward mountain crocodile;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With downcast eye and ragged tail,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That haunt’st the hollow rocks,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thief, ever ready to assail<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The undefended flocks,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy brass-hued breast and tattered locks<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shall not protect thee from the hound,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When with unbaffled eye he mocks<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy mazy fortress underground,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whilst o’er my peacock’s shattered plumes shall shine<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A pretty bower of faery eglantine.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83">{83}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Song of the Thrush.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">RYHS GOCH</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I was on the margin of a plain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Under a wide spreading tree,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hearing the song<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of the wild birds;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Listening to the language<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of the thrush cock,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who from the wood of the valley<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Composed a verse—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From the wood of the steep,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He sang exquisitely.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Speckled was his breast<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Amongst the green leaves,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As upon branches<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of a thousand blossoms<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the bank of a brook,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All heard<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With the dawn the song,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like a silver bell;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Performing a sacrifice,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Until the hour of forenoon;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Upon the green altar<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ministering Bardism.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From the branches of the hazel<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of green broad leaves<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He sings an ode<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To God the Creator;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With a carol of love<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From the green glade,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To all in the hollow<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of the glen, who love him;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Balm of the heart<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To those who love.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I had from his beak<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The voice of inspiration,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A song of metres<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84">{84}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">That gratified me;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Glad was I made<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By his minstrelsy.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then respectfully<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Uttered I an address<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From the stream of the valley<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the bird.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I requested urgently<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His undertaking a message<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the fair one<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where dwells my affection.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gone is the bard of the leaves<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From the small twigs<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the second Lunet,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The sun of the maidens!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the streams of the plain<br /></span> -<span class="i0">St Mary prosper him,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To bring to me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Under the green woods<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The hue of the snow of one night,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Without delay.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85">{85}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>PART II</h3> - -<h3>I<br /><br /> -IRISH<br /><br /> -(Modern and Contemporary)<br /><br /> -</h3> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86">{86}</a></span> </p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87">{87}</a></span> </p> - -<h3>Sacrifice.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">“A. E.”</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Those delicate wanderers,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The wind, the star, the cloud,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ever before mine eyes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As to an altar bowed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Light and dew-laden airs<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Offer in sacrifice.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The offerings arise:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hazes of rainbow light,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pure crystal, blue, and gold,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through dreamland take their flight;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And ’mid the sacrifice<br /></span> -<span class="i0">God moveth as of old.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In miracles of fire<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He symbols forth His days,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In gleams of crystal light<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Reveals what pure pathways<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lead to the soul’s desire,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The silence of the height.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88">{88}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Great Breath.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Its edges foamed with amethyst and rose,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Withers once more the old blue flower of day:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There where the ether like a diamond glows<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Its petals fade away.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The great deep thrills, for through it everywhere<br /></span> -<span class="i4">The breath of Beauty blows.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I saw how all the trembling ages past,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Neared to the hour when Beauty breathes her last<br /></span> -<span class="i4">And knows herself in death.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89">{89}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Mystery.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">“A. E”</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Why does this sudden passion smite me?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I stretch my hands all blind to see:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I need the lamp of the world to light me,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Lead me and set me free.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Something a moment seemed to stoop from<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The night with cool cool breath on my face:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or did the hair of the twilight droop from<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Its silent wandering ways?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">About me in the thick wood netted<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The wizard glow looks human-wise;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And over the tree-tops barred and fretted<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Ponders with strange old eyes.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The tremulous lips of air blow by me<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And hymn their time-old melody:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Its secret strain comes nigh and nigh me:<br /></span> -<span class="i4">“Ah, brother, come with me;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“For here the ancient mother lingers<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To dip her hands in the diamond dew,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And lave thine ache with cloud-cool fingers<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Till sorrow die from you.”<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90">{90}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>By the Margin of the Great Deep.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When the breath of twilight blows to flame the misty skies,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All its vaporous sapphire, violet glow and silver gleam,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With their magic flood me through the gateway of the eyes;<br /></span> -<span class="i4">I am one with the twilight’s dream.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When the trees and skies and fields are one in dusky mood,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Every heart of man is rapt within the mother’s breast:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Full of peace and sleep and dreams in the vasty quietude,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">I am one with their hearts at rest.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">From our immemorial joys of hearth and home and love<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Strayed away along the margin of the unknown tide,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All its reach of soundless calm can thrill me far above<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Word or touch from the lips beside.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Aye, and deep and deep and deeper let me drink and draw<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From the olden fountain more than light or peace or dream,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Such primeval being as o’erfills the heart with awe,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Growing one with its silent stream.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91">{91}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Breath of Light.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">“A. E.”</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">From the cool and dark-lipped furrows breathes a dim delight<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through the woodland’s purple plumage to the diamond night.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Aureoles of joy encircle every blade of grass<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the dew-fed creatures silent and enraptured pass:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the restless ploughman pauses, turns, and wondering<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Deep beneath his rustic habit finds himself a king;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For a fiery moment looking with the eyes of God<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Over fields a slave at morning bowed him to the sod.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Blind and dense with revelation every moment flies,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And unto the Mighty Mother, gay, eternal, rise<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All the hopes we hold, the gladness, dreams of things to be.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">One of all thy generations, Mother, hails to thee!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hail! and hail! and hail for ever: though I turn again<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From thy joy unto the human vestiture of pain.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I, thy child, who went forth radiant in the golden prime<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Find thee still the mother-hearted through my night in time;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Find in thee the old enchantment, there behind the veil<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the Gods my brothers linger, Hail! for ever, Hail!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92">{92}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Æolian Harp.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">WILLIAM ALLINGHAM</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O pale green sea,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With long pale purple clouds above—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What lies in me like weight of love?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What dies in me<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With utter grief, because there comes no sign<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through the sun-raying West, or the dim sea-line?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O salted air,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Blown round the rocky headlands chill—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What calls me there from cove and hill?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What calls me fair<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From Thee, the first-born of the youthful night?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or in the waves is coming through the dusk twilight?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O yellow Star,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Quivering upon the rippling tide—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sendest so far to one that sigh’d?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bendest thou, Star,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Above where shadows of the dead have rest<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And constant silence, with a message from the blest?<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93">{93}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Fairies.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">WILLIAM ALLINGHAM</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Up the airy mountain,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Down the rushy glen,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We daren’t go a-hunting<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For fear of little men;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wee folk, good folk,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Trooping all together;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Green jacket, red cap,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And white owl’s feather!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Down along the rocky shore<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Some make their home,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They live on crispy pancakes<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of yellow tide-foam;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Some in the reeds<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of the black mountain lake,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With frogs for their watch-dogs,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">All night awake.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">High on the hill-top<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The old king sits;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He is now so old and gray<br /></span> -<span class="i2">He’s nigh lost his wits.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With a bridge of white mist<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Columbkill he crosses,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On his stately journeys<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From Slieveleague to Rosses;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or going up with music<br /></span> -<span class="i2">On cold starry nights,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To sup with the Queen<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of the gay Northern Lights.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They stole little Bridget<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For seven years long;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When she came down again<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Her friends were all gone.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94">{94}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They took her lightly back,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Between the night and morrow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They thought that she was fast asleep,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But she was dead with sorrow.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They have kept her ever since<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Deep within the lake,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On a bed of flag-leaves,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Watching till she wake.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">By the craggy hill-side,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Through the mosses bare,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They have planted thorn-trees<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For pleasure here and there.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is any man so daring<br /></span> -<span class="i2">As dig up them in spite,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He shall find their sharpest thorns<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In his bed at night.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Up the airy mountain,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Down the rushy glen,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We daren’t go a-hunting<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For fear of little men;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wee folk, good folk,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Trouping all together;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Green jacket, red cap,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And white owl’s feather.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95">{95}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>To the Lianhaun Shee.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">THOMAS BOYD</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Where is thy lovely perilous abode?<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In what strange phantom-land<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Glimmer the fairy turrets whereto rode<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The ill-starred poet band?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Say, in the Isle of Youth hast thou thy home,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The sweetest singer there,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Stealing on wingëd steed across the foam<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Through the moonlit air?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And by the gloomy peaks of Erigal,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Haunted by storm and cloud,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wing past, and to thy lover there let fall<br /></span> -<span class="i2">His singing robe and shroud?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Or, where the mists of bluebell float beneath<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The red stems of the pine,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And sunbeams strike thro’ shadow, dost thou breathe<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The word that makes him thine?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Or, is thy palace entered thro’ some cliff<br /></span> -<span class="i2">When radiant tides are full,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And round thy lover’s wandering starlit skiff<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Coil in luxurious lull?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And would he, entering on the brimming flood,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">See caverns vast in height,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And diamond columns, crowned with leaf and bud,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Glow in long lanes of light.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And there the pearl of that great glittering shell<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Trembling, behold thee lone,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Now weaving in slow dance an awful spell,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Now still upon thy throne?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Thy beauty! ah, the eyes that pierce him thro’<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Then melt as in a dream;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The voice that sings the mysteries of the blue<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And all that Be and Seem!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96">{96}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Thy lovely motions answering to the rhyme<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That ancient Nature sings,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That keeps the stars in cadence for all time,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And echoes through all things!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Whether he sees thee thus, or in his dreams,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thy light makes all lights dim;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An aching solitude from henceforth seems<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The world of men to him.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Thy luring song, above the sensuous roar,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">He follows with delight,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shutting behind him Life’s last gloomy door,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And fares into the Night.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97">{97}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Remembrance.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">EMILY BRONTË</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Severed at last by Time’s all-severing wave?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Now, when alone, my thoughts no longer hover<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Over the mountains, on that northern shore,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thy noble heart for ever, ever more.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild Decembers,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From these brown hills, have melted into Spring!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers<br /></span> -<span class="i2">After such years of change and suffering!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">While the world’s tide is bearing me along;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Other desires and other hopes beset me,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">No later light has lighted up my heaven,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">No second morn has ever shone for me;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All my life’s bliss from thy dear life was given,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">All my life’s bliss is in the grave with thee.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And even despair was powerless to destroy;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then did I check the tears of useless passion—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Down to that tomb already more than mine.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">How could I seek the empty world again?<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98">{98}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Earth and Man.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">STOPFORD A. BROOKE</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A little sun, a little rain,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A soft wind blowing from the west—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And woods and fields are sweet again,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And warmth within the mountain’s breast.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">So simple is the earth we tread,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">So quick with love and life her frame,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ten thousand years have dawned and fled,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And still her magic is the same.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A little love, a little trust,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A soft impulse, a sudden dream—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And life as dry as desert dust<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Is fresher than a mountain stream.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">So simple is the heart of man<br /></span> -<span class="i2">So ready for new hope and joy;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ten thousand years since it began<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Have left it younger than a boy.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99">{99}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Song.<br /><br /> -(From “Six Days.”)</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">STOPFORD A. BROOKE</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Come, where on the moorland steep<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Silent sunlight dreams of sleep,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And in this high morning air<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Love me, my companion fair!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All the clouds that high in Heaven<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rest and rove from morn to even,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All the beauty that doth live<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By the winds—to thee I give.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">See below deep meadow lands,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Misty moors and shining sands,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And blue hills so far and dim<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They melt on the horizon’s rim.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O how fresh the air, and sweet,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And with what a footfall fleet<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O’er the grasses’ ebb and flow<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The light winds to the eastward go.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Noon is now with us. Farewell<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To this mountain citadel.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Come, and with your footing fine<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thread the scented paths of pine,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till we see the Druid carn<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shadowed in the haunted tarn.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There the water blue and deep<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lies, like wearied thought, asleep.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">While we watch, the storm awakes;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Flash on flash the ripple breaks,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Purple, with a snow-white crest,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the meadow’s golden breast.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Roods of tinkling sedge are kissed<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By the waves of amethyst:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Trouble knows the place, they say,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But we laugh at that to-day.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100">{100}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Onward to the glen below;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Every nook and turn we know<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the passion-haunted stream<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Laughs and lingers in its dream,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Making where its pebbles shine<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Naiad music, clear and fine,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But not sweeter than the song<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Love sings as we rove along.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">At the last the grassy seat,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where of old we used to meet,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Holds us in its close embrace.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hallowed ever be the place!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Here we kissed our hearts away<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In a lovers’ holiday!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shall I dream a greater bliss<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Than the memory of this?<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101">{101}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Maire, my Girl.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">JOHN K. CASEY</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Over the dim blue hills<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Strays a wild river,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Over the dim blue hills<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Rests my heart ever.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dearer and brighter than<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Jewels and pearl,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dwells she in beauty there,<br /></span> -<span class="i2"><span class="gesh">Maire</span>, my girl.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Down upon Claris heath<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Shines the soft berry,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the brown harvest tree<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Droops the red cherry.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sweeter thy honey lips,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Softer the curl<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Straying adown thy cheeks,<br /></span> -<span class="i2"><span class="gesh">Maire</span>, my girl.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Twas on an April eve<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That I first met her;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Many an eve shall pass<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Ere I forget her.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Since, my young heart has been<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Wrapped in a whirl,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thinking and dreaming of<br /></span> -<span class="i2"><span class="gesh">Maire</span>, my girl.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She is too kind and fond<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Ever to grieve me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She has too pure a heart<br /></span> -<span class="i2">E’er to deceive me.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Were I Tryconnell’s chief<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Or Desmond’s earl,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Life would be dark, wanting<br /></span> -<span class="i2"><span class="gesh">Maire</span>, my girl!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102">{102}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Over the dim blue hills<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Strays a wild river,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Over the dim blue hills<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Rests my heart ever.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dearer and brighter than<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Jewels or pearl,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dwells she in beauty there,<br /></span> -<span class="i2"><span class="gesh">Maire</span>, my girl.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103">{103}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Gracie Og Machree.<a name="FNanchor_13_13" id="FNanchor_13_13"></a><a href="#Footnote_13_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a><br /><br /> -(Song of the “Wild Geese.”)</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">JOHN K. CASEY</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I placed the silver in her palm,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">By Inny’s smiling tide,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And vowed, ere summer time came on,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To claim her as a bride.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But when the summer time came on<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I dwelt beyond the sea;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet still my heart is ever true<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To <span class="gesh">Gracie Og Machree</span>.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O bonnie are the woods of Targ,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And green thy hills, Rathmore,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And soft the sunlight ever falls<br /></span> -<span class="i2">On Darre’s sloping shore;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And there the eyes I love—in tears<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Shine ever mournfully,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While I am far, and far away<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From <span class="gesh">Gracie Og Machree</span>.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When battle-steeds were neighing loud,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With bright blades in the air,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Next to my inmost heart I wore<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A bright tress of her hair.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When stirrup-cups were lifted up<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To lips, with soldier glee,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">One toast I always fondly pledged,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">’Twas <span class="gesh">Gracie Og Machree</span>.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104">{104}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Dirge.<br /><br /> -(From “The Sea Bride.”)</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">GEORGE DARLEY</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Prayer unsaid, and mass unsung,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Deadman’s dirge must still be rung:<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Dingle-dong, the dead-bells sound!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Mermen chant his dirge around!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Wash him bloodless, smooth him fair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Stretch his limbs, and sleek his hair:<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Dingle-dong, the dead-bells go!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Mermen swing them to and fro!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In the wormless sand shall he<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Feast for no foul glutton be:<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Dingle-dong, the dead-bells chime!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Mermen keep the tone and time!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We must with a tombstone brave<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shut the shark out from his grave:<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Dingle-dong, the dead-bells toll!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Mermen dirgers ring his knoll!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Such a slab will we lay o’er him<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All the dead shall rise before him!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Dingle-dong, the dead-bells boom!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Mermen lay him in his tomb!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105">{105}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Little Black Rose.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">AUBREY DE VERE</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The Little Black Rose shall be red at last;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">What made it black but the March wind dry,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the tear of the widow that fell on it fast?<br /></span> -<span class="i2">It shall redden the hills when June is nigh.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The Silk of the Kine shall rest at last;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">What drove her forth but the dragon-fly?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the golden vale she shall feed full fast,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With her mild gold horn and slow, dark eye.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The wounded wood-dove lies dead at last!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The pine long bleeding, it shall not die!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">This song is secret. Mine ear it passed<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In a wind o’er the plains at Athenry.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106">{106}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Epitaph.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He roamed half round the world of woe,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Where toil and labour never cease;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then dropped one little span below<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In search of peace.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And now to him mild beams and showers,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">All that he needs to grace his tomb,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From loneliest regions at all hours,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Unsought for come.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107">{107}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Killiney Far Away.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">FRANCIS FAHY</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">To Killiney far away flies my fond heart night and day,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To ramble light and happy through its fields and dells;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For here life smiles in vain, and earth’s a land of pain,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">While all that’s bright in Erin in Killiney dwells.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In Killiney in the West has a linnet sweet her nest,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And her song makes all the wild birds in the green wood dumb;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the captive without cheer, it were freedom but to hear<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Such sorrow-soothing music from her fair throat come.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In Killiney’s bower blows a blushing, budding rose,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With perfume of the rarest that the June day yields;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And none who pass the way, but sighing wish that they<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Might cull that fragrant flower of the dewy fields.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Through Killiney’s meadows pass, on their way to early Mass,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Like twin-stars ’mid the grass, two small feet bare;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And angel-pure the heart, where the murmured Aves start<br /></span> -<span class="i2">On their wingèd way to Heaven from the chapel there.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And the pride of Irish girls is the dear brown head of curls,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The pearl white of pearls, <span class="gesh">stoirin bàn mo chridhe</span>;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As bright-browed as the dawn, and as meek-eyed as the fawn,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And as graceful as the swan gliding on to sea.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Not for jewels nor for gold, nor for hoarded wealth untold,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Not for all that mortals hold most desired and dear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Would I my share forego in the loving heart aglow,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That beats beneath the snow of her bosom fair.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108">{108}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Soon Killiney will you weep—for I know not rest nor sleep,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Till swiftly o’er the deep I with white sails come,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To win the linnet sweet, and the two white twinkling feet,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And the heart with true love beating, to my far-off home.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And O! farewell to care, when the rose of perfume rare,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And the dear brown curling hair on my proud breast lie;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then Killiney far away, never more by night or day,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To thy skies, or dark or grey, shall my fond heart fly.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109">{109}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Cean Dubh Deelish.<a name="FNanchor_14_14" id="FNanchor_14_14"></a><a href="#Footnote_14_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a></h3> - -<div class="sidenote">SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Put your head, darling, darling, darling,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Your darling black head my heart above;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh, mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Oh, many and many a young girl for me is pining,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Letting her locks of gold to the cold wind free,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For me, the foremost of our gay young fellows;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But I’d leave a hundred, pure love, for thee!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then put your head, darling, darling, darling,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Your darling black head my heart above;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh, mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110">{110}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Molly Asthore.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O Mary dear! O Mary fair!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">O branch of generous stem!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">White blossom of the banks of Nair,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Though lilies grow on them;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You’ve left me sick at heart for love,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">So faint I cannot see;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The candle swims the board above,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I’m drunk for love of thee!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O stately stem of maiden pride,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My woe it is and pain<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That I thus severed from thy side<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The long night must remain.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Through all the towns of Innisfail<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I’ve wandered far and wide,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But from Downpatrick to Kinsale,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From Carlow to Kilbride,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Many lords and dames of high degree<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Where’er my feet have gone,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My Mary, one to equal thee<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I never looked upon:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I live in darkness and in doubt<br /></span> -<span class="i2">When’er my love’s away;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But were the gracious sun put out,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Her shadow would make day.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Tis she, indeed, young bud of bliss,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">As gentle as she’s fair.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Though lily-white her bosom is,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And sunny bright her hair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And dewy azure her blue eye,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And rosy red her cheek,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet brighter she in modesty,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Most beautifully meek:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111">{111}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">The world’s wise men from north to south<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Can never cure my pain;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But one kiss from her honey mouth<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Would make me well again.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112">{112}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Fair Hills of Ireland.<br /><br /> -(From the Irish.)</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer,<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><span class="gesh">Uileacan dubh O!</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear;<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><span class="gesh">Uileacan dubh O!</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fanned;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i’ the yellow sand,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the fair hills of holy Ireland.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Curled is he and ringleted, and plaited to the knee,<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><span class="gesh">Uileacan dubh O!</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea;<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><span class="gesh">Uileacan dubh O!</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For the fair hills of holy Ireland.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground;<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><span class="gesh">Uileacan dubh O!</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">The butter and the cream do wondrously abound,<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><span class="gesh">Uileacan dubh O!</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the cuckoo’s calling daily his note of music bland,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song i’ the forest grand,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the fair hills of holy Ireland.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113">{113}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="sidenote">ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES</div> - -<h3>Herring is King.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Let all the fish that swim the sea,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Salmon and turbot, cod and ling,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bow down the head and bend the knee<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To herring, their king! to herring, their king!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin’,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">’Tis we have brought the summer in.<a name="FNanchor_15_15" id="FNanchor_15_15"></a><a href="#Footnote_15_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The sun sank down so round and red<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Upon the bay, upon the bay;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The sails shook idly overhead,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Becalmed we lay, becalmed we lay;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">Sing, Hugamar, etc.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Till Shawn the eagle dropped on deck,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The bright-eyed boy, the bright-eyed boy;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Tis he has spied your silver track,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Herring, our joy, herring, our joy;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">Sing, Hugamar, etc.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">It is in with the sails and away to shore,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With the rise and swing, the rise and swing<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of two stout lads at each smoking oar,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">After herring, our king! herring, our king.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">Sing, Hugamar, etc.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The Manx and Cornish raised the shout,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And joined the chase, and joined the chase;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But their fleets they fouled as they went about,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And we won the race, we won the race;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">Sing, Hugamar, etc.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114">{114}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">For we turned and faced you full to land,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Down the góleen<a name="FNanchor_16_16" id="FNanchor_16_16"></a><a href="#Footnote_16_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a> long, the góleen long,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And after you slipped from strand to strand<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Our nets so strong, our nets so strong;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">Sing, Hugamar, etc.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then we called to our sweethearts and our wives,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“Come welcome us home, welcome us home,”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till they ran to meet us for their lives<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Into the foam, into the foam;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">Sing, Hugamar, etc.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O kissing of hands and waving of caps<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From girl and boy, from girl and boy,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While you leapt by scores in the lasses’ laps,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Herring our joy, herring our joy!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin’,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">’Tis we have brought the summer in!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115">{115}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="sidenote">ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES</div> - -<h3>The Rose of Kenmare.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i10">I’ve been soft in a small way<br /></span> -<span class="i10">On the girleens of Galway,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the Limerick lasses have made me feel quare;<br /></span> -<span class="i10">But there’s no use denyin’,<br /></span> -<span class="i10">No girl I’ve set eye on<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Could compate wid Rose Ryan of the town of Kenmare.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i12">O, where<br /></span> -<span class="i11">Can her like be found?<br /></span> -<span class="i12">No where,<br /></span> -<span class="i11">The country round,<br /></span> -<span class="i11">Spins at her wheel<br /></span> -<span class="i12">Daughter as true,<br /></span> -<span class="i11">Sets in the reel,<br /></span> -<span class="i12">Wid a slide of the shoe<br /></span> -<span class="i12"> a slinderer,<br /></span> -<span class="i12"> tinderer,<br /></span> -<span class="i12"> purtier,<br /></span> -<span class="i12"> wittier colleen than you,<br /></span> -<span class="i12">Rose, aroo!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i10">Her hair mocks the sunshine,<br /></span> -<span class="i10">And the soft, silver moonshine<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Neck and arm of the colleen completely eclipse;<br /></span> -<span class="i10">Whilst the nose of the jewel<br /></span> -<span class="i10">Slants straight as Carran Tual<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From the heaven in her eye to her heather-sweet lip.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i12">O, where, etc.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i10">Did your eyes ever follow<br /></span> -<span class="i10">The wings of the swallow<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Here and there, light as air, o’er the meadow field glance?<br /></span> -<span class="i10">For if not you’ve no notion<br /></span> -<span class="i10">Of the exquisite motion<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of her sweet little feet as they dart in the dance.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i12">O, where, etc.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116">{116}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i10">If y’ inquire why the nightingale<br /></span> -<span class="i10">Still shuns th’ invitin’ gale<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That wafts every song-bird but her to the West,<br /></span> -<span class="i10">Faix she knows, I suppose,<br /></span> -<span class="i10">Ould Kenmare has a Rose<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That would sing any Bulbul to sleep in her nest<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i12">O, where, etc.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i10">When her voice gives the warnin’<br /></span> -<span class="i10">For the milkin’ in the mornin’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ev’n the cow known for hornin’, comes runnin’ to her pail;<br /></span> -<span class="i10">The lambs play about her<br /></span> -<span class="i10">And the small bonneens<a name="FNanchor_17_17" id="FNanchor_17_17"></a><a href="#Footnote_17_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</a> snout her<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whilst their parints salute her wid a twisht of the tail.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i12">O, where, etc.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i10">When at noon from our labour<br /></span> -<span class="i10">We draw neighbour wid neighbour<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From the heat of the sun to the shelter of the tree,<br /></span> -<span class="i10">Wid spuds<a name="FNanchor_18_18" id="FNanchor_18_18"></a><a href="#Footnote_18_18" class="fnanchor">[18]</a> fresh from the bilin’,<br /></span> -<span class="i10">And new milk, you come smilin’,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All the boys’ hearts beguilin’, alannah machree!<a name="FNanchor_19_19" id="FNanchor_19_19"></a><a href="#Footnote_19_19" class="fnanchor">[19]</a><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i12">O, where, etc.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i10">But there’s one sweeter hour<br /></span> -<span class="i10">When the hot day is o’er,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And we rest at the door wid the bright moon above,<br /></span> -<span class="i10">And she’s sittin’ in the middle,<br /></span> -<span class="i10">When she’s guessed Larry’s riddle,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Cries, “Now for your fiddle, Shiel Dhuv, Shiel Dhuv.”<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117">{117}</a></span></div> - -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="i12">O, where<br /></span> -<span class="i10">Can her like be found?<br /></span> -<span class="i12">No where<br /></span> -<span class="i10">The country round,<br /></span> -<span class="i10">Spins at her wheel<br /></span> -<span class="i12">Daughter as true,<br /></span> -<span class="i10">Sets in the reel,<br /></span> -<span class="i12">Wid a slide of the shoe<br /></span> -<span class="i12"> a slinderer,<br /></span> -<span class="i12"> tinderer,<br /></span> -<span class="i12"> purtier,<br /></span> -<span class="i12"> wittier colleen than you,<br /></span> -<span class="i12">Rose, aroo!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118">{118}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Song of the Pratee.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When after the Winter alarmin’,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Spring steps in so charmin’,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">So fresh and arch<br /></span> -<span class="i4">In the middle of March,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wid her hand St Patrick’s arm on,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Let us all, let us all be goin’,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Agra, to assist at your sowin’,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">The girls to spread<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Your iligant bed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the boys to set the hoe in.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="c">Chorus—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then good speed to your seed! God’s grace and increase.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Never more in our need may you blacken wid the blight;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But when summer is o’er, in our gardens, asthore,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.<br /></span> -</div></div></div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">So rest and sleep, my jewel,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Safe from the tempest cruel;<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Till violets spring<br /></span> -<span class="i4">And skylarks sing<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From Mourne to Carran Tual.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then wake and build your bower,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through April sun and shower,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">To bless the earth<br /></span> -<span class="i4">That gave you birth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through many a sultry hour.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="c">Chorus—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then good luck to your leaf. And ochone, ologone,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Never more to our grief may it blacken wid the blight;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But when summer is o’er, in our gardens, asthore,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119">{119}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Thus smile with glad increasin’,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till to St John we’re raisin’,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Through Erin’s isle<br /></span> -<span class="i4">The pleasant pile<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That sets the bonfire blazin’.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O ’tis then that the midsummer fairy,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Abroad on his sly vagary,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Wid purple and white,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">As he passes by night,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Your emerald leaf shall vary.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="c">Chorus—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then more power to your flower, and your merry green leaf!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Never more to our grief may they blacken wid the blight;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But when summer is o’er, in our gardens, asthore,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.<br /></span> -</div></div></div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And once again Mavourneen,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Some yellow autumn mornin’,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">At red sunrise<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Both girls and boys<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To your garden ridge we’re turnin’,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then under your foliage fadin’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Each man of us sets his spade in,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">While the colleen bawn<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Her brown kishane<a name="FNanchor_20_20" id="FNanchor_20_20"></a><a href="#Footnote_20_20" class="fnanchor">[20]</a><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Full up wid your fruit is ladin’.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="c">Chorus—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then good luck to your leaf! more power to your flower!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Never more to our grief may they blacken wid the blight;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But when summer is o’er, in our gardens, asthore,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120">{120}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="sidenote">ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES</div> - -<h3>Irish Lullaby.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I’d rock my own sweet childie to rest in a cradle of gold on a bough of the willow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the <span class="gesh">shoheen ho</span> of the wind of the west and the <span class="gesh">lulla lo</span> of the soft sea billow.<br /></span> -<span class="i10">Sleep, baby dear,<br /></span> -<span class="i10">Sleep without fear,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Mother is here beside your pillow.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I’d put my own sweet childie to sleep in a silver boat on the beautiful river,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where a <span class="gesh">shoheen</span> whisper the white cascades, and a <span class="gesh">lulla lo</span> the green flags shiver.<br /></span> -<span class="i10">Sleep, baby dear,<br /></span> -<span class="i10">Sleep without fear,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Mother is here with you for ever.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="gesh">Lulla lo!</span> to the rise and fall of mother’s bosom ’tis sleep has bound you,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And O, my child, what cosier nest for rosier rest could love have found you?<br /></span> -<span class="i10">Sleep, baby dear,<br /></span> -<span class="i10">Sleep without fear,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Mother’s two arms are clasped around you.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121">{121}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="sidenote">GERALD GRIFFIN</div> - -<h3>Eileen Aroon.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When, like the early rose,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Eileen Aroon!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beauty in childhood blows,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Eileen Aroon!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When, like a diadem,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Buds blush around the stem,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Which is the fairest gem?<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Eileen Aroon!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Is it the laughing eye,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Eileen Aroon!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is it the timid sigh,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Eileen Aroon!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is it the tender tone,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Soft as the stringed harp’s moan?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh! it is truth alone,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Eileen Aroon!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When, like the rising day,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Eileen Aroon!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Love sends his early ray,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Eileen Aroon!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What makes his dawning glow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Changeless through joy or woe?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Only the constant know—<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Eileen Aroon!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I know a valley fair,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Eileen Aroon!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I knew a cottage there,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Eileen Aroon!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Far in that valley’s shade<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I knew a gentle maid,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Flower of a hazel glade,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Eileen Aroon!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122">{122}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Who in the song so sweet?<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Eileen Aroon!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who in the dance so fleet?<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Eileen Aroon!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dear were her charms to me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dearer her laughter free,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dearest her constancy,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Eileen Aroon!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Were she no longer true,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Eileen Aroon!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What should her lover do?<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Eileen Aroon!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fly with his broken chain<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Far o’er the sounding main,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Never to love again,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Eileen Aroon!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Youth must with time decay,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Eileen Aroon!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beauty must fade away,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Eileen Aroon!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Castles are sacked in war,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Chieftains are scattered far,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Truth is a fixèd star,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Eileen Aroon!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123">{123}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Dark Man.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">NORA HOPPER</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Rose o’ the world, she came to my bed<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And changed the dreams of my heart and head:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For joy of mine she left grief of hers<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And garlanded me with the prickly furze.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Rose o’ the world, they go out and in,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And watch me dream and my mother spin:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And they pity the tears on my sleeping face<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While my soul’s away in a fairy place.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Rose o’ the world, they have words galore,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For wide’s the swing of my mother’s door:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And soft they speak of my darkened brain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But what do they know of my heart’s dear pain?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Rose o’ the world, the grief you give<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is worth all days that a man may live:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is worth all prayers that the colleens say<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the night that darkens the wedding-day.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Rose o’ the world, what man would wed<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When he might remember your face instead?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Might go to his grave with the blessed pain<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of hungering after your face again?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Rose o’ the world, they may talk their fill,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But dreams are good, and my life stands still<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While the neighbours talk by their fires astir:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But my fiddle knows: and <i>I</i> talk to her.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124">{124}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>April in Ireland.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She hath a woven garland all of the sighing sedge,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all her flowers are snowdrops grown on the winter’s edge:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The golden looms of Tir na n’ Og wove all the winter through<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her gown of mist and raindrops shot with a cloudy blue.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sunlight she holds in one hand, and rain she scatters after,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And through the rainy twilight we hear her fitful laughter.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She shakes down on her flowers the snows less white than they,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then quicken with her kisses the folded “knots o’ May.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She seeks the summer-lover that never shall be hers,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fain for gold leaves of autumn she passes by the furze,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Though buried gold it hideth: she scorns her sedgy crown,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And pressing blindly sunwards she treads her snowdrops down.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Her gifts are all a fardel of wayward smiles and tears,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet hope she also holdeth, this daughter of the years—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A hope that blossoms faintly set upon sorrow’s edge:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She hath a woven garland of all the sighing sedge.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125">{125}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Wind Among the Reeds.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">NORA HOPPER</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Mavrone, Mavrone! the wind among the reeds.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">It calls and cries, and will not let me be;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all its cry is of forgotten deeds<br /></span> -<span class="i2">When men were loved of all the Daoine-Sidhe.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O Shee that have forgotten how to love,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And Shee that have forgotten how to hate,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Asleep ’neath quicken boughs that no winds move,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Come back to us ere yet it be too late.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Pipe to us once again, lest we forget<br /></span> -<span class="i2">What piping means, till all the Silver Spears<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Be wild with gusty music, such as met<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Carolan once, amid the dusty years.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Dance in your rings again: the yellow weeds<br /></span> -<span class="i2">You used to ride so far, mount as of old—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Play hide-and-seek with wind among the reeds,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And pay your scores again with fairy gold.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126">{126}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>My Grief on the Sea.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">DOUGLAS HYDE</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My grief on the sea,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">How the waves of it roll!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For they heave between me<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And the love of my soul!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Abandoned, forsaken,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To grief and to care,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Will the sea ever waken<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Relief from despair?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My grief, and my trouble!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Would he and I wear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the province of Leinster,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Or County of Clare.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Were I and my darling—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">O, heart-bitter wound!—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the board of the ship<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For America bound.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">On a green bed of rushes<br /></span> -<span class="i2">All last night I lay,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I flung it abroad<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With the heat of the day.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And my love came behind me—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">He came from the South;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His breast to my bosom<br /></span> -<span class="i2">His mouth to my mouth.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127">{127}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Cooleen.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">DOUGLAS HYDE</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A honey mist on a day of frost, in a dark oak wood,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And love for thee in my heart in me, thou bright, white, and good;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy slender form, soft and warm, thy red lips apart,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou hast found me, and hast bound me, and put grief in my heart.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In fair-green and market, men mark thee, bright, young, and merry,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Though thou hurt them like foes with the rose of thy blush of the berry:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her cheeks are a poppy, her eye it is Cupid’s helper,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But each foolish man dreams that its beams for himself are.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Whoe’er saw the Cooleen in a cool, dewy meadow<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On a morning in summer in sunshine and shadow;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All the young men go wild for her, my childeen, my treasure,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But now let them go mope, they’ve no hope to possess her.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Let us roam, O my darling, afar through the mountains,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Drink milk of the goat, wine and bulcaun in fountains;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With music and play every day from my lyre,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And leave to come rest on my breast when you tire.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128">{128}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Breedyeen.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Tis the Breedyeen I love,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All dear ones above,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Like a star from the start<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Round my heart she did move.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her breast like a dove,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or the foam in the cove,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">With her gold locks apart,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">In my heart she put love.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Tis not Venus, I say,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who grieved me this day,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">But the white one, the bright one,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Who slighted my stay.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For her I shall pray—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I confess it—for aye,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">She’s my sister, I missed her,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">When all men were gay.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">To the hills let us go,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the raven and crow<br /></span> -<span class="i3">In dark dismal valleys<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Croak death-like and low;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By this volume I swear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O bright Cool of fair hair,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">That though solitude shrieked<br /></span> -<span class="i3">I should seek for thee there.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">To the hills let us go,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the raven and crow<br /></span> -<span class="i3">In the dark dismal valleys<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Wing silent and slow.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There’s no Joy in men’s fate<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But Grief grins in the gate;<br /></span> -<span class="i3">There’s no Fair without Foul,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Without Crooked no Straight.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129">{129}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Her neck like the lime<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And her breath like the thyme,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">And her bosom untroubled<br /></span> -<span class="i3">By care or by time.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like a bird in the night,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">At a great blaze of light,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Astounded and wounded<br /></span> -<span class="i3">I swoon at her sight.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Since I gave thee my love,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I gave thee my love,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">I gave thee my love,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">O thou berry so bright;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The sun in her height<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Looked on with delight,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">And between thy two arms, may<br /></span> -<span class="i3">I die on the night.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And I would that I were<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the glens of the air,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Or in dark dismal valleys<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Where the wildwood is bare,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What a kiss from her there<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I should coax without care,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">From my star of the morning,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">My fairer than fair!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Like a Phœnix of flame,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or like Helen of fame,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Is the pearl of all pearls<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Of girls who came,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And who kindled a flame,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In my bosom. Thy name<br /></span> -<span class="i3">I shall rhyme thee in Irish<br /></span> -<span class="i3">And heighten thy fame.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130">{130}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Nelly of the Top-Knots.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Dear God! were I fisher and<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Back in Binédar,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And Nelly a fish who<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Would swim in the bay there,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I would privately set there<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My net there to catch her,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In Erin no maiden<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Is able to match her.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And Nelly, dear God!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Why! you should not thus flee me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I long to be near thee<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And hear thee and see thee,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My hand on the Bible<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And I swearing and kneeling<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And giving thee part<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of the heart you are stealing.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I’ve a fair yellow casket<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And it fastened with crystal,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the lock opens not<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To the shot of a pistol.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To Jesus I pray<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And to Columbkill’s Master,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That Mary may guide thee<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Aside from disaster.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We may be, O maiden<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Whom none may disparage,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Some morning a-hearing<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The sweet mass of marriage,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But if fate be against us,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To rend us and push us,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I shall mourn as the blackbird<br /></span> -<span class="i2">At eve in the bushes.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131">{131}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O God, were she with me<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Where the gull flits and tern,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or in Paris the smiling,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Or an Isle in Loch Erne,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I would coax her so well,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I would tell her my story,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And talk till I won her,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My sunshine of glory.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132">{132}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>I shall not Die for Thee.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">DOUGLAS HYDE</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">For thee I shall not die,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Woman high of fame and name;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Foolish men thou mayest slay<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I and they are not the same.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Why should I expire<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For the fire of any eye,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Slender waist or swan-like limb,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Is’t for them that I should die?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The round breasts, the fresh skin,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Cheeks crimson, hair so long and rich;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Indeed, indeed, I shall not die,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Please God, not I, for any such.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The golden hair, the forehead thin,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The chaste mien, the gracious ease,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The rounded heel, the languid tone,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Fools alone find death from these.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Thy sharp wit, thy perfect calm,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thy thin palm like foam o’ the sea;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy white neck, thy blue eye,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I shall not die for thee.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Woman, graceful as the swan,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A wise man did nurture me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Little palm, white neck, bright eye,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I shall not die for ye.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133">{133}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Red Wind.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">LIONEL JOHNSON</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Red Wind from out the East:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Red Wind of blight and blood!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ah, when wilt thou have ceased<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thy bitter, stormy flood?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Red Wind from over sea,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Scourging our holy land!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What angel loosened thee<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Out of his iron hand?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Red Wind! whose word of might<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Winged thee with wings of flame?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O fire of mournful night!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">What is thy Master’s name?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Red Wind! who bade thee burn,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Branding our hearts? Who bade<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thee on and never turn<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Till waste our souls were laid?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Red Wind! from out the West<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Pour Winds of Paradise:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Winds of eternal rest,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That weary souls entice.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Wind of the East! Red Wind!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thou scorchest the soft breath<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of Paradise the kind:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Red Wind of burning death!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O Red Wind! hear God’s voice:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Hear thou, and fall, and cease.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Let Innisfail rejoice<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In her Hesperian peace.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134">{134}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>To Morfydd.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">LIONEL JOHNSON</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A voice on the winds,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A voice on the waters,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Wanders and cries:<br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>O what are the winds?</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>And what are the waters?</i><br /></span> -<span class="i4"><i>Mine are your eyes.</i><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Western the winds are,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And western the waters,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Where the light lies:<br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>O what are the winds?</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>And what are the waters?</i><br /></span> -<span class="i4"><i>Mine are your eyes.</i><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Cold, cold grow the winds,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And dark grow the waters,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Where the sun dies:<br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>O what are the winds?</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>And what are the waters?</i><br /></span> -<span class="i4"><i>Mine are your eyes.</i><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And down the night winds,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And down the night waters<br /></span> -<span class="i4">The music flies:<br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>O what are the winds?</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>And what are the waters?</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>Cold be the winds,</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>And wild be the waters,</i><br /></span> -<span class="i4"><i>So mine be your eyes.</i><br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135">{135}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>A Lament.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Youth’s bright palace<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is overthrown,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With its diamond sceptre<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And golden throne;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As a time-worn stone<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Its turrets are humbled,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All hath crumbled<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But grief alone!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Whither, oh! whither<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Have fled away<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The dreams and hopes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of my early day?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ruined and grey<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Are the towers I builded;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the beams that gilded—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ah! where are they?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Once this world<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was fresh and bright,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With its golden noon<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And its starry night;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Glad and light,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By mountain and river,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Have I blessed the Giver<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With hushed delight.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Youth’s illusions,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">One by one,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Have passed like clouds<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That the sun looked on.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While morning shone,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How purple their fringes!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How ashy their tinges<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When that was gone!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136">{136}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">As fire-flies fade<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the nights are damp—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As meteors are quenched<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In a stagnant swamp—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thus Charlemagne’s camp,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the Paladins rally,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the Diamond Valley,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the Wonderful Lamp,<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And all the wonders<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of Ganges and Nile,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And Haroun’s rambles,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And Crusoe’s isle,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And Princes who smile<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the Genii’s daughters<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Neath the Orient waters<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Full many a mile,<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And all that the pen<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of Fancy can write,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Must vanish<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In manhood’s misty light—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Squire and Knight,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And damosels’ glances,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sunny romances<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So pure and bright!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">These have vanished,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And what remains?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Life’s budding garlands<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Have turned to chains—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Its beams and rains<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Feed but docks and thistles,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And sorrow whistles<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O’er desert plains!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137">{137}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Fair Hills of Eiré, O!<br /><br /> -(After the Irish of DONOGH MAC CON-MARA.)</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Take a blessing from my heart to the land of my birth,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And the fair Hills of Eiré, O!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And to all that yet survive of Eibhear’s tribe on earth,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">On the fair Hills of Eiré, O!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In that land so delightful the wild thrush’s lay—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Seems to pour a lament forth for Eiré’s delay—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Alas! alas! why pine I a thousand miles away<br /></span> -<span class="i6">From the fair Hills of Eiré, O!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The soil is rich and soft—the air is mild and bland,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Of the fair Hills of Eiré, O!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her barest rock is greener to me than this rude land—<br /></span> -<span class="i6">O! the fair Hills of Eiré, O!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her woods are tall and straight, grove rising over grove;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Trees flourish in her glens below, and on her heights above;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O, in heart and in soul, I shall ever, ever love<br /></span> -<span class="i6">The fair Hills of Eiré, O!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A noble tribe, moreover, are the now hapless Gael,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">On the fair Hills of Eiré, O!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A tribe in Battle’s hour unused to shrink or fail<br /></span> -<span class="i6">On the fair Hills of Eiré, O!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For this is my lament in bitterness outpoured,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To see them slain or scattered by the Saxon sword.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh, woe of woes, to see a foreign spoiler horde<br /></span> -<span class="i6">On the fair Hills of Eiré, O!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Broad and tall rise the <span class="gesh">cruachs</span> in the golden morning’s glow<br /></span> -<span class="i6">On the fair Hills of Eiré, O!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O’er her smooth grass for ever sweet cream and honey flow<br /></span> -<span class="i6">On the fair Hills of Eiré, O!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138">{138}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">O, I long, I am pining, again to behold<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The land that belongs to the brave Gael of old;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Far dearer to my heart than a gift of gems or gold<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Are the fair Hills of Eiré, O!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The dewdrops lie bright ’mid the grass and yellow corn<br /></span> -<span class="i6">On the fair Hills of Eiré, O!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the sweet-scented apples blush redly in the morn<br /></span> -<span class="i6">On the fair Hills of Eiré, O!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The water-cress and sorrel fill the vales below;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The streamlets are hushed, till the evening breezes blow;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While the waves of the Suir, noble river! ever flow<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Near the fair Hills of Eiré, O!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A fruitful clime is Eiré’s, through valley, meadow, plain,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And the fair land of Eiré, O!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The very “Bread of Life” is in the yellow grain<br /></span> -<span class="i6">On the fair Hills of Eiré, O!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Far dearer unto me than the tones music yields,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is the lowing of her kine and the calves in her fields,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the sunlight that shone long ago on the shields<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Of the Gaels, on the fair Hills of Eiré, O!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139">{139}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Dark Rosaleen.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O my dark Rosaleen,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Do not sigh, do not weep!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The priests are on the ocean green,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">They march along the Deep.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There’s wine ... from the royal Pope,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Upon the ocean green;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And Spanish ale shall give you hope,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">My dark Rosaleen!<br /></span> -<span class="i3">My own Rosaleen!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shall give you health, and help, and hope,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">My dark Rosaleen.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Over hills, and through dales,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Have I roamed for your sake;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All yesterday I sailed with sails<br /></span> -<span class="i3">On river and on lake.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Erne ... at its highest flood,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">I dashed across unseen,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For there was lightning in my blood,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">My dark Rosaleen!<br /></span> -<span class="i3">My own Rosaleen!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh! there was lightning in my blood,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Red lightning lightened through my blood,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">My dark Rosaleen!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">All day long in unrest,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">To and fro do I move,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The very soul within my breast<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Is wasted for you, love!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The heart ... in my bosom faints<br /></span> -<span class="i3">To think of you my Queen,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My life of life, my saint of saints,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">My dark Rosaleen!<br /></span> -<span class="i3">My own Rosaleen!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140">{140}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">To hear your sweet and sad complaints,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My life, my love, my saint of saints,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">My dark Rosaleen!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Woe and pain, pain and woe,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Are my lot, night and noon,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To see your bright face clouded so,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Like to the mournful moon.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But yet ... will I rear your throne<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Again in golden sheen;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">My dark Rosaleen!<br /></span> -<span class="i3">My own Rosaleen!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Tis you shall have the golden throne,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">My dark Rosaleen!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Over dews, over sands,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Will I fly, for your weal:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Your holy delicate white hands<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Shall girdle me with steel.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">At home ... in your emerald bowers,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">From morning’s dawn till e’en,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You’ll pray for me, my flower of flowers,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">My dark Rosaleen!<br /></span> -<span class="i3">My fond Rosaleen!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You’ll think of me through Daylight’s hours,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">My dark Rosaleen!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I could scale the blue air,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">I could plough the high hills,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh, I could kneel all night in prayer,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">To heal your many ills!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And one ... beamy smile from you<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Would float the light between<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My toils and me, my own, my true,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">My dark Rosaleen!<br /></span> -<span class="i3">My fond Rosaleen!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141">{141}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Would give me life and soul anew,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A second life, a soul anew,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">My dark Rosaleen!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O! the Erne shall run red<br /></span> -<span class="i3">With redundance of blood,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The earth shall rock beneath our tread,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">And flames wrap hill and wood,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And gun-peal, and slogan cry,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Wake many a glen serene,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ere you shall fade, ere you can die,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">My dark Rosaleen!<br /></span> -<span class="i3">My own Rosaleen!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Judgment Hour must first be nigh<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ere you can fade, ere you can die,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">My dark Rosaleen!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142">{142}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The One Mystery.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Tis idle! we exhaust and squander<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The glittering mine of thought in vain<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All-baffled reason cannot wander,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Beyond her chain.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The flood of life runs dark—dark clouds<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Make lampless night around its shore:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The dead, where are they? In their shrouds—<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Man knows no more.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Evoke the ancient and the past,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Will one illumining star arise?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or must the film, from first to last,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">O’erspread thine eyes?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When life, love, glory, beauty, wither,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Will wisdom’s page, or science chart,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Map out for thee the region whither<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Their shades depart?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Supposest thou the wondrous powers,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To high imagination given,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pale types of what shall yet be ours,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">When earth is heaven?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When this decaying shell is cold,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Oh! sayest thou the soul shall climb<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What magic mount she trod of old,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Ere childhood’s time?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And shall the sacred pulse that thrilled,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thrill once again to glory’s name?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And shall the conquering love that filled<br /></span> -<span class="i6">All earth with flame,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Re-born, revived, renewed, immortal,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Resume his reign in prouder might,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A sun beyond the ebon portal,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Of death and night?<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143">{143}</a></span></div> - -<span class="i0">No more, no more—with aching brow,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And restless heart, and burning brain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We ask the When, the Where, the How,<br /></span> -<span class="i10">And ask in vain.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all philosophy, all faith,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">All earthly—all celestial lore,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Have but one voice, which only saith<br /></span> -<span class="i10">Endure—adore!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144">{144}</a></span></div></div> - - -<h3>The Wild Geese.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">ROSA MULHOLLAND</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I had no sail to cross the sea,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A brave white bird went forth from me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My heart was hid beneath his wing:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O strong white bird, come back in spring!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I watched the Wild Geese rise and cry<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Across the flaring western sky;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Their winnowing pinions clove the light,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then vanished, and came down the night.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I laid me low, my day was done,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I longed not for the morrow’s sun,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But closely swathed in swoon of sleep,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Forgot to hope, forgot to weep.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The moon, through veils of gloomy red,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A warm yet dusky radiance shed<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All down our valley’s golden stream<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And flushed my slumber with a dream.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Her mystic torch lit up my brain;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My spirit rose and lived amain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And follow through the windy spray<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That bird upon its watery way.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“O wild white bird, O wail for me!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My soul hath wings to fly with thee:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On foam waves, lengthening out afar,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We’ll ride toward the western star.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“O’er glimmering plains, through forest gloom,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To track a wanderer’s feet I come;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Mid lonely swamp, by haunted brake,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ll pass unfrighted for his sake.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“Alone, afar, his footsteps roam,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The stars his roof, the tent his home.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Saw’st thou what way the Wild Geese flew<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To sunward through the thick night dew?<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145">{145}</a></span></div> - -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“Carry my soul where he abides,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And pierce the mystery that hides<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His presence, and through time and space<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Look with mine eyes upon his face.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“Beside his prairie fire he rests,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All feathered things are in their nests:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘What strange wild bird is this,’ he saith,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Still fragrant with the ocean’s breath?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Perch on my hand, thou briny thing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And let me stroke thy shy wet wing;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What message in thy soft eye thrills?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I see again my native hills<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>And vale, the river’s silver streak,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The mist upon the blue, blue peak,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The shadows grey, the golden sheaves,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The mossy walls, the russet eaves.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>I greet the friends I’ve loved and lost,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Do all forget? No, tempest-tost,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That braved for me the ocean’s foam,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Some heart remembers me at home.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Ere spring’s return I will be there,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou strange sea-fragrant messenger!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I wake and weep; the moon shines sweet,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O dream too short! O bird too fleet!’<span class="lftspc">”</span><br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146">{146}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Lament for a Little Child.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">RODEN NOEL</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I am lying in the tomb, love,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lying in the tomb,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tho’ I move within the gloom, love,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Breathe within the gloom!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Men deem life not fled, dear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Deem my life not fled,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tho’ I with thee am dead, dear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I with thee am dead,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O my little child!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">What is the grey world, darling,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What is the grey world,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the worm lies curled, darling,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The death-worm lies curled?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They tell me of the spring, dear!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Do I want the spring?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Will she waft upon her wing, dear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The joy-pulse of her wing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy songs, thy blossoming,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O my little child!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">For the hallowing of thy smile, love,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The rainbow of thy smile,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gleaming for a while, love,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gleaming to beguile,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Re-plunged me in the cold, dear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Leaves me in the cold,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I feel so very old, dear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Very, very old!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Would they put me out of pain, dear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Out of all my pain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Since I may not live again, dear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Never live again!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147">{147}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I am lying in the grave, love,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In thy little grave,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet I hear the wind rave, love,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the wild wave!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I would lie asleep, darling,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With thee lie asleep,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Unhearing the world weep, darling,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Little children weep!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O my little child!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148">{148}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Swimmer.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Yonder, lo! the tide is flowing;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Clamber, while the breeze is blowing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Down to where a soft foam flusters<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dulse and fairy feathery clusters!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While it fills the shelly hollows,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A swift sister-billow follows,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Leaps in hurrying with the tide,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Seems the lingering wave to chide;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Both push on with eager life,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And a gurgling show of strife.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O the salt, refreshing air<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shrilly blowing in the hair!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A keen, healthful savour haunts<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sea-shell, sea-flower, and sea-plants.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Innocent billows on the strand<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Leave a crystal over sand,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whose thin ebbing soon is crossed<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By a crystal foam-enmossed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Variegating silver-grey<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shell-empetalled sand in play:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When from sand dries off the brine,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Vanishes swift shadow fine;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But a wet sand is a glass<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the plumy cloudlets pass,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Floating islands of the blue,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tender, shining, fair, and true.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Who would linger idle,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dallying would lie,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When wind and wave, a bridal<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Celebrating, fly?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Let him plunge among them,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who hath wooed enough,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Flirted with them, sung them,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the salt sea-trough<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149">{149}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">He may win them, onward<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On a buoyant crest,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Far to seaward, sunward,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ocean-borne to rest!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wild wind will sing over him,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the free foam cover him,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Swimming seaward, sunward,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On a blithe sea-breast!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On a blithe sea-bosom<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Swims another too,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Swims a live sea-blossom,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A grey-winged sea-mew!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Grape-green all the waves are,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By whose hurrying line<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Half of ships and caves are<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Buried under brine;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Supple, shifting ranges<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lucent at the crest,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With pearly surface-changes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Never laid to rest:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Now a dipping gunwale<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Momently he sees,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Now a fuming funnel,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or red flag in the breeze;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Arms flung open wide,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lip the laughing sea;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For playfellow, for bride,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Claim her impetuously!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Triumphantly exult with all the free,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Buoyant, bounding splendour of the sea!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And if while on the billow<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wearily he lay,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His awful wild playfellow<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Filled his mouth with spray,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Reft him of his breath,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To some far realms away<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He would float with Death;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150">{150}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wild wind would sing over him,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the free foam cover him,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Waft him sleeping onward,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Floating seaward, sunward,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All alone with Death;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In a realm of wondrous dreams,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And shadow-haunted ocean gleams!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151">{151}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Dance.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">RODEN NOEL</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The dance! the dance!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Maidens advance<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Your undulating charm!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A line deploys<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of gentle boys,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Waving the light arm,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bronze, alive and warm;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Reed flute and drum<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sound as they come,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Under your eyelight warm!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Many a boy,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A dancing joy,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Many a mellow maid,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With fireflies in the shade,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mingle and glide,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Appear and hide,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Here in a fairy glade:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ebb and flow<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To a music low,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Viol, and flute and lyre,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As melody mounts higher:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With a merry will,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They touch and thrill,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beautiful limbs of fire!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Red berries, shells,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Over bosom-dells,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And girdles of light grass,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">May never hide<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The youthful pride<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of beauty, ere it pass:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet, ah! sweet boy and lass,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Refrain, retire!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Love is a fire!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Night will pass!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152">{152}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>From “The Water-Nymph and the Boy.”</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I flung me round him,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I drew him under;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I clung, I drowned him,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My own white wonder....<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i3">Father and mother,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Weeping and wild,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Came to the forest,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Calling the child,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Came from the palace,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Down to the pool,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Calling my darling,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">My beautiful!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i3">Under the water,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Cold and so pale!<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Could it be love made<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Beauty to fail?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i3">Ah me! for mortals:<br /></span> -<span class="i3">In a few moons,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">If I had left him,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">After some Junes<br /></span> -<span class="i3">He would have faded,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Faded away,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">He, the young monarch, whom<br /></span> -<span class="i3">All would obey,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Fairer than day;<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Alien to springtime,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Joyless and grey,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">He would have faded,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Faded away,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Moving a mockery,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Scorned of the day!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153">{153}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Now I have taken him<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All in his prime,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Saved from slow poisoning<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pitiless Time,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Filled with his happiness,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">One with the prime,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Saved from the cruel<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dishonour of Time,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Laid him, my beautiful,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Laid him to rest,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Loving, adorable,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Softly to rest,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Here in my crystalline,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Here in my breast!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154">{154}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>A Casual Song.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She sang of lovers met to play<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Under the may bloom, under the may,”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But when I sought her face so fair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I found the set face of Despair.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She sang of woodland leaves in spring,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And joy of young love dallying;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But her young eyes were all one moan,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And Death weighed on her heart like stone.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I could not ask, I know not now,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The story of that mournful brow;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It haunts me as it haunted then,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A flash from fire of hell-bound men.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155">{155}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>“The Pity of it.”</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">RODEN NOEL</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">If our love may fail, Lily,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If our love may fail,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What will mere life avail, Lily,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mere life avail?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Seed that promised blossom,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Withered in the mould,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pale petals overblowing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Failing from the gold!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When the fervent fingers<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Listlessly unclose,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">May the life that lingers<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Find repose, Lily,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Find repose!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Who may dream of all the music<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Only a lover hears,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hearkening to hearts triumphant<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bearing down the years?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ah! may eternal anthems dwindle<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To a low sound of tears?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Room in all the ages<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For our love to grow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Prayers of both demanded<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A little while ago:<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And now a few poor moments,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Between life and death,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">May be proven all too ample<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For love’s breath!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Seed that promised blossom,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Withered in the mould!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pale petals overblowing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Failing from the gold!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156">{156}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I well believe the fault lay<br /></span> -<span class="i0">More with me than you,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But I feel the shadow closing<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Cold about us two.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">An hour may yet be yielded us,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or a very little more—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then a few tears, and silence<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For evermore, Lily,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For evermore!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157">{157}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Old.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">RODEN NOEL</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They are waiting on the shore<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For the bark to take them home;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They will toil and grieve no more;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The hour for release hath come.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">All their long life lies behind,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like a dimly blending dream;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There is nothing left to bind<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the realms that only seem.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They are waiting for the boat,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There is nothing left to do;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What was near them grows remote,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Happy silence falls like dew;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Now the shadowy bark is come,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the weary may go home.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">By still water they would rest,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the shadow of the tree;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">After battle sleep is best,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">After noise tranquillity.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158">{158}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Maura Du of Ballyshannon.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">CHARLES P. O’CONOR</div> - -<h4>I.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="gesh">Maura du</span><a name="FNanchor_21_21" id="FNanchor_21_21"></a><a href="#Footnote_21_21" class="fnanchor">[21]</a> of Ballyshannon!<br /></span> -<span class="i2"><span class="gesh">Maura du</span>, my flower of flowers!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Can you hear me there out seaward,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Calling back the bygone hours?<br /></span> -<span class="i0"><span class="gesh">Maura du</span>, my own, my honey!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With wild passion still aglow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I am singing you the old songs<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That I sung you long ago.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And you mind, love, how it ran on—<br /></span> -<span class="i4">“In your eyes <span class="gesh">asthore machree</span>!<a name="FNanchor_22_22" id="FNanchor_22_22"></a><a href="#Footnote_22_22" class="fnanchor">[22]</a><br /></span> -<span class="i4">All my Heaven there I see,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">And that’s true!<br /></span> -<span class="i4"><span class="gesh">Maura du</span>!<br /></span> -<span class="i3"><span class="gesh">Maura du</span> of Ballyshannon!”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4>II.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="gesh">Maura du</span> of Ballyshannon!<br /></span> -<span class="i2"><span class="gesh">Maura du</span>, my soul’s one queen!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Big with love my heart is flying,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Where the grass is growing green.<br /></span> -<span class="i0"><span class="gesh">Maura du</span>, my own, my honey!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That I love you, well you know,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And still sing for you the old song,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That I sung you long ago.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And you mind, love, how it ran on—<br /></span> -<span class="i4">“In your eyes <span class="gesh">asthore machree</span>!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">All my Heaven there I see,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">And that’s true!<br /></span> -<span class="i4"><span class="gesh">Maura du</span>!<br /></span> -<span class="i3"><span class="gesh">Maura du</span> of Ballyshannon!”<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159">{159}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="sidenote">CHARLES P. O’CONOR</div> - -<h4>III.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="gesh">Maura du</span> of Ballyshannon,<br /></span> -<span class="i2"><span class="gesh">Maura du</span>, the day is drear!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ah, the night is long and weary,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Far away from you, my dear!<br /></span> -<span class="i0"><span class="gesh">Maura du</span>, my own, my honey!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Still let winds blow high or low,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I must sing to you the old song,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That I sung you long ago,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And you mind, love, how it ran on—<br /></span> -<span class="i4">“In your eyes <span class="gesh">asthore machree</span>!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">All my Heaven there I see,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">And that’s true!<br /></span> -<span class="i4"><span class="gesh">Maura du</span>!<br /></span> -<span class="i3"><span class="gesh">Maura du</span> of Ballyshannon!”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4>IV.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="gesh">Maura du</span> of Ballyshannon!<br /></span> -<span class="i2"><span class="gesh">Maura du</span>, when winds blow south,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I will with the birds fly homeward,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">There to kiss your Irish mouth.<br /></span> -<span class="i0"><span class="gesh">Maura du</span>, my own, my honey!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">When time is no longer foe,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By your side I’ll sing the old song,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That I sung you long ago,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And you mind, love, how it ran on—<br /></span> -<span class="i4">“In your eyes <span class="gesh">asthore machree</span>!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">All my Heaven there I see,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">And that’s true!<br /></span> -<span class="i4"><span class="gesh">Maura du</span>!<br /></span> -<span class="i3"><span class="gesh">Maura du</span> of Ballyshannon!”<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160">{160}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>A Spinning Song.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">JOHN FRANCIS O’DONNELL</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">My love to fight the Saxon goes,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And bravely shines his sword of steel,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">A heron’s feather decks his brows,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And a spur on either heel;<br /></span> -<span class="i4">His steed is blacker than a sloe,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And fleeter than the falling star;<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Amid the surging ranks he’ll go<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And shout for joy of war.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Twinkle, twinkle, pretty spindle, let the white wool drift and dwindle,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Oh! we weave a damask doublet for my love’s coat of steel.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hark! the timid, turning treadle, crooning soft old-fashioned ditties<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To the low, slow murmur of the brown, round wheel.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">My love is pledged to Ireland’s fight;<br /></span> -<span class="i6">My love would die for Ireland’s weal,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">To win her back her ancient right,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And make her foemen reel.<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Oh, close I’ll clasp him to my breast<br /></span> -<span class="i6">When homeward from the war he comes;<br /></span> -<span class="i4">The fires shall light the mountain’s crest,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">The valley peal with drums.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Twinkle, twinkle, pretty spindle, let the white wool drift and dwindle,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Oh! we weave a damask doublet for my love’s coat of steel.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hark! the timid, turning treadle, crooning soft old-fashioned ditties<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To the low, slow murmur of the brown, round wheel.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161">{161}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>A White Rose.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The red rose whispers of passion,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And the white rose breathes of love;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh, the red rose is a falcon,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And the white rose is a dove.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But I send you a cream-white rosebud<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With a flush on its petal tips;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For the love that is purest and sweetest<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Has a kiss of desire on the lips.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162">{162}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Fountain of Tears.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">ARTHUR O’SHAUGHNESSY</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">If you go over desert and mountain,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Far into the country of Sorrow,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To-day and to-night and to-morrow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And maybe for months and for years;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">You shall come with a heart that is bursting<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For trouble and toiling and thirsting,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You shall certainly come to the fountain<br /></span> -<span class="i0">At length,—to the Fountain of Tears.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Very peaceful the place is, and solely<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For piteous lamenting and sighing,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And those who come living or dying<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Alike from their hopes and their fears;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Full of Cyprus-like shadows the place is,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And statues that cover their faces:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But out of the gloom springs the holy<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And beautiful Fountain of Tears.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And it flows and it flows with a motion,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">So gentle and lovely and listless,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And murmurs a tune so resistless<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To him who hath suffered and hears—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">You shall surely—without a word spoken,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Kneel down there and know your heart broken,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And yield to the long-curb’d emotion<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That day by the Fountain of Tears.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">For it grows and it grows, as though leaping<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Up higher the more one is thinking;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And even its tunes go on sinking<br /></span> -<span class="i0">More poignantly into the ears:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Yea, so blessèd and good seems that fountain,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Reached after dry desert and mountain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You shall fall down at length in your weeping<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And bathe your sad face in the tears.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163">{163}</a></span></div> - -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then, alas! while you lie there a season,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And sob between living and dying,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And give up the land you were trying<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To find ’mid your hopes and your fears;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">—O the world shall come up and pass o’er you,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Strong men shall not stay to care for you,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor wonder indeed for what reason<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Your way should seem harder than theirs.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But perhaps, while you lie, never lifting<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Your cheek from the wet leaves it presses,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Nor caring to raise your wet tresses<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And look how the cold world appears,—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">O perhaps the mere silences round you<br /></span> -<span class="i2">All things in that place grief hath found you,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yea, e’en to the clouds o’er you drifting<br /></span> -<span class="i0">May soothe you somewhat through your tears.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">You may feel, when a falling leaf brushes<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Your face, as though someone had kissed you;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Or think at least some one who missed you<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hath sent you a thought,—if that cheers;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Or a bird’s little song faint and broken,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">May pass for a tender word spoken:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">—Enough, while around you there rushes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That life-drowning torrent of tears.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And the tears shall flow faster and faster,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Brim over, and baffle resistance,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And roll down bleared roads to each distance<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of past desolation and years;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Till they cover the place of each sorrow,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And leave you no Past and no Morrow:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For what man is able to master<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And stem the great Fountain of Tears?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164">{164}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But the floods of the tears meet and gather;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The sound of them all grows like thunder:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">—O into what bosom, I wonder,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is poured the whole sorrow of years?<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For Eternity only seems keeping<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Account of the great human weeping:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">May God then, the Maker and Father—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">May he find a place for the tears!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165">{165}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>After Death.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">FANNY PARNELL</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Shall mine eyes behold thy glory, O my country? Shall mine eyes behold thy glory?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or shall the darkness close around them, ere the sun-blaze break at last upon thy story?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When the nations ope for thee their queenly circle, as a sweet new sister hail thee,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shall these lips be sealed in callous death and silence, that have known but to bewail thee?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Shall the ear be deaf that only loved thy praises, when all men their tribute bring thee?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shall the mouth be clay that sang thee in thy squalor, when all poets’ mouths shall sing thee?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ah! the harpings and the salvos and the shouting of thy exiled sons returning!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I should hear, tho’ dead and mouldered, and the grave-damps should not chill my bosom’s burning.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ah! the tramp of feet victorious! I should hear them ’mid the shamrocks and the mosses,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And my heart should toss within the shroud and quiver as a captive dreamer tosses.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I should turn and rend the cere-clothes round me, giant sinews I should borrow—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Crying, “O my brothers, I have also loved her in her loneliness and sorrow.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Let me join with you the jubilant procession: let me chant with you her story;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then contented I shall go back to the shamrocks, now mine eyes have seen her glory!”<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166">{166}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Dead at Clonmacnois.<br /><br /> -(From the Irish of Enoch o’ Gillan.)</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">T. W. ROLLESTON</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In a quiet watered land, a land of roses,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Stands Saint Kieran’s City fair;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the warriors of Erin in their famous generations<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Slumber there.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the noblest of the<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Clan of Conn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Each below his stone with name in branching Ogham<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And the sacred knot thereon.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">There the sons of Cairbrè sleep—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Battle banners of the Gael, that in Kieran’s plain of crosses<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Now their final posting keep.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And right many a lord of Breagh;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Deep the sod above Clan Creidè and Clan Conaill,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Kind in hall and fierce in fray.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-Fighter<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In the red earth lies at rest;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Many a swan-white breast.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167">{167}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Unknown Ideal.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">DORA SIGERSON</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Whose is the voice that will not let me rest?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I hear it speak.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where is the shore will gratify my quest,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Show what I seek?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Not yours, weak Muse, to mimic that far voice,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With halting tongue;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">No peace, sweet land, to bid my heart rejoice<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Your groves among.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Whose is the loveliness I know is by,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet cannot place?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is it perfection of the sea or sky,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or human face?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Not yours, my pencil, to delineate<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The splendid smile!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Blind in the sun, we struggle on with Fate<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That glows the while.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Whose are the feet that pass me, echoing<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On unknown ways?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whose are the lips that only part to sing<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through all my days?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Not yours, fond youth, to fill mine eager eyes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That still adore<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beauty that tarries not, nor satisfies<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For evermore.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168">{168}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Mo Cáilin Donn.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">GEORGE SIGERSON</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The blush is on the flower, and the bloom is on the tree,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the bonnie, bonnie sweet birds are carolling their glee;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the dews upon the grass are made diamonds by the sun,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All to deck a path of glory for my own <span class="gesh">Cáilin Donn</span>!<a name="FNanchor_23_23" id="FNanchor_23_23"></a><a href="#Footnote_23_23" class="fnanchor">[23]</a><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">O, fair she is! O, rare she is! O, dearer still to me!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">More welcome than the green leaf to winter-stricken tree,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">More welcome than the blossom to the weary, dusty bee,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Is the coming of my true love—my own <span class="gesh">Cáilin Donn</span>!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O Sycamore! O Sycamore! wave, wave your banners green—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Let all your pennons flutter, O Beech! before my queen!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ye fleet and honied breezes, to kiss her hand ye run;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But my heart has passed before ye to my own <span class="gesh">Cáilin Donn</span>!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">O, fair she is! O, rare she is! O, dearer still to me!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ring out, ring out, O Linden! your merry leafy bells!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Unveil your brilliant torches, O Chestnut! to the dells;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Strew, strew the glade with splendour, for morn it cometh on!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh, the morn of all delight to me—my own <span class="gesh">Cáilin Donn</span>!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">O, fair she is! O, rare she is! O, dearer still to me!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169">{169}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="sidenote">GEORGE SIGERSON</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She is coming, where we parted, where she wanders every day;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There’s a gay surprise before her who thinks me far away;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O, like hearing bugles triumph when the fight of Freedom’s won,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is the joy around your footsteps, my own <span class="gesh">Cáilin Donn</span>!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">O, fair she is! O, rare she is! O, dearer still to me!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">More welcome than the green leaf to winter-stricken tree,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">More welcome than the blossom to the weary, dusty bee,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Is your coming, O my true love—my own <span class="gesh">Cáilin Donn</span>!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170">{170}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>An Irish Love Song.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">JOHN TODHUNTER</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O, you plant the pain in my heart with your wistful eyes,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Girl of my choice, Maureen!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Will you drive me mad for the kisses your shy sweet mouth denies,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Maureen!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Like a walking ghost I am, and no words to woo,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">White rose of the West, Maureen;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For it’s pale you are, and the fear that’s on you is over me too,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Maureen!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sure it’s our complaint that’s on us, <span class="gesh">asthore</span>, this day,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Bride of my dreams, Maureen;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The smart of the bee that stung us, his honey must cure, they say,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Maureen!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I’ll coax the light to your eyes, and the rose to your face,<br /></span> -<span class="i4"><span class="gesh">Mavourneen</span>, my own Maureen,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When I feel the warmth of your breast, and your nest is my arms’ embrace,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Maureen!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O where was the King o’ the World that day—only me,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">My one true love, Maureen,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And you the Queen with me there, and your throne in my heart, <span class="gesh">machree</span>,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Maureen!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171">{171}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Sunburst.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">JOHN TODHUNTER</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Through the midnight of despair, I heard one making moan<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For her dead, her victors fall’n to gain all battles but her own;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I heard the voice of Ireland, wailing for her dead<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With wailing unavailing, and sobbing as she said:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“In vain in many a battle have my heroes fought and bled,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like water, in vain slaughter, my sons’ best blood been shed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For my house is desolate, discrowned my head!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“In vain my daughters bear their babes—babes with the mournful eyes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of children without father that hear strange lullabies,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rocked in their lonely cradles by mothers crooning low,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And weeping o’er their sleeping, sad songs of long ago;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whose eyes, as they remember, while the wailing night-winds blow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Their nation’s desolation, in their singing overflow<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With the overflowing of an ancient woe!”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O Mother, mournful Mother, turn from wailing for thy dead,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Grey Sibyl, still unvanquished, lift up thy dauntless head,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O thou Swan among the nations, enchanted long, so long<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That the story of thy glory is a half-forgotten song,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lift thy voice and bless the living, thy sons who round thee throng!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the hour of their power they shall right thine ancient wrong;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In thyself is thy salvation, let thy heart be strong!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172">{172}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The Leaf of many Sorrows, wet with thy tears for dew,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Emblem of thy long patience; that hearts, as brave and true<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As those united hearts of green, through infamy and scorn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through the nation’s tribulations, like Saints the cross, have worn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We’ll blazon with the Sunburst, star of thy destined morn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Set in hope’s hue, our ancient blue on royal banners borne;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And green the Shamrock long shall shine, no more forlorn!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173">{173}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Song.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">JOHN TODHUNTER</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Bring from the craggy haunts of birch and pine.<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Thou wild wind, bring<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Keen forest odours from that realm of thine,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Upon thy wing!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O wind, O mighty, melancholy wind,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Blow through me, blow!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou blowest forgotten things into my mind,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">From long ago.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174">{174}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Winter Sunset.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">KATHERINE TYNAN</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Roses in the sky,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Roses in the sea;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bowers of scarlet sky-roses;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Take my heart and me.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">God was good to make,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">This December weather,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All this sky a rose-garden,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Rose and fire together.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">To the East are burning<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Roses in a garden,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Roses in a rosy field,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Hesper for their warden.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Yonder to the West<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Roses all afire,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mirror now some rare splendid<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Rose of their desire.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Pulsing deeper, deeper,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Waves of fire throb on,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Never were such red roses<br /></span> -<span class="i2">At sunset or dawn.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Roses on the hills,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Roses in the hollow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Roses on the wet hedges,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In the shining fallow.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">West wind, blow and blow!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That has blown ajar<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gates of God’s great rose-garden,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Where His Angels are,<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Gathering up the rose-leaves<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For a shower of roses<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the night the Lord Babe<br /></span> -<span class="i2">His sweet eye uncloses.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175">{175}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="sidenote">KATHERINE TYNAN</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">All the sky is scarlet<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Flaming on the azure.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O, there’s fire in Heaven!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My heart aches with pleasure.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Leagues of rose and scarlet,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Roses red as blood:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All the world’s a rose-garden.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">God is good, is good.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176">{176}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Shamrock Song.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O, the red rose may be fair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the lily statelier;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But my shamrock, one in three,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Takes the very heart of me!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Many a lover hath the rose<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When June’s musk-wind breathes and blows:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And in many a bower is heard<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her sweet praise from bee and bird.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Through the gold hours dreameth she,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In her warm heart passionately,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her fair face hung languid-wise:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O, her breath of honey and spice!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Like a fair saint virginal<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Stands your lily, silver and tall;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Over all the flowers that be<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is my shamrock dear to me.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Shines the lily like the sun,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Crystal-pure, a cold, sweet nun;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With her austere lip she sings<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To her heart of heavenly things.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Gazeth through a night of June<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To her sister-saint, the moon;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With the stars communeth long<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of the angels and their song.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But when summer died last year<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rose and lily died with her;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shamrock stayeth every day,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Be the winds or gold or grey.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Irish hills, as grey as the dove,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Know the little plant I love;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Warm and fair it mantles them<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Stretching down from throat to hem.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177">{177}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="sidenote">KATHERINE TYNAN</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And it laughs o’er many a vale,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sheltered safe from storm and gale;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sky and sun and stars thereof<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Love the gentle plant I love.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Soft it clothes the ruined floor<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of many an abbey, grey and hoar,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the still home of the dead<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With its green is carpeted.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Roses for an hour of love,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With the joy and pain thereof:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Stand my lilies white to see<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All for prayer and purity.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">These are white as the harvest moon,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Roses flush like the heart of June;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But my shamrock, brave and gay,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Glads the tired eyes every day.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O, the red rose shineth rare,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the lily saintly fair;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But my shamrock, one in three,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Takes the inmost heart of me!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178">{178}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Wild Geese.<br /><br /> -(A Lament for the Irish Jacobites.)</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">KATHERINE TYNAN</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I have heard the curlew crying<br /></span> -<span class="i2">On a lonely moor and mere;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the sea-gull’s shriek in the gloaming<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Is a lonely sound in the ear:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I’ve heard the brown thrush mourning<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For her children stolen away;—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But it’s O for the homeless Wild Geese<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That sailed ere the dawn of day!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">For the curlew out on the moorland<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Hath five fine eggs in the nest;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the thrush will get her a new love<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And sing her song with the best.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As the swallow flies to the Summer<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Will the gull return to the sea:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But never the wings of the Wild Geese<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Will flash over seas to me.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And ’tis ill to be roaming, roaming<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With homesick heart in the breast!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And how long I’ve looked for your coming,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And my heart is the empty nest!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O sore in the land of the stranger<br /></span> -<span class="i2">They’ll pine for the land far away!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But day of Aughrim, my sorrow,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">It was you was the bitter day!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179">{179}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Dreams.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">CHARLES WEEKES</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I troubled in my dream. I knew<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The silent gates and walls.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Around me out of shadow grew<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The steady waterfalls.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Afar the raven spot-like flew<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Where nothing wakes or calls.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I fell on deeper trance. I was<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Where all the dead are hid.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They dreamed. They did not sleep, because<br /></span> -<span class="i2">They saw with lifted lid.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They worked with neither word nor pause:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I knew not what they did.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I stood there with the dead in hell<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Dreaming, and heard no moan.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The light died, and the darkness fell<br /></span> -<span class="i2">About me like a stone.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I woke upon the midnight bell<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In God’s dream here alone.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180">{180}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Poppies.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">CHARLES WEEKES</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The sudden night is here at once:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The lost lamb cries and runs and stands,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For all the poppy cups are hands<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To seize and take him when he runs.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The dusky cups are blood colour;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And like a cup of blood this one<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To drink, and be with Babylon,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And love and kiss the lips of her.—<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="gesh">Thy sins as snow!</span>—just then it burned<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The dark—a flaming face and bust;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And just beneath here in the dust<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Scarlet Woman laughed and turned.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181">{181}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>They went forth to the Battle, but they always fell.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">W. B. YEATS</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The tall thought-woven sails that flap unfurled<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Above the tide of hours, rise on the air,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And God’s bell buoyed to be the waters’ care,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And pressing on, or lingering slow with fear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The throngs with blown wet hair are gathering near<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Turn if ye may,” I call out to each one,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“From the grey ships and battles never won.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Danger no refuge holds, and war no peace,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For him who hears Love sing and never cease<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beside her clean swept hearth, her quiet shade;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But gather all for whom no Love hath made<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A woven silence, or but came to cast<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A song into the air, and singing past<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To smile upon her stars; and gather you,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who have sought more than is in rain or dew,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or in the sun and moon, or on the earth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or sighs amid the wandering, starry mirth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or comes in laughter from the sea’s sad lips,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And wage God’s battles in the long grey ships.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The sad, the lonely, the insatiable,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To these Old Night shall all her mystery tell,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">God’s bell has claimed them by the little cry<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of their sad hearts that may not live nor die.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The bell that calls us on—the sweet far thing.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beauty grown sad with its eternity,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Made you of us and of the dim grey sea.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Our long ships loose thought-woven sails and wait,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For God has bid them share an equal fate;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182">{182}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">And when at last defeated in His wars,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They have gone down under the same white stars,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We shall no longer hear the little cry<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of our sad hearts that may not live nor die.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183">{183}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The White Birds.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">W. B. YEATS</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can pass by and flee;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the rim of the sky,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Has awaked in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that never may die.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A weariness comes from those dreamers, dew dabbled, the lily and rose,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ah, dream not of them, my beloved, the flame of the meteor that goes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or the flame of the blue star that lingers hung low in the fall of the dew:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For I would we were changed to white birds on the wandering foam—I and you.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I am haunted by numberless islands, and many a Danaan shore,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where Time would surely forget us, and Sorrow come near us no more,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Soon far from the rose and the lily, and the fret of the flames would we be,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoyed out on the foam of the sea.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184">{184}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Lake of Innisfree.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">W. B. YEATS</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And live alone in the bee-loud glade.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And evening full of the linnet’s wings.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I will arise and go now, for always night and day<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While I stand on the roadway or on the pavements gray,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I hear it in the deep heart’s core.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185">{185}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>II<br /><br /> -SCOTO-CELTIC<br /><br /> -(Middle Period)<br /><br /> -</h3> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186">{186}</a></span> </p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187">{187}</a></span> </p> - -<h3>From the “Sean Dana.”<br /><br /> -Prologue to Gaul.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">LATER GAELIC</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">How mournful is the silence of Night<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When she pours her dark clouds over the valleys!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sleep has overcome the youth of the chase:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He slumbers on the heath, and his dog at his knee.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The children of the mountain he pursues<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In his dream, while sleep forsakes him.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">Slumber, ye children of fatigue;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Star after star is now ascending the height.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Slumber! thou swift dog and nimble,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ossian will arouse thee not from thy repose.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lonely I keep watch,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And dear to me is the gloom of night<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When I travel from glen to glen,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With no hope to behold a morning or brightness.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">Spare thy light, O Sun!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Waste not thy lamps so fast.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Generous is thy soul, as the King of Morven’s:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But thy renown shall yet fade;—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Spare thy lamps of a thousand flames<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In thy blue hall, when thou retirest<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Under thy dark-blue gates to sleep,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beneath the dark embraces of the storm.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Spare them, ere thou art forsaken for ever,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As I am, without one whom I may love!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Spare them,—for there is not a hero now<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To behold the blue flame of the beautiful lamps!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">Ah, Cona of the precious lights,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy lamps burn dimly now:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou art like a blasted oak:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy dwellings and thy people are gone<br /></span> -<span class="i0">East or west, on the face of thy mountain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There shall no more be found of them but the trace!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188">{188}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">In Selma, Tara, or Temora<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There is not a song, a shell, or a harp;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They have all become green mounds;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Their stones have fallen into their own meadows;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The stranger from the deep or the desert<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Will never behold them rise above the clouds.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">And, O Selma! home of my delight,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is this heap my ruin,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where grows the thistle, the heather, and the wild grass?<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189">{189}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>In Hebrid Seas.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">LATER GAELIC</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We turned her prow into the sea,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Her stern into the shore,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And first we raised the tall tough masts,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And then the canvas hoar;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Fast filled our towering cloud-like sails,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For the wind came from the land,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And such a wind as we might choose<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Were the winds at our command:<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A breeze that rushing down the hill<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Would strip the blooming heather,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or, rustling through the green-clad grove,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Would whirl its leaves together.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But when it seized the aged saugh,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With the light locks of grey,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It tore away its ancient root,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And there the old trunk lay!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">It raised the thatch too from the roof,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And scattered it along;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then tossed and whirled it through the air,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Singing a pleasant song.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">It heaped the ruins on the land:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Though sire and son stood by<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They could no help afford, but gaze<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With wan and troubled eye!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A flap, a flash, the green roll dashed,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And laughed against the red;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Upon our boards, now here, now there,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">It knocked its foamy head.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The dun bowed whelk in the abyss,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">As on the galley bore,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gave a tap upon her gunwale<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And a slap upon her floor.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190">{190}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She could have split a slender straw—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">So clean and well she went—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As still obedient to the helm<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Her stately course she bent.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We watched the big beast eat the small—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The small beast nimbly fly,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And listened to the plunging eels—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The sea-gull’s clang on high.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We had no other music<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To cheer us on our way:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till round those sheltering hills we passed<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And anchored in this bay.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191">{191}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Cumha Ghriogair Mhic Griogair.<br /><br /> -(The Lament of Gregor MacGregor.)</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">LATER GAELIC</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Early on a Lammas morning,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With my husband was I gay;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But my heart got sorely wounded<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Ere the middle of the day.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Though I cry, my child, with thee—<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Now he hears not thee nor me!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Malison on judge and kindred,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">They have wrought me mickle woe;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With deceit they came about us,—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Through deceit they laid him low.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Had they met but twelve MacGregors,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With my Gregor at their head;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Now my child had not been orphaned,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Nor these bitter tears been shed.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">On an oaken block they laid him,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And they spilt his blood around;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’d have drunk it in a goblet<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Largely, ere it reached the ground.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Would my father then had sickened—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Colin, with the plague been ill;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Though Rory’s daughter, in her anguish,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Smote her palms, and cried her fill.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192">{192}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I could Colin shut in prison,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And black Duncan put in ward,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Every Campbell now in Bealach,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Bind with handcuffs, close and hard.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When I reached the plain of Bealach,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I got there no rest, nor calm;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But my hair I tore in pieces,—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Wore the skin from off each palm!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Oh! could I fly up with the skylark—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Had I Gregor’s strength in hand;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The highest stone that’s in yon castle<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Should lie lowest on the land.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Would I saw Finlarig blazing,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And the smoke of Bealach smelled,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So that fair, soft-handed Gregor<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In these arms once more I held.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">While the rest have all got lovers<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Now a lover have I none;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My fair blossom, fresh and fragrant,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Withers on the ground alone.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">While all other wives the night-time<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Pass in slumber’s balmy bands,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I upon my bedside weary,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Never cease to wring my hands.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193">{193}</a></span></div> -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">For, far better be with Gregor<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Where the heather’s in its prime,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Than with mean and Lowland barons<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In a house of stone and lime.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i8">Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Greatly better be with Gregor<br /></span> -<span class="i4">In a mantle rude and torn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Than with little Lowland barons<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Where fine silk and lace are worn.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i8">Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Though it rained and roared together,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">All throughout the stormy day,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gregor, in a crag, could find me<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A kind shelter where to stay.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i8">Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Bahu, bahu, little nursling—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Oh! so tender now and weak;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I fear the day will never brighten<br /></span> -<span class="i2">When revenge for him you’ll seek.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i8">Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri,<br /></span> -<span class="i10">Though I cry, my child, with thee—<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri,<br /></span> -<span class="i10">Yet he hears not thee nor me!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194">{194}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Drowned.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">LATER GAELIC</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">No wonder my heart it is sore,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">No wonder the tears that I weep;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My true love I’ll see him no more,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">He lies fathoms down in the deep.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He lies fathoms down in the deep,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Where the cold clammy seaweeds abound.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How cruel thy wild waves to me,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">O sea that my true love hast drowned!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O sea that my true love hast drowned,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thou hast reft me of joy evermore;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy waves make me shudder with fear<br /></span> -<span class="i2">As I listen and hear their wild roar.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My true love and I, hand in hand,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Often wandered the uplands among,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the wild flowers are freshest to see,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And the wild birds are freest of song;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But alas for the days that are gone,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Alas for my sorrow and me!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Alas that my true love is drowned<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Fathoms down in the depths of the sea!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195">{195}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Manning of the Birlinn.<br /><br /> -The Sailing.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">ALEXANDER MACDONALD</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The sun had opened golden yellow,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">From his case,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Though still the sky wore dark and drumly<br /></span> -<span class="i6">A scarr’d and frowning face:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then troubled, tawny, dense, dun-bellied,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Scowling and sea-blue,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Every dye that’s in the tartan<br /></span> -<span class="i6">O’er it grew.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Far away to the wild westward<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Grim it lowered,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where rain-charged clouds on thick squalls wandering<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Loomed and towered.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Up they raised the speckled sails through<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Cloud-like light,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And stretched them on the mighty halyards,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Tense and tight.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">High on the mast so tall and stately—<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Dark-red in hue—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They set them firmly, set them surely,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Set them true.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Round the iron pegs the ropes ran,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Each its right ring through;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thus having ranged the tackle rarely,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Well and carefully,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Every man sat waiting bravely,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Where he ought to be.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For now the airy windows opened,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And from spots of bluish grey<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Let loose the keen and crabbed wild winds—<br /></span> -<span class="i6">A fierce band were they—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Twas then his dark cloak the ocean<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Round him drew.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dusky, livid, ruffling, whirling,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Round at first it flew,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196">{196}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till up he swell’d to mountains, or to glens,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Dishevelled, rough, sank down—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While the kicking, tossing waters<br /></span> -<span class="i6">All in hills had grown.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Its blue depth opened in huge maws,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Wild and devouring,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Down which, clasped in deadly struggles,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Fierce strong waves were pouring.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It took a man to look the storm-winds<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Right in the face—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As they lit up the sparkling spray on every surge-hill,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">In their fiery race.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The waves before us, shrilly yelling,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Raised their high heads hoar,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While those behind, with moaning trumpets,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Gave a bellowing roar.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When we rose up aloft, majestic,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">On the heaving swell,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Need was to pull in our canvas<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Smart and well:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When she sank down with one huge swallow<br /></span> -<span class="i6">In the hollow glen,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Every sail she bore aloft<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Was given to her then.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The drizzling surges high and roaring<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Rush’d on us louting,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Long ere they were near us come,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">We heard their shouting:—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They roll’d sweeping up the little waves<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Scourging them bare,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till all became one threatening swell,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Our steersman’s care.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When down we fell from off the billows’<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Towering shaggy edge,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Our keel was well-nigh hurled against<br /></span> -<span class="i6">The shells and sedge;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197">{197}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">The whole sea was lashing, dashing,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">All through other:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It kept the seals and mightiest monsters<br /></span> -<span class="i6">In a pother!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The fury and the surging of the water,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And our good ship’s swift way<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Spatter’d their white brains on each billow,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Livid and grey.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With piteous wailing and complaining<br /></span> -<span class="i6">All the storm-tossed horde,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shouted out “We’re now your subjects;<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Drag us on board.”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the small fish of the ocean<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Turn’d over their white breast—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dead, innumerable, with the raging<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Of the furious sea’s unrest.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The stones and shells of the deep channel<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Were in motion;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Swept from out their lowly bed<br /></span> -<span class="i6">By the tumult of the ocean;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till the sea, like a great mess of pottage,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Troubled, muddy grew<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With the blood of many mangled creatures,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Dirty red in hue—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the horn’d and clawy wild beasts,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Short-footed, splay,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With great wailing gumless mouths<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Huge and wide open lay.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But the whole deep was full of spectres,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Loose and sprawling<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With the claws and with the tails of monsters,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Pawing, squalling.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It was frightful even to hear them<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Screech so loudly;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The sound might move full fifty heroes<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Stepping proudly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198">{198}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Our whole crew grew dull of hearing<br /></span> -<span class="i6">In the tempest’s scowl,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So sharp the quavering cries of demons<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And the wild beasts’ howl.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With the oaken planks the weltering waves were wrestling<br /></span> -<span class="i6">In their noisy splashing;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While the sharp beak of our swift ship<br /></span> -<span class="i6">On the sea-pigs came dashing.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The wind kept still renewing all its wildness<br /></span> -<span class="i6">In the far West,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till with every kind of strain and trouble<br /></span> -<span class="i6">We were sore distress’d.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We were blinded with the water<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Showering o’er us ever;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the awful night like thunder,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And the lightning ceasing never.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The bright fireballs in our tackling<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Flamed and smoked;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With the smell of burning brimstone<br /></span> -<span class="i6">We were well-nigh choked.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All the elements above, below,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Against us wrought;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Earth and wind and fire and water,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">With us fought.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But when the evil one defied the sea<br /></span> -<span class="i6">To make us yield,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">At last, with one bright smile of pity,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Peace with us she seal’d:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet not before our yards were injured,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And our sails were rent,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Our poops were strained, our oars were weaken’d,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">All our masts were bent.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Not a stay but we had started,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Our tackling all was wet and splashy,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nails and couplings, twisted, broken.<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Feeshie, fashie,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199">{199}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">All the thwarts and all the gunwale<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Everywhere confess’d,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all above and all below,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">How sore they had been press’d.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Not a bracket, not a rib,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">But the storm had loosed;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fore and aft from stem to stern,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">All had got confused.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Not a tiller but was split,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And the helm was wounded;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Every board its own complaint<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Sadly sounded.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Every trennel, every fastening<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Had been giving way;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Not a board remain’d as firm<br /></span> -<span class="i6">As at the break of day.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Not a bolt in her but started,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Not a rope the wind that bore,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Not a part of the whole vessel<br /></span> -<span class="i6">But was weaker than before.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The sea spoke to us its peace prattle<br /></span> -<span class="i6">At the cross of Islay’s Kyle,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the rough wind, bitter boaster!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Was restrained for one good while.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The tempest rose from off us into places<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Lofty in the upper air,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And after all its noisy barking<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Ruffled round us fair.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then we gave thanks to the High King,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Who rein’d the wind’s rude breath,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And saved our good Clan Ranald<br /></span> -<span class="i6">From a bad and brutal death.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then we furl’d up the fine and speckled sails<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Of linen wide,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And we took down the smooth red dainty masts,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And laid them by the side<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200">{200}</a></span>—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On our long and slender polish’d oars<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Together leaning—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They were all made of the fir cut by Mac Barais<br /></span> -<span class="i6">In Eilean Fionain—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We went with our smooth, dashing rowing,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And steady shock,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till we reach’d the good port round the point<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Of Fergus’ Rock.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There casting anchor peacefully<br /></span> -<span class="i6">We calmly rode;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We got meat and drink in plenty,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And there we abode.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201">{201}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Lament of the Deer.<br /><br /> -(Cumha nam Fiadh.)</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">ANGUS MACKENZIE</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O for my strength! once more to see the hills!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The wilds of Strath-Farar of stags,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The blue streams, and winding vales,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the flowering tree sends forth its sweet perfume.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My thoughts are sad and dark!—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I lament the forest where I loved to roam,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The secret corries, the haunt of hinds,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where often I watched them on the hill!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Corrie-Garave! O that I was within thy bosom<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Scuir-na-Làpaich of steeps, with thy shelter,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where feed the herds which never seek for stalls,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But whose skin gleams red in the sunshine of the hills.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Great was my love in youth, and strong my desire,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Towards the bounding herds;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But now, broken, and weak, and hopeless,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Their remembrance wounds my heart.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">To linger in the laich<a name="FNanchor_24_24" id="FNanchor_24_24"></a><a href="#Footnote_24_24" class="fnanchor">[24]</a> I mourn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My thoughts are ever in the hills;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For there my childhood and my youth was nursed—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The moss and the craig in the morning breeze was my delight.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then was I happy in my life,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the voices of the hill sung sweetly;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">More sweet to me, than any string,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It soothed my sorrow or rejoiced my heart.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My thoughts wandered to no other land<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beyond the hill of the forest, the shealings of the deer,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the nimble herds ascended the hill,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As I lay in my plaid on the dewy bed.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202">{202}</a></span></div> - -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The sheltering hollows, where I crept towards the hart,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the pastures of the glen, or in the forest wilds—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And if once more I may see them as of old,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How will my heart bound to watch again the pass!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Great was my joy to ascend the hills<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the cause of the noble chief,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mac Shimé of the piercing eye—never to fail at need,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With all his brave Frasers, gathered beneath his banner.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When they told of his approach, with all his ready arms,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My heart bounded for the chase—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the rugged steep, on the broken hill,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By hollow, and ridge, many were the red stags which he laid low.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He is the pride of hunters; my trust was in his gun,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the sound of its shot rung in my ear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The grey ball launched in flashing fire,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the dun stag fell in the rushing speed of his course.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When evening came down on the hill,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The time for return to the star of the glen,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The kindly lodge where the noble gathered,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The sons of the tartan and the plaid,<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">With joy and triumph they returned<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the dwelling of plenty and repose;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The bright blazing hearth—the circling wine—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The welcome of the noble chief!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203">{203}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Ben Dorain.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">DUNCAN BAN MACINTYRE</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The honour o’er each hill<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Hath Ben Dorain;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Scene, to me, the sweetest still<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That day dawns upon:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Its long moor’s level way,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And its nooks whence wild deer stray,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the lustre on the brae<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Oft I’ve lauded them.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Dear to me its dusky boughs,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In the wood where green grass grows,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the stately herd repose,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Or there wander slow;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But the troops with bellies white,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">When the chase comes into sight,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then I love to watch their flight,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Going nosily.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The stag is airy, brisk, and light,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And no pomp has he;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Though his garb’s the fashion quite,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Never haughty he:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet a mantle’s round him spread,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Not soon threadbare, then shed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And its hue as wax is red—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Fairly clothing him.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The delight I felt to rise<br /></span> -<span class="i2">At the morning’s call!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And to see the troops I prize<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The hills thronging all:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ten score with stately tread,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And with light uplifted head,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Quite unpampered there that fed,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Fond and fawning all.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204">{204}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Lightsomely there came<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From each clean and shapely frame,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through their murmuring lips, a tame<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Chant, with drawling fall.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the pool one rolled a low—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With the hind one played the beau,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As she trotted to and fro,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Looking saucily.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I would rather have the deer<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Gasping moaningly,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Than all Erin’s songs to hear<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sung melodiously;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For above the finest bass<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Hath the stag’s sweet voice a grace,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As he bellows on the face<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of Ben Dorain.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Loud and long he gives a roar<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From his very inmost core,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Which is heard behind, before,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Far and fallingly;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But the hind of softer notes,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With her calf that near her trots,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Match each other’s tuneful throats,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Crying longingly.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Her eye’s soft and tender ray<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With no flaw in it,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O’er whose lid the brow is gray,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Guides her wandering feet:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Very well she walks, and bold,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Lively o’er the russet wold,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tripping from her desert hold<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Most undauntingly.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Faultless is her pace,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And her leap is full of grace—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ha! the last when in the race<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Never saw I her:<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205">{205}</a></span></div> -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When she takes yon startled stride,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Nor once turns her head aside,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Aught to match her hasty pride<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Is not known to me.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But now she’s on the heath,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">As she ought to be,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the tender grass she seeth,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Growing dawtily;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The dry bent, the moor grass bare,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With the sappy herbs are there,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That make fat, and full, and fair,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Her plump quarters all.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And those little wells are nigh,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Where the water-cresses lie,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Above wine she likes to try<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Their waves’ solacing;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of the rye-grass, twisted rows,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">On the rude hill side it grows,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Than of rarest festal shows,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Is she fonder far.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The choice increase of the earth<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Forms her joyous treat;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The primrose, St John’s wort,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Tops of gowans sweet,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The new buds of the groves,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The soft heath o’er which she roves,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Are the tit-bits that she loves,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With good cause too.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">For speckled, spotted, rare,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Tall, and fine, and fair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From such food before her there<br /></span> -<span class="i2">She grows sonsily;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And it is still the surest mean<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To cure the weak ones and the lean,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who for any time have been<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Wasted, wan, and low.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206">{206}</a></span></div> -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Soon it would clothe their back<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With the garb which most they lack—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That rich fat, which they can pack<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Most commodiously.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She’s a flighty young hind<br /></span> -<span class="i2">When leaves ward her,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nearer her haunts where they bind<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The brae border:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lightsome and urbane<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Is her gay heart, free of stain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tho’ rash head and somewhat vain—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Somewhat thoughtless.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Yet her form, so full of grace,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">She keeps hiding in a place,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the green glen shows no trace<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of a falling off;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But she’s so healthy, and so clean—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">So chaste where’er she’s seen—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Should you kiss her lips, I ween<br /></span> -<span class="i2">’Twould not cause you shame.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Greatly prized is she, I know,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">By the stag with crested brow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whose thundering hoofs around him throw<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Such a saucy sound;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When with him she meets the view<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Red and yellow in her hue,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And of virtues not a few<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That belong to her,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then too is she free of fear,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And in speed without a peer,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the primest ear to hear<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In all Europe’s hers.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Oh! how sweetly they embrace,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Young and fawning,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When they gather to their place<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In the gloaming;<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207">{207}</a></span></div> -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There, till silent night is by,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Never terror comes them nigh,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While beneath the bush they lie—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Their known haunt of old.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Let the wild herd seek their bed,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Let them slumber, free of dread,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where yon mighty moor is spread,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Broad and brawly;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where, with joy, I’ve often spied<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The sun colour their red hide,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As they wandered in their pride<br /></span> -<span class="i2">O’er Ben Dorain.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208">{208}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Hill-Water.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">From the rim it trickles down<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of the mountain’s granite crown<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Clear and cool;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Keen and eager though it go<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through your veins with lively flow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet it knoweth not to reign<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the chambers of the brain<br /></span> -<span class="i4">With misrule;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Where dark water-cresses grow<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You will trace its quiet flow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With mossy border yellow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So mild, and soft, and mellow,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">In its pouring.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With no shiny dregs to trouble<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The brightness of its bubble<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As it threads its silver way<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From the granite shoulders grey<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Of Ben Dorain.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then down the sloping side<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It will slip with glassy slide<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Gently welling,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till it gather strength to leap,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With a light and foamy sweep,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the corrie broad and deep<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Proudly swelling;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then bends amid the boulders,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Neath the shadow of the shoulders<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Of the Ben,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through a country rough and shaggy,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So jaggy and so knaggy,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209">{209}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Full of hummocks and of hunches,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Full of stumps and tufts and bunches,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Full of bushes and of rushes,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">In the glen,<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Through rich green solitudes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And wildly hanging woods<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With blossom and with bell,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In rich redundant swell,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">And the pride<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of the mountain daisy there,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the forest everywhere,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With the dress and with the air<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Of a bride.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210">{210}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Song for Macleod of Macleod.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">MARY MACLEOD</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Alone on the hill-top,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sadly and silently,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Downward on Islay<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And over the sea—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I look and I wonder<br /></span> -<span class="i2">How time hath deceived me:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A stranger in Muile<a name="FNanchor_25_25" id="FNanchor_25_25"></a><a href="#Footnote_25_25" class="fnanchor">[25]</a><br /></span> -<span class="i2">Who ne’er thought to be.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ne’er thought it, my island!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Where rests the deep dark shade<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy grand mossy mountains<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For ages have made—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">God bless thee, and prosper!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thy chief of the sharp blade,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All over these islands,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">His fame never fade!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Never fade it, Sir Norman!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For well ’tis the right<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of thy name to win credit<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In council or fight;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By wisdom, by shrewdness,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">By spirit, by might,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By manliness, courage,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">By daring, by sleight.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In council or fight, thy kindred<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Know these should be thine—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Branch of Lochlin’s wide-ruling<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And king-bearing line!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And in Erin they know it—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Far over the brine:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">No Earl would in Albin<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thy friendship decline.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211">{211}</a></span></div> -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Yes! the nobles of Erin<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thy titles well know,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the honour and friendship<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of high and of low.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Born the deed-marks to follow,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thy father did show,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That friend of the noble—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That manliest foe.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">That friend of the noble—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From him art thou heir<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To virtues which Albin<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Was proud to declare:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Crown’d the best of her chieftains<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Long, long may’st thou wear<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The blossoms paternal<br /></span> -<span class="i2">His broad branches bare!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O banner’d Clan Ruari!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Whose loss is my woe,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of this chief who survives<br /></span> -<span class="i2">May I ne’er hear he’s low;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But, darling of mortals!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From him though I go,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Long the shapeliest, comeliest<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Form may he show!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The shapeliest, comeliest,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Faultless in bearing—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Cheerful, cordial, and kind,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The red and white wearing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Well looks the blue-eyed chief;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Blue, bright, and daring,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His eye o’er his red cheek shines,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Blue, bright, calmly daring.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">His red cheek shines,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Like hip on the brier-tree,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Neath the choicest of curly hair<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Waving and free.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212">{212}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">A warm hearth, a drinking cup,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Meet shall he see,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And a choice of good armour<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Whoe’er visits thee.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Drinking-horns, trenchers bright,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And arms old and new;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Long, narrow-bladed swords,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Cold, clear, and blue—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">These are seen in thy mansion,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With rifles and carbines, too;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And hempen-strung long-bows,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of hard, healthy yew.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Long-bows and cross-bows,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With strings that well wear;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Arrows, with polish’d heads,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In quivers full and fair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From the eagle’s wing feather’d,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With silk fine and rare;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And guns dear to purchase—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Long slender—are there.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My heart’s with thee, hero!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">May Mary’s son keep<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My stripling who loves<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The lone forest to sweep;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rejoicing to feel there<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The solitude deep<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of the long moor and valley,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And rough mountain steep.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The mountain steep searching<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And rough rocky chains;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The old dogs he caresses,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The young dogs he restrains:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then, soon from my chieftain’s spear<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The life-blood rains<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of the red-hided deer or doe<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And the green heather stains.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213">{213}</a></span></div> - -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Fall the red stag, the white-bellied doe;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Then stand on the heather,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy gentle companions,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Well arm’d altogether,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Well taught on the hunter’s craft,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Well skill’d in the weather;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They know the rough sea as well<br /></span> -<span class="i2">As the green heather!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215">{215}</a></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214">{214}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h2>III<br /><br /> -MODERN AND<br />CONTEMPORARY<br /> SCOTO-CELTIC<br /><br /> -</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216">{216}</a></span> </p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217">{217}</a></span> </p> - -<h3>Monaltri.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">ANON.</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There’s a sound on the hill,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Not of joy but of ailing;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dark-hair’d women mourn—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Beat their hands, with loud wailing.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They cry out, Ochon!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For the young Monaltri,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who went to the hill;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But home came not he.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Without snood, without plaid<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Katrina’s gone roaming.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O Katrina, my dear!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Homeward be coming.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Och! hear, on the castle<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Yon pretty bird singing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Snoodless and plaidless,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Her hands she is ringing.”<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218">{218}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>An Coineachan—A Highland Lullaby.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">Hó-bhan, hó-bhan, Goiridh òg O,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Goiridh òg O, Goiridh òg O;<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Hó-bhan, hó-bhan, Goiridh òg O,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">I’ve lost my darling baby O!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I left my darling lying here,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A-lying here, a-lying here;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I left my darling lying here,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">To go and gather blaeberries.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I’ve found the wee brown otter’s track,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The otter’s track, the otter’s track;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ve found the wee brown otter’s track,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">But ne’er a trace of baby O!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I found the track of the swan on the lake,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The swan on the lake, the swan on the lake;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I found the track of the swan on the lake,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">But not the track of baby O!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I found the track of the yellow fawn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The yellow fawn, the yellow fawn;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I found the track of the yellow fawn,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">But could not trace my baby O!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I’ve found the trail of the mountain mist,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The mountain mist, the mountain mist;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ve found the trail of the mountain mist,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">But ne’er a trace of baby O!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219">{219}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>A Boat Song.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">ANON.</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ho, my bonnie boatie,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou bonnie boatie mine!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So trim and tight a boatie<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was never launched on brine.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ho, my bonnie boatie,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My praise is justly thine<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Above all bonnie boaties<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Were builded on Loch Fyne!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6"><i>Hò mo bhàta laghach,</i><br /></span> -<span class="i6"><i>’S tu mo bhàta grinn;</i><br /></span> -<span class="i6"><i>Hò mo bhàta laghach,</i><br /></span> -<span class="i6"><i>’S tu mo bhàta grinn.</i><br /></span> -<span class="i6"><i>Hò mo bhàta laghach,</i><br /></span> -<span class="i6"><i>’S tu mo bhàta grinn:</i><br /></span> -<span class="i6"><i>Mo bhàta boidheach laghach,</i><br /></span> -<span class="i6"><i>Thogadh taobh Loch Fin.</i><br /></span> - -<span class="i0">To build thee up so firmly,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I knew the stuff was good;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy keel of stoutest elm-tree,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Well fixed in oaken wood;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy timbers ripely seasoned<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of cleanest Norway pine<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Well cased in ruddy copper,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To plough the deep were thine!<br /></span> -<span class="i6"><i>Hò mo bhàta, etc.</i><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">How lovely was my boatie<br /></span> -<span class="i0">At rest upon the shore,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Before my bonnie boatie<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Had known wild ocean’s roar.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy deck so smooth and stainless,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With such fine bend thy rim,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy seams that know no gaping,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy masts so tall and trim.<br /></span> -<span class="i6"><i>Hò mo bhàta, etc.</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220">{220}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And bonnie was my boatie<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Afloat upon the bay,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When smooth as mirror round her<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The heaving ocean lay;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While round the cradled boatie<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Light troops of plumy things<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To praise the bonnie boatie<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Made music with their wings.<br /></span> -<span class="i6"><i>Hò mo bhàta, etc.</i><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">How eager was my boatie<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To plough the swelling seas,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When o’er the curling waters<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Full sharply blew the breeze!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O, ’twas she that stood to windward,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The first among her peers,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When shrill the blasty music<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Came piping round her ears!<br /></span> -<span class="i6"><i>Hò mo bhàta, etc.</i><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And where the sea came surging<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In mountains from the west,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And reared the racing billow<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Its high and hissing crest;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She turned her head so deftly,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With skill so firmly shown,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The billows they went their way<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The boatie went her own.<br /></span> -<span class="i6"><i>Hò mo bhàta, etc.</i><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And when the sudden squall came<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Black swooping from the Ben,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And white the foam was spinning<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Around thy topmast then,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O never knew my boatie<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A thought of ugly dread,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But dashed right through the billow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With the spray-shower round her head!<br /></span> -<span class="i6"><i>Hò mo bhàta, etc.</i><br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221">{221}</a></span></div> - -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Yet wert thou never headstrong<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To stand with forward will,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When yielding was thy wisdom<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And caution was my skill.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How neatly and how nimbly<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou turned thee to the wind,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With thy leeside in the water<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And a swirling trail behind!<br /></span> -<span class="i6"><i>Hò mo bhàta, etc.</i><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">What though a lonely dwelling<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On barren shore I own,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My kingdom is the blue wave,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My boatie is my throne!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ll never want a dainty dish<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To breakfast or to dine,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While men may man my boatie<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And fish swim in Loch Fyne!<br /></span> -<span class="i6"><i>Hò mo bhàta laghach,</i><br /></span> -<span class="i6"><i>’S tu mo bhàta grinn.</i><br /></span> -<span class="i6"><i>Hò mo bhàta laghach,</i><br /></span> -<span class="i6"><i>’S tu mo bhàta grinn.</i><br /></span> -<span class="i6"><i>Hò mo bhàta laghach,</i><br /></span> -<span class="i6"><i>’S tu mo bhàta grinn:</i><br /></span> -<span class="i6"><i>Mo bhàta boidheach laghach,</i><br /></span> -<span class="i6"><i>Thogadh taobh Loch Fin.</i><br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222">{222}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Old Soldier of the Gareloch Head.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">JOHN STUART BLACKIE</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I’ve wander’d east and west,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And a soldier I hae been;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The scars upon my breast<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Tell the wars that I have seen.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But now I’m old and worn,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And my locks are thinly spread,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I’m come to die in peace,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">By the Gareloch Head.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When I was young and strong,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Oft a wandering I would go,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By the rough shores of Loch Long,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Up to lone Glencroe.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But now I’m fain to rest,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And my resting-place I’ve made,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the green and gentle bosom<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of the Gareloch Head.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Twas here my Jeanie grew,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Like a lamb amid the flocks,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With her eyes of bonnie blue,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And her gowden locks.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And here we often met,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">When with lightsome foot we sped,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O’er the green and grassy knolls<br /></span> -<span class="i2">At the Gareloch Head.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Twas here she pined and died—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">O! the salt tear in my e’e<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Forbids my heart to hide<br /></span> -<span class="i2">What Jeanie was to me!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Twas here my Jeanie died,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And they scoop’d her lowly bed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Neath the green and grassy turf<br /></span> -<span class="i2">At the Gareloch Head.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223">{223}</a></span></div> -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Like a leaf in leafy June,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From the leafy forest torn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She fell, and I’ll fall soon<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Like a sheaf of yellow corn.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For I’m sere and weary now,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And I soon shall make my bed<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With my Jeanie ’neath the turf<br /></span> -<span class="i2">At the Gareloch Head.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224">{224}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Flower of the World.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">ROBERT BUCHANAN</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Wherever men sinned and wept,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I wandered in my quest;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">At last in a Garden of God<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I saw the Flower of the World.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">This Flower had human eyes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Its breath was the breath of the mouth;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sunlight and starlight came,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the Flower drank bliss from both.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Whatever was base and unclean,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whatever was sad and strange,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was piled around its roots;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It drew its strength from the same.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Whatever was formless and base<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pass’d into fineness and form;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whatever was lifeless and mean<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Grew into beautiful bloom.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then I thought “O Flower of the World,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Miraculous Blossom of things,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Light as a faint wreath of snow<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou tremblest to fall in the wind:<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“O beautiful Flower of the World,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fall not nor wither away;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He is coming—He cannot be far—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Lord of the Flow’rs and the Stars.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And I cried, “O Spirit divine!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That walkest the Garden unseen,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Come hither, and bless, ere it dies,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The beautiful Flower of the World.”<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225">{225}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Strange Country.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">ROBERT BUCHANAN</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I have come from a mystical Land of Light<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To a Strange Country;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Land I have left is forgotten quite<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In the Land I see.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The round Earth rolls beneath my feet,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And the still Stars glow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The murmuring Waters rise and retreat,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The Winds come and go.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sure as a heart-beat all things seem<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In this Strange Country;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So sure, so still, in a dazzle of dream,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">All things flow free.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Tis life, all life, be it pleasure or pain,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In the Field and the Flood,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the beating Heart, in the burning Brain,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In the Flesh and the Blood.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Deep as Death is the daily strife<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of this Strange Country:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All things thrill up till they blossom in Life,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And flutter and flee.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Nothing is stranger than the rest,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From the pole to the pole,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The weed by the way, the eggs in the nest,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The Flesh and the Soul.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Look in mine eyes, O Man I meet<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In this Strange Country!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lie in my arms, O Maiden sweet,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With thy mouth kiss me!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226">{226}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Go by, O King, with thy crownèd brow<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And thy sceptred hand—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou art a straggler too, I vow,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From the same strange Land.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O wondrous Faces that upstart<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In this Strange Country!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O Souls, O Shades, that become a part<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of my Soul and me!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">What are ye working so fast and fleet,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">O Humankind?<br /></span> -<span class="iq">“We are building Cities for those whose feet<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Are coming behind;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“Our stay is short, we must fly again<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From this Strange Country;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But others are growing, women and men,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Eternally!”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Child, what art thou? and what am <i>I</i>?<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But a breaking wave!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rising and rolling on, we hie<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To the shore of the grave.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I have come from a mystical Land of Light<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To this Strange Country;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">This dawn I came, I shall go to-night,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Ay me! ay me!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I hold my hand to my head and stand<br /></span> -<span class="i2">’Neath the air’s blue arc,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I try to remember the mystical Land,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But all is dark.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And all around me swim Shapes like mine<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In this Strange Country;—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They break in the glamour of gleams divine,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And they moan “Ay me!”<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227">{227}</a></span></div> -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Like waves in the cold Moon’s silvern breath<br /></span> -<span class="i2">They gather and roll,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Each crest of white is a birth or a death,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Each sound is a Soul.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Oh, whose is the Eye that gleams so bright<br /></span> -<span class="i2">O’er this Strange Country?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It draws us along with a chain of light,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">As the Moon the Sea!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228">{228}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Dream of the World without Death.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Now, sitting by her side, worn out with weeping,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Behold, I fell to sleep, and had a vision,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wherein I heard a wondrous Voice intoning:<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Crying aloud, “The Master on His throne<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Openeth now the seventh seal of wonder,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And beckoneth back the angel men name Death.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And at His feet the mighty Angel kneeleth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Breathing not; and the Lord doth look upon him,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Saying, ’Thy wanderings on earth are ended.’<span class="lftspc">”</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And lo! the mighty Shadow sitteth idle<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Even at the silver gates of heaven,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Drowsily looking in on quiet waters,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And puts his silence among men no longer.<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><big>*</big><br /></span> - -<span class="i0">The world was very quiet. Men in traffic<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Cast looks over their shoulders; pallid seamen<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shivered to walk upon the decks alone;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And women barred their doors with bars of iron,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the silence of the night; and at the sunrise<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Trembled behind the husbandmen afield.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I could not see a kirkyard near or far;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I thirsted for a green grave, and my vision<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was weary for the white gleam of a tombstone.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But hearkening dumbly, ever and anon<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I heard a cry out of a human dwelling,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And felt the cold wind of a lost one’s going.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">One struck a brother fiercely, and he fell,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And faded in a darkness; and that other<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tore his hair, and was afraid, and could not perish.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229">{229}</a></span></div> -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">One struck his aged mother on the mouth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And she vanished with a gray grief from his hearthstone.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">One melted from her bairn, and on the ground<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">With sweet unconscious eyes the bairn lay smiling.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And many made a weeping among mountains,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And hid themselves in caverns, and were drunken.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I heard a voice from out the beauteous earth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whose side rolled up from winter into summer,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Crying, “I am grievous for my children.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I heard a voice from out the hoary ocean,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Crying, “Burial in the breast of me were better,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yea, burial in the salt flags and green crystals.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I heard a voice from out the hollow ether,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Saying, “The thing ye cursed hath been abolished—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Corruption, and decay, and dissolution!”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And the world shrieked, and the summer-time was bitter,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And men and women feared the air behind them;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And for lack of its green graves the world was hateful.<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><big>*</big><br /></span> - -<span class="i0">Now at the bottom of a snowy mountain<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I came upon a woman thin with sorrow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whose voice was like the crying of a sea-gull:<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Saying, “O Angel of the Lord, come hither,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And bring me him I seek for on thy bosom,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That I may close his eyelids and embrace him.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“I curse thee that I cannot look upon him!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I curse thee that I know not he is sleeping!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet know that he has vanished upon God!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230">{230}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“I laid my little girl upon a wood-bier,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And very sweet she seemed, and near unto me;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And slipping flowers into her shroud was comfort.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“I put my silver mother in the darkness,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And kissed her, and was solaced by her kisses,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And set a stone, to mark the place, above her.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“And green, green were their quiet sleeping places,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So green that it was pleasant to remember<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That I and my tall man would sleep beside them.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“The closing of dead eyelids is not dreadful,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For comfort comes upon us when we close them,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And tears fall, and our sorrow grows familiar;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“And we can sit above them where they slumber,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And spin a dreamy pain into a sweetness,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And know indeed that we are very near them.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“But to reach out empty arms is surely dreadful,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And to feel the hollow empty world is awful,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And bitter grow the silence and the distance.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“There is no space for grieving or for weeping;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">No touch, no cold, no agony to strive with,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And nothing but a horror and a blankness!”<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><big>*</big><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Now behold I saw a woman in a mud-hut<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Raking the white spent embers with her fingers,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And fouling her bright hair with the white ashes.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Her mouth was very bitter with the ashes;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her eyes with dust were blinded; and her sorrow<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sobbed in the throat of her like gurgling water.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And, all around, the voiceless hills were hoary,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But red light scorched their edges; and above her<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There was a soundless trouble of the vapours.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231">{231}</a></span></div> -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“Whither, and O whither,” said the woman,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“O Spirit of the Lord, hast Thou conveyed them,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My little ones, my little son and daughter?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“For, lo! we wandered forth at early morning,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And winds were blowing round us, and their mouths<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Blew rose-buds to the rose-buds, and their eyes<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“Looked violets at the violets, and their hair<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Made sunshine in the sunshine, and their passing<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Left a pleasure in the dewy leaves behind them;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“And suddenly my little son looked upward,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And his eyes were dried like dew-drops; and his going<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was like a blow of fire upon my face.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“And my little son was gone. My little daughter<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Looked round me for him, clinging to my vesture;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But the Lord had drawn him from me, and I knew it<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“By the sign He gives the stricken, that the lost one<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lingers nowhere on the earth, on hill or valley,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Neither underneath the grasses nor the tree-roots.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“And my shriek was like the splitting of an ice-reef,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I sank among my hair, and all my palm<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was moist and warm where the little hand had filled it.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“Then I fled and sought him wildly, hither and thither—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Though I knew that he was stricken from me wholly<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By the token that the Spirit gives the stricken.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“I sought him in the sunlight and the starlight,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I sought him in great forests, and in waters<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where I saw mine own pale image looking at me.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“And I forgot my little bright-haired daughter,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Though her voice was like a wild-bird’s far behind me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till the voice ceased, and the universe was silent.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232">{232}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“And stilly, in the starlight, came I backward<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the forest where I missed him; and no voices<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Brake the stillness as I stooped down in the starlight,<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“And saw two little shoes filled up with dew,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And no mark of little footsteps any farther,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And knew my little daughter had gone also.”<br /></span> - -<span class="i8"><big>*</big><br /></span> - -<span class="i0">But beasts died; yea, the cattle in the yoke,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The milk-cow in the meadow, and the sheep,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the dog upon the doorstep: and men envied.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And birds died; yea, the eagle at the sun-gate,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The swan upon the waters, and the farm-fowl,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the swallows on the housetops: and men envied.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And reptiles; yea, the toad upon the roadside,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The slimy, speckled snake among the grass,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The lizard on the ruin: and men envied.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The dog in lonely places cried not over<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The body of his master; but it missed him,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And whined into the air, and died, and rotted.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The traveller’s horse lay swollen in the pathway,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the blue fly fed upon it; but no traveller<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was there; nay, not his footprint on the ground.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The cat mewed in the midnight, and the blind<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gave a rustle, and the lamp burned blue and faint,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the father’s bed was empty in the morning.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The mother fell to sleep beside the cradle,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rocking it, while she slumbered, with her foot,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And wakened,—and the cradle there was empty.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I saw a two-years’ child, and he was playing;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And he found a dead white bird upon the doorway,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And laughed, and ran to show it to his mother,<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233">{233}</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The mother moaned, and clutched him, and was bitter,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And flung the dead white bird across the threshold;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And another white bird flitted round and round it,<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And uttered a sharp cry, and twittered and twittered,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And lit beside its dead mate, and grew busy,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Strewing it over with green leaves and yellow.<br /></span> - -<span class="i8"><big>*</big><br /></span> - -<span class="i0">So far, so far to seek for were the limits<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of affliction; and men’s terror grew a homeless<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Terror, yea, and a fatal sense of blankness.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There was no little token of distraction,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There was no visible presence of bereavement,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Such as the mourner easeth out his heart on.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There was no comfort in the slow farewell,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor gentle shutting of belovèd eyes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor beautiful broodings over sleeping features.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There were no kisses on familiar faces,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">No weaving of white grave-clothes, no last pondering<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Over the still wax cheeks and folded fingers.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There was no putting tokens under pillows,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There was no dreadful beauty slowly fading,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fading like moonlight softly into darkness.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There were no churchyard paths to walk on, thinking<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How near the well-beloved ones are lying.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There were no sweet green graves to sit and muse on,<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Till grief should grow a summer meditation,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The shadow of the passing of an angel,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And sleeping should seem easy, and not cruel.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Nothing but wondrous parting and a blankness.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="c"><big>*</big></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234">{234}</a></span></p> -<p class="c"><big>*</big></p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><i>But I woke</i>,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">And, lo! the burthen was uplifted,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I prayed within the chamber where she slumbered,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And my tears flowed fast and free, but were not bitter.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I eased my heart three days by watching near her,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And made her pillow sweet with scent and flowers,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And could bear at last to put her in the darkness.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And I heard the kirk-bells ringing very slowly,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the priests were in their vestments, and the earth<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dripped awful on the hard wood, yet I bore it.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And I cried, “O unseen Sender of Corruption,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I bless Thee for the wonder of Thy mercy,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Which softeneth the mystery and the parting.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“I bless Thee for the change and for the comfort,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The bloomless face, shut eyes, and waxen fingers,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For Sleeping, and for Silence, and Corruption.”<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235">{235}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Faëry Foster-Mother.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">ROBERT BUCHANAN</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! Daughter of a Fay!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I had not been a wedded wife a twelvemonth and a day,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I had not nurs’d my little one a month upon my knee,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When down among the blue-bell banks rose elfins three times three,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They gripp’d me by the raven hair, I could not cry for fear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They put a hempen rope around my waist and dragg’d me here,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They made me sit and give thee suck as mortal mothers can,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! strange and weak and wan!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Dim Face, Grim Face! lie ye there so still?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy red, red lips are at my breast, and thou may’st suck thy fill;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But know ye, tho’ I hold thee firm, and rock thee to and fro,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Tis not to soothe thee into sleep, but just to still my woe?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And know ye, when I lean so calm against the wall of stone,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Tis when I shut my eyes and try to think thou art mine own?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And know ye, tho’ my milk be here, my heart is far away,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dim Face, Grim Face! Daughter of a Fay!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Gold Hair, Cold Hair! Daughter to a King!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wrapp’d in bands of snow-white silk with jewels glittering,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tiny slippers of the gold upon thy feet so thin,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Silver cradle velvet-lin’d for thee to slumber in,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236">{236}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pygmy pages, crimson-hair’d, to serve thee on their knees,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To fan thy face with ferns and bring thee honey bags of bees,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I was but a peasant lass, my babe had but the milk,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gold Hair, Cold Hair! raimented in silk!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Pale Thing, Frail Thing! dumb and weak and thin,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Altho’ thou ne’er dost utter sigh thou’rt shadow’d with a sin;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy minnie scorns to suckle thee, thy minnie is an elf,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Upon a bed of rose’s-leaves she lies and fans herself;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And though my heart is aching so for one afar from me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I often look into thy face and drop a tear for thee,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I am but a peasant born, a lowly cottar’s wife,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pale Thing, Frail Thing! sucking at my life!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Weak Thing, Meek Thing! take no blame from me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Altho’ my babe may moan for lack of what I give to thee;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For though thou art a faëry child, and though thou art my woe,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To feel thee sucking at my breast is all the bliss I know;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It soothes me, though afar away I hear my daughter call,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My heart were broken if I felt no little lips at all!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If I had none to tend at all, to be its nurse and slave,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Weak Thing, Meek Thing! I should shriek and rave!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! lying on my knee!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If soon I be not taken back unto mine own countree,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To feel my own babe’s little lips, as I am feeling thine,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To smooth the golden threads of hair, to see the blue eyes shine,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237">{237}</a></span>—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ll lean my head against the wall and close my weary eyes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And think my own babe draws the milk with balmy pants and sighs,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And smile and bless my little one and sweetly pass away,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! Daughter of a Fay!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238">{238}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>When we Two parted.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">LORD BYRON</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When we two parted<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In silence and tears,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Half-broken-hearted<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To sever for years,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pale grew thy cheek and cold,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Colder thy kiss;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Truly that hour foretold<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sorrow to this.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The dew of the morning<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sank chill on my brow—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It felt like the warning<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of what I feel now.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy vows are all broken,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And light is thy fame;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I hear thy name spoken,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And share in its shame.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They name thee before me,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A knell to mine ear;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A shudder comes o’er me—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Why wert thou so dear?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They know not I knew thee,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Who knew thee too well:—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Long, long shall I rue thee,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Too deeply to tell.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In secret we met—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In silence I grieve,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That thy heart could forget,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thy spirit deceive.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If I should meet thee<br /></span> -<span class="i2">After long years,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How shall I greet thee?—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With silence and tears.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239">{239}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Stanzas for Music.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">LORD BYRON</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There be none of Beauty’s daughters<br /></span> -<span class="i4">With a magic like thee;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And like music on the waters<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Is thy sweet voice to me:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When, as if its sound were causing<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The charmed ocean’s pausing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The waves lie still and gleaming,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the lull’d winds seem dreaming.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And the midnight moon is weaving<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Her bright chain o’er the deep;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whose breast is gently heaving,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">As an infant’s asleep:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So the spirit bows before thee,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To listen and adore thee;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With a full but soft emotion,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like the swell of Summer’s ocean.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240">{240}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Colin’s Cattle.<br /><br /> -(Crodh Chaillean.)</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">CRO’ CHAILLEAN</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A maiden sang sweetly<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As a bird on a tree,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Cro’ Chaillean, Cro’ Chaillean,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Cro’ Chaillean for me!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My own Colin’s cattle,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dappled, dun, brown, and grey,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They return to the milking<br /></span> -<span class="i0">At the close of the day.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In the morning they wander<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To their pastures afar,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the grass grows the greenest<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By corrie and scaur.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They wander the uplands<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the soft breezes blow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And they drink from the fountain<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the sweet cresses grow.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But so far as they wander,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dappled, dun, brown, and grey,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They return to the milking<br /></span> -<span class="i0">At the close of the day.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My bed’s in the Shian<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the canach’s soft down,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But I’d sleep best with Colin<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In our shieling alone.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Thus a maiden sang sweetly<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As a bird on a tree,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Cro’ Chaillean, Cro’ Chaillean,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Cro’ Chaillean for me.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241">{241}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>MacCrimmon’s Lament.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">CUMHA MHIC CRUIMEIN</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Round Coolin’s peak the mist is sailing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The banshee croons her note of wailing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mild blue eyne with sorrow are streaming<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For him that shall never return, MacCrimmon!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The breeze on the brae is mournfully blowing!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The brook in the hollow is plaintively flowing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The warblers, the soul of the groves, are moaning,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For MacCrimmon that’s gone, with no hope of returning!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The tearful clouds the stars are veiling,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The sails are spread, but the boat is not sailing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The waves of the sea are moaning and mourning<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For MacCrimmon that’s gone to find no returning!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">No more on the hill at the festal meeting<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The pipe shall sound with echo repeating,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And lads and lasses change mirth to mourning<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For him that is gone to know no returning!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">No more, no more, no more for ever,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In war or peace, shall return MacCrimmon;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">No more, no more, no more for ever<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shall love or gold bring back MacCrimmon!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242">{242}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Song.<br /> -(“Ian Mòr”)</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">IAN CAMERON</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Thy dark eyes to mine, Aithne,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Lamps of desire!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O how my soul leaps<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Leaps to their fire!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sure, now, if I in heaven<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Dreaming in bliss,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Heard but the whisper,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But the lost echo even<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of one such kiss—<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">All of the Soul of me<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Would leap afar—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If that called me to thee,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Aye, I would leap afar<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A falling star!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243">{243}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>A Loafer.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">JOHN DAVIDSON</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I hang about the streets all day,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">At night I hang about;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I sleep a little when I may,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But rise betimes the morning’s scout;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For through the year I always hear<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Afar, aloft, a ghostly shout.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My clothes are worn to threads and loops;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My skin shows here and there;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">About my face like seaweed droops<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My tangled beard, my tangled hair;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From cavernous and shaggy brows<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My stony eyes untroubled stare.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I move from eastern wretchedness<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Through Fleet Street and the Strand;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And as the pleasant people press<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I touch them softly with my hand,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Perhaps I know that still I go<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Alive about a living land.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">For, far in front the clouds are riven;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I hear the ghostly cry,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As if a still voice fell from heaven<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To where sea-whelmed the drowned folk lie<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In sepulchres no tempest stirs<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And only eyeless things pass by.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In Piccadilly spirits pass:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Oh, eyes and cheeks that glow!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh, strength and comeliness! Alas,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The lustrous health is earth I know<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From shrinking eyes that recognise<br /></span> -<span class="i2">No brother in my rags and woe.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I know no handicraft, no art,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But I have conquered fate;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244">{244}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">For I have chosen the better part,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And neither hope, nor fear, nor hate.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With placid breath on pain and death,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My certain alms, alone I wait.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And daily, nightly comes the call,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The pale unechoing note,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The faint “Aha!” sent from the wall<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of heaven, but from no ruddy throat<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of human breed or seraph’s seed,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A phantom voice that cries by rote.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245">{245}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>In Romney Marsh.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">JOHN DAVIDSON</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">As I went down to Dymchurch Wall,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I heard the South sing o’er the land;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I saw the yellow sunlight fall<br /></span> -<span class="i2">On knolls where Norman churches stand.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And ringing shrilly, taut and lithe,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Within the wind a core of sound,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The wire from Romney town to Hythe<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Along its airy journey wound.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A veil of purple vapour flowed<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And trailed its fringe along the Straits;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The upper air like sapphire glowed:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And roses filled Heaven’s central gates.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Masts in the offing wagged their tops;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The swinging waves pealed on the shore;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The saffron beach, all diamond drops<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And beads of surge, prolonged the roar.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">As I came up from Dymchurch Wall,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I saw above the Downs’ low crest<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The crimson brands of sunset fall,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Flicker and fade from out the West.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Night sank: like flakes of silver fire<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The stars in one great shower came down;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shrill blew the wind; and shrill the wire<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Rang out from Hythe to Romney town.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The darkly shining salt sea drops<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Streamed as the waves clashed on the shore;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The beach, with all its organ stops<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Pealing again, prolonged the roar.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246">{246}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>O’er the Muir amang the Heather.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">JEAN GLOVER</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Comin’ through the craigs o’ Kyle,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Amang the bonnie bloomin’ heather,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There I met a bonnie lassie,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Keepin’ a’ her ewes thegither.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">O’er the muir amang the heather,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">O’er the muir amang the heather,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">There I met a bonnie lassie<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Keepin’ a’ her ewes thegither.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Says I, My dear, where is thy hame?<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In muir or dale, pray tell me whether?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Says she, I tent the fleecy flocks<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That feed amang the bloomin’ heather.<br /></span> -<span class="i4">O’er the muir, etc.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We laid us down upon a bank,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sae warm and sunnie was the weather;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She left her flocks at large to rove<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Amang the bonnie bloomin’ heather.<br /></span> -<span class="i4">O’er the muir, etc.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">While thus we lay, she sang a sang,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Till echo rang a mile and further;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And aye the burden of the sang<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Was, O’er the muir amang the heather.<br /></span> -<span class="i4">O’er the muir, etc.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She charmed my heart, and aye sin syne<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I couldna’ think on ony ither;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By sea and sky! she shall be mine,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The bonnie lass amang the heather.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">O’er the muir amang the heather,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">O’er the muir amang the heather,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">There I met a bonnie lassie<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Keepin’ a’ her flocks thegither.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247">{247}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Song.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">GEORGE MACDONALD</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Once I was a child,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Oimè!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Full of frolic wild;<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Oimè!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All the stars for glancing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All the earth for dancing;<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Oimè! Oimè!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When I ran about,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Oimè!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All the flowers came out,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Oimè!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Here and there like stray things,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Just to be my playthings.<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Oimè! Oimè!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Mother’s eyes were deep,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Oimè!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Never needing sleep.<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Oimè!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Morning—they’re above me!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Eventide—they love me!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Oimè! Oimè!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Father was so tall!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Oimè!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Stronger he than all!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Oimè!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On his arm he bore me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Queen of all before me.<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Oimè! Oimè!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Mother is asleep!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Oimè!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For her eyes so deep,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Oimè!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248">{248}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Grew so tired and aching,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They could not keep waking,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Oimè! Oimè!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Father though so strong<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Oimè!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Laid him down along—<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Oimè!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By my mother sleeping;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And they left me weeping,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Oimè! Oimè!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Now nor bird, nor bee,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Oimè!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ever sings to me<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Oimè!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Since they left me crying,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All things have been dying.<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Oimè! Oimè!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249">{249}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Song.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">RONALD CAMPBELL MACFIE</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Alas, alas, eheu!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That the sky is only blue,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To gather from the grass<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The rain and dew!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Alas! that eyes are fair:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That tears may gather there<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Mist and the breath of sighs<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From the marsh of care!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Alas, alas, eheu!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That we meet but to bid adieu:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That the sands in Time’s ancient glass<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Are so swift and few!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Alas, alas, eheu!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That the heart is only true<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To gather, where false feet pass,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The thorn and rue!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250">{250}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>A Spring Trouble.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">WILLIAM MACDONALD</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">All the meadowlands were gay<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Once upon a morn of May;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All the tree of life was dight<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With the blossoms of delight.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And my whole heart was a-tune<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With the songs of long ere noon—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dew-bedecked and fresh and free,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As the unsunned meadows be.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“Lo!” I said unto my spirit,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Earth and sky thou dost inherit.”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Forth I wandered, void of care,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the largesse of the air.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">By there came a damosel,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">At a look I loved her well:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But she passed and would not stay—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all the rest has gone away.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And now no fields are fair to see,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor any bud on any tree;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor have I share in earth or sky—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All for a maiden’s passing by!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251">{251}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Culloden Moor.<br /><br /> -(Seen in Autumn Rain.)</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">AMICE MACDONELL</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Full of grief, the low winds sweep<br /></span> -<span class="i2">O’er the sorrow-haunted ground;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dark the woods where night rains weep,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Dark the hills that watch around.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Tell me, can the joy of spring<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Ever make this sadness flee,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Make the woods with music ring,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And the streamlet laugh for glee?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When the summer moor is lit<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With the pale fire of the broom,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And through green the shadows flit,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Still shall mirth give place to gloom?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sad shall it be, though sun be shed<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Golden bright on field and flood;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">E’en the heather’s crimson red<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Holds the memory of blood.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Here that broken, weary band<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Met the ruthless foe’s array,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where those moss-grown boulders stand,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">On that dark and fatal day.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Like a phantom hope had fled,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Love to death was all in vain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Vain, though heroes’ blood was shed,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And though hearts were broke in twain.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Many a voice has cursed the name<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Time has into darkness thrust,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Cruelty his only fame<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In forgetfulness and dust,<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Noble dead that sleep below,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">We your valour ne’er forget;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Soft the heroes’ rest who know<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Hearts like theirs are beating yet.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252">{252}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Weaving of the Tartan.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">ALICE C. MACDONELL</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I saw an old Dame weaving,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Weaving, weaving,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I saw an old Dame weaving,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">A web of tartan fine.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Sing high,” she said, “sing low,” she said,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Wild torrent to the sea,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That saw my exiled bairnies torn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In sorrow far frae me.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And warp well the long threads,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The bright threads, the strong threads;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Woof well the cross threads,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">To make the colours shine.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She wove in red for every deed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of valour done for Scotia’s need:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She wove in green, the laurel’s sheen,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In memory of her glorious dead.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She spake of Alma’s steep incline,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The desert march, the “thin red line,”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of how it fired the blood and stirred the heart,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where’er a bairn of hers took part.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“<span class="lftspc">’</span>Tis for the gallant lads,” she said,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Who wear the kilt and tartan plaid:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Tis for the winsome lasses too,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Just like my dainty bells of blue.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So weave well the bright threads,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The red threads, the green threads;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Woof well the strong threads<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That bind their hearts to mine.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I saw an old Dame sighing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sighing, sighing;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I saw an old Dame sighing,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Beside a lonely glen.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253">{253}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Sing high,” she said, “sing low,” she said,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Wild tempests to the sea,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The wailing of the pibroch’s note,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That bade farewell to me.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And wae fa’ the red deer,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The swift deer, the strong deer,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wae fa’ the cursed deer,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">That take the place o’ men.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Where’er a noble deed is wrought,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where’er the brightest realms of thought,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The artists’ skill, the martial thrill,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Be sure to Scotia’s land is wed.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She casts the glamour of her name,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O’er Britain’s throne and statesman’s fame;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From distant lands ’neath foreign names,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Some brilliant son his birthright claims.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For ah!—she has reared them amid tempests,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And cradled them in snow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To give the Scottish arms their strength,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Their hearts a kindly glow.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So weave well the bright threads,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The red threads, the green threads,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Woof well the strong threads<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That bind their hearts to thine.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254">{254}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Thrush’s Song.<br /><br /> -(From the Gaelic.)</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">W. MACGILLIVRAY</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Dear, dear, dear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the rocky glen,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Far away, far away, far away<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The haunts of men;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There shall we dwell in love<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With the lark and the dove,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Cuckoo and corn-rail,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Feast on the bearded snail,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Worm and gilded fly,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Drink of the crystal rill<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Winding adown the hill<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Never to dry.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With glee, with glee, with glee<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Cheer up, cheer up, cheer up here;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nothing to harm us, then sing merrily,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sing to the loved one whose nest is near.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6"><i>Qui, qui, queen, quip;</i><br /></span> -<span class="i6"><i>Tiurru, tiurru, chipïwi,</i><br /></span> -<span class="i6"><i>Too-tee, too-tee, chin-choo,</i><br /></span> -<span class="i6"><i>Chirri, chirri, chooee</i><br /></span> -<span class="i8"><i>Quin, qui, qui!</i><br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255">{255}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Prayer of Women.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">FIONA MACLEOD</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O Spirit, that broods upon the hills<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And moves upon the face of the deep,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And is heard in the wind,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Save us from the desire of men’s eyes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the cruel lust of them,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the springing of the cruel seed<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In that narrow house which is as the grave<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For darkness and loneliness ...<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That women carry with them with shame, and weariness,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">and long pain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Only for the laughter of man’s heart,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the joy that triumphs therein,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the sport that is in his heart,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wherewith he mocketh us,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wherewith he playeth with us,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wherewith he trampleth upon us ...<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Us, who conceive and bear him;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Us, who bring him forth;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who feed him in the womb, and at the breast, and at the knee:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whom he calleth mother and wife,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And mother again of his children and his children’s children.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ah, hour of the hours,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When he looks at our hair and sees it is grey;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And at our eyes and sees they are dim;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And at our lips straightened out with long pain;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And at our breasts, fallen and seared as a barren hill;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And at our hands, worn with toil!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ah, hour of the hours,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When, seeing, he seeth all the bitter ruin and wreck of us—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All save the violated womb that curses him—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All save the heart that forbeareth ... for pity—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All save the living brain that condemneth him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256">{256}</a></span>—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All save the spirit that shall not mate with him<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All save the soul he shall never see<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till he be one with it, and equal;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He who hath the bridle, but guideth not;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He who hath the whip, yet is driven;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He who as a shepherd calleth upon us,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But is himself a lost sheep, crying among the hills!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O Spirit, and the Nine Angels who watch us,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And Thy Son, and Mary Virgin,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Heal us of the wrong of man:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We, whose breasts are weary with milk,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Cry, cry to Thee, O Compassionate!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257">{257}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Rune of Age.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">FIONA MACLEOD</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O Thou that on the hills and wastes of Night art Shepherd,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whose folds are flameless moons and icy planets,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whose darkling way is gloomed with ancient sorrows:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whose breath lies white as snow upon the olden,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whose sigh it is that furrows breasts grown milkless,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whose weariness is in the loins of man<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And is the barren stillness of the woman:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O thou whom all would ’scape, and all must meet,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou that the Shadow art of Youth Eternal,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The gloom that is the hush’d air of the Grave,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The sigh that is between last parted love,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The light for aye withdrawing from weary eyes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The tide from stricken hearts forever ebbing!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O thou the Elder Brother whom none loveth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whom all men hail with reverence or mocking,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who broodest on the brows of frozen summits<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet dreamest in the eyes of babes and children:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou, Shadow of the Heart, the Brain, the Life,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who art that dusk <span class="gesh">What-is</span> that is already <span class="gesh">Has-Been</span>,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To thee this rune of the fathers-to-the-sons<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And of the sons to the sons, and mothers to new mothers—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To thee who art <span class="gesh">Aois</span>,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To thee who art Age!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Breathe thy frosty breath upon my hair, for I am weary!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lay thy frozen hand upon my bones that they support not,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Put thy chill upon the blood that it sustain not;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Place the crown of thy fulfilling on my forehead;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Throw the silence of thy spirit on my spirit,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lay the balm and benediction of thy mercy<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the brain-throb and the heart-pulse and the lifespring<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258">{258}</a></span>—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For thy child that bows his head is weary,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For thy child that bows his head is weary.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I the shadow am that seeks the Darkness.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Age, that hath the face of Night unstarr’d and moonless,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Age, that doth extinguish star and planet,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Moon and sun and all the fiery worlds,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Give me now thy darkness and thy silence!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259">{259}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>A Milking Song.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">FIONA MACLEOD</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O sweet St Bride of the<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Yellow, yellow hair:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Paul said, and Peter said,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all the saints alive or dead<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Vowed she had the sweetest head,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bonnie, sweet St Bride of the<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Yellow, yellow hair.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">White may my milking be,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">White as thee:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy face is white, thy neck is white,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy hands are white, thy feet are white,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For thy sweet soul is shining bright—<br /></span> -<span class="i4">O dear to me,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">O dear to see<br /></span> -<span class="i4">St Bridget white!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Yellow may my butter be,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Soft, and round:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy breasts are sweet,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Soft, round and sweet,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So may my butter be:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So may my butter be O<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Bridget sweet!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Safe thy way is, safe, O<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Safe, St Bride:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">May my kye come home at even,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">None be fallin’ none be leavin’,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dusky even, breath-sweet even,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Here, as there, where O<br /></span> -<span class="i4">St Bride thou<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Keepest tryst with God in heav’n,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Seest the angels bow<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260">{260}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">And souls be shriven—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Here, as there, ’tis breath-sweet even<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Far and wide—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Singeth thy little maid<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Safe in thy shade<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Bridget, Bride!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261">{261}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Lullaby.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">FIONA MACLEOD</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Lennavan-mo,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lennavan-mo,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who is it swinging you to and fro,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With a long low swing and a sweet low croon,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the loving words of the mother’s rune?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Lennavan-mo,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lennavan-mo,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who is it swinging you to and fro?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’m thinking it is an angel fair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Angel that looks on the gulf from the lowest stair<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And swings the green world upward by its leagues of sunshine hair.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Lennavan-mo,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lennavan-mo,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who is it swings you and the Angel to and fro?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It is He whose faintest thought is a world afar,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It is He whose wish is a leaping seven-moon’d star,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It is He, Lennavan-mo,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To whom you and I and all things flow.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Lennavan-mo,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lennavan-mo,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It is only a little wee lass you are, Eilidh-mo-chree,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But as this wee blossom has roots in the depths of the sky,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So you are at one with the Lord of Eternity—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bonnie wee lass that you are,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My morning-star,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Eilidh-mo-chree, Lennavan-mo,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Lennavan-mo.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262">{262}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Songs of Ethlenn Stuart</h3> - -<h4>I.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">His face was glad as dawn to me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His breath was sweet as dusk to me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His eyes were burning flames to me,<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><i>Shule, Shule, Shule, agràh</i>!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The broad noon-day was night to me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The full-moon night was dark to me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The stars whirled and the poles span<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The hour God took him far from me.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Perhaps he dreams in heaven now,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Perhaps he doth in worship bow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A white flame round his foam-white brow,<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><i>Shule, Shule, Shule, agràh</i>!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I laugh to think of him like this,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who once found all his joy and bliss<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Against my heart, against my kiss,<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><i>Shule, Shule, Shule, agràh</i>!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Star of my joy, art still the same<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Now thou hast gotten a new name,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pulse of my heart, my Blood, my Flame,<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><i>Shule, Shule, Shule, agràh</i>!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263">{263}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="sidenote">FIONA MACLEOD</div> - -<h4>II.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He laid his dear face next to mine,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His eyes aflame burned close to mine,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His heart to mine, his lips to mine,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O he was mine, all mine, all mine.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Drunk with old wine of love I was,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Drunk as the wild-bee in the grass<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Singing his honey-mad sweet bass,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Drunk, drunk with wine of love I was!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">His lips of life to me were fief,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Before him I was but a leaf<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Blown by the wind, a shaken leaf,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yea, as the sickle reaps the sheaf,<br /></span> -<span class="i10">My Grief!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He reaped me as a gathered sheaf!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">His to be gathered, his the bliss,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But not a greater bliss than this!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All of the empty world to miss<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For wild redemption of his kiss!<br /></span> -<span class="i10">My Grief!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">For hell was lost, though heaven was brief<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sphered in the universe of thy kiss—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So cries to thee thy fallen leaf,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy gathered sheaf,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lord of my life, my Pride, my Chief,<br /></span> -<span class="i10">My Grief!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264">{264}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Closing Doors.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Eilidh,<a name="FNanchor_26_26" id="FNanchor_26_26"></a><a href="#Footnote_26_26" class="fnanchor">[26]</a> Eilidh, Eilidh, heart of me, dear and sweet!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In dreams I am hearing the whisper, the sound of your coming feet:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The sound of your coming feet that like the sea-hoofs beat<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A music by day and night, Eilidh, on the sands of my heart, my sweet!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O sands of my heart what wind moans low along thy shadowy shore?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is that the deep sea-heart I hear with the dying sob at its core?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Each dim lost wave that lapses is like a closing door:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Tis closing doors they hear at last who soon shall hear no more,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Who soon shall hear no more.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Eilidh, Eilidh, Eilidh, come home, come home to the heart o’ me:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It is pain I am having ever, Eilidh, a pain that will not be:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Come home, come home, for closing doors are as the waves o’ the sea,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Once closed they are closed for ever, Eilidh, lost, lost, for thee and me,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Lost, lost, for thee and me.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265">{265}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Sorrow of Delight.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">FIONA MACLEOD</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Till death be filled with darkness<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And life be filled with light,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The sorrow of ancient sorrows<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Shall be the Sorrow of Night:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But then the sorrow of sorrows<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Shall be the Sorrow of Delight.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Heart’s-joy must fade with sorrow,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For both are sprung from clay:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But the Joy that is one with Sorrow,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Treads an immortal way:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Each hath in fee To-morrow,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And their soul is Yesterday.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Joy that is clothed with shadow<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Is the Joy that is not dead:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For the joy that is clothed with the rainbow<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Shall with the bow be sped:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the Sun spends his fires is she,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And where the Stars are led.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266">{266}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Farewell to Fiunary.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">NORMAN MACLEOD</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The wind is fair, the day is fine,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And swiftly, swiftly runs the time,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The boat is floating on the tide<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That wafts me off from Fiunary.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">Eirigh agus tingainn O!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Eirigh agus tingainn O!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Erigh agus tingainn O!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Farewell, farewell to Fiunary!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A thousand, thousand tender ties<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Awake this day my plaintive sighs,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My heart within me almost dies<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To think of leaving Fiunary.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">Eirigh agus tingainn O! etc.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">With pensive steps I often strolled<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where Fingal’s castle stood of old,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And listened while the shepherd told<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The legend tales of Fiunary.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">Eirigh agus tingainn O! etc.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I’ll often pause at close of day<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where Ossian sang his martial lay,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And viewed the sun’s departing ray<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wandering o’er Dun Fiunary.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">Eirigh agus tingainn O! etc.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267">{267}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>A Kiss of the King’s Hand.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">SARAH ROBERTSON MATHESON</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">It wasna from a golden throne,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or a bower with milk-white roses blown,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But mid the kelp on northern sand<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That I got a kiss of the king’s hand.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I durstna raise my een tae see<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If he even cared to glance at me;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His princely brow with care was crossed<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For his true men slain and kingdom lost.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Think not his hand was soft and white,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or his fingers a’ with jewels dight,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or round his wrists were jewels grand<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When I got a kiss of the king’s hand.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But dearer far tae my twa een<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was the ragged sleeve of red and green<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O’er that young weary hand that fain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With the guid broadsword, had found its ain.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Farewell for ever, the distance gray<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the lapping ocean seemed to say—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For him a home in a foreign land,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And for me one kiss of the king’s hand.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268">{268}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The First Ship.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">DUGALD MOORE</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The sky in beauty arch’d<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The wide and weltering flood,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While the winds in triumph march’d<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Through their pathless solitude—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rousing up the plume on ocean’s hoary crest,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That like space in darkness slept,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">When his watch old Silence kept,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Ere the earliest planet leapt<br /></span> -<span class="i4">From its breast.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A speck is on the deeps,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Like a spirit in her flight;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How beautiful she keeps<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Her stately path in light!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She sweeps the shining wilderness in glee—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The sun has on her smiled,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And the waves, no longer wild,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sing in glory round that child<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Of the sea.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Twas at the set of sun<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That she tilted o’er the flood,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Moving like God alone<br /></span> -<span class="i2">O’er the glorious solitude—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The billows crouch around her as her slaves<br /></span> -<span class="i2">How exulting are her crew!—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Each sight to them is new,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">As they sweep along the blue<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Of the waves.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Fair herald of the fleets<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That yet shall cross the waves,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till the earth with ocean meets<br /></span> -<span class="i2">One universal grave,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What armaments shall follow thee in joy!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Linking each distant land<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With trade’s harmonious band,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Or bearing havoc’s brand<br /></span> -<span class="i4">To destroy!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269">{269}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Land o’ the Leal.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">LADY CAROLINE NAIRNE</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I’m wearin’ awa, John,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’m wearin’ awa<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To the land o’ the leal.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There’s nae sorrow there, John,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There’s neither cauld nor care, John,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The day is aye fair<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In the land o’ the leal.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Our bonnie bairn’s there, John,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She was baith gude and fair, John,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And, oh, we grudged her sair<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To the land o’ the leal.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But sorrow’s sel’ wears past, John,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And joy’s a-comin’ fast, John,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The joy that’s aye to last,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In the land o’ the leal.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Oh, dry your glist’ning ee, John,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My saul langs to be free, John,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And Angels beckon me<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To the land o’ the leal.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O haud ye leal and true, John,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Your day it’s wearin’ through, John,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I’ll welcome you<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To the land o’ the leal.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Now fare-ye-weel, my ain John,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The warld’s cares are vain, John,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We’ll meet and we’ll be fain<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In the land o’ the leal.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270">{270}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Skye.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">ALEXANDER NICOLSON</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My heart is yearning to thee, O Skye!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Dearest of Islands!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There first the sunshine gladdened my eye,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">On the sea sparkling;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There doth the dust of my dear ones lie,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">In the old graveyard.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Bright are the golden green fields to me,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Here in the Lowlands;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sweet sings the mavis in the thorn-tree,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Snowy with fragrance:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But oh for a breath of the great North Sea,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Girdling the mountains!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Good is the smell of the brine that laves<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Black rock and skerry,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the great palm-leaved tangle waves<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Down in the green depths,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And round the craggy bluff pierced with caves<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Sea-gulls are screaming.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Where the sun sinks beyond Humish Head,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Crowning in glory,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As he goes down to his ocean bed<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Studded with islands,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Flushing the Coolin with royal red,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Would I were sailing!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Many a hearth round that friendly shore<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Giveth warm welcome;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Charms still are there, as in days of yore,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">More than of mountains;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But hearths and faces are seen no more,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Once of the brightest.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Many a poor black cottage is there,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Grimy with peat smoke,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271">{271}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sending up in the soft evening air<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Purest blue incense,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While the low music of psalm and prayer<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Rises to Heaven.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Kind were the voices I used to hear<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Round such a fireside,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Speaking the mother tongue old and dear,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Making the heart beat<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With sudden tales of wonder and fear,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Or plaintive singing.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Great were the marvellous stories told<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Of Ossian’s heroes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Giants, and witches, and young men bold,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Seeking adventures,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Winning kings’ daughters and guarded gold,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Only with valour.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Reared in those dwellings have brave ones been;<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Brave ones are still there;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Forth from their darkness on Sunday I’ve seen<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Coming pure linen,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And like the linen the souls were clean<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Of them that wore it.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">See that thou kindly use them, O man!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">To whom God giveth<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Stewardship over them, in thy short span<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Not for thy pleasure;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Woe be to them who choose for a clan<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Four-footed people!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Blessings be with ye, both now and aye<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Dear human creatures!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yours is the love that no gold can buy!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Nor time can wither,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Peace be to thee and thy children, O Skye!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Dearest of islands.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272">{272}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Midnight by the Sea.<br /><br /> -(Autumn.)</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">SIR NOËL PATON</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Waves of the wild North Sea,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Breaking—breaking—breaking!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From the dumb agony<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of dreams awaking,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How sweet within the loosened arms of sleep<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To lie in silence deep,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lone listening to your many-throated roar<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Along the caverned shore,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In midnight darkness breaking—breaking—breaking!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Wind of the wild North Sea,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Calling—calling—calling!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What may your message be,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Rising and falling?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From out the infinite ye make reply:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“Whither? and whence? and why?”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And my soul echoes the despairing moan—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Which none can answer—none!—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From out its depths abysmal calling—calling—calling.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273">{273}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>In Shadowland.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">SIR NOEL PATON</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Between the moaning of the mountain stream<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And the hoarse thunder of the Atlantic deep,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">An outcast from the peaceful realms of sleep<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I lie, and hear as in a fever-dream<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The homeless night-wind in the darkness scream<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And wail around the inaccessible steep<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Down whose gaunt sides the spectral torrents leap<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From crag to crag,—till almost I could deem<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The plaided ghosts of buried centuries<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Were mustering in the glen with bow and spear<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And shadowy hounds to hunt the shadowy deer,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mix in phantasmal sword-play, or, with eyes<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of wrath and pain immortal, wander o’er<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Loved scenes where human footstep comes no more.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274">{274}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Mountain Twilight.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">WILLIAM RENTON</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The hills slipped over each on each<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Till all their changing shadows died.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Now in the open skyward reach<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The lights grow solemn side by side.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While of these hills the westermost<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rears high his majesty of coast<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In shifting waste of dim-blue brine<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And fading olive hyaline;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till all the distance overflows,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The green in watchet and the blue<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In purple. Now they fuse and close—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A darkling violet, fringed anew<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With light that on the mountain soars,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A dusky flame on tranquil shores;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Kindling the summits as they grow<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In audience to the skies that call,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ineffable in rest and all<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The pathos of the afterglow.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275">{275}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Durisdeer.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">LADY JOHN SCOTT</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We’ll meet nae mair at sunset when the weary day is dune,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor wander hame thegither by the lee licht o’ the mune.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ll hear your steps nae langer amang the dewy corn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For we’ll meet nae mair, my bonniest, either at e’en or morn.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The yellow broom is waving abune the sunny brae,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the rowan berries dancing where the sparkling waters play;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tho’ a’ is bright and bonnie it’s an eerie place to me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For we’ll meet nae mair, my dearest, either by burn or tree.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Far up into the wild hills there’s a kirkyard lone and still,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the frosts lie ilka morning and the mists hang low and chill.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And there ye sleep in silence while I wander here my lane<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till we meet ance mair in Heaven never to part again!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276">{276}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>November’s Cadence.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">EARL OF SOUTHESK</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The bees about the Linden-tree,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When blithely summer blooms were springing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Would hum a heartsome melody,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The simple baby-soul of singing;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And thus my spirit sang to me<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When youth its wanton way was winging:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“Be glad, be sad—thou hast the choice—<br /></span> -<span class="i2"> But mingle music with thy voice.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The linnets on the Linden-tree,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Among the leaves in autumn dying,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Are making gentle melody,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A mild, mysterious, mournful sighing;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And thus my spirit sings to me<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While years are flying, flying, flying:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“Be sad, be sad, thou hast no choice,<br /></span> -<span class="i2"> But mourn with music in thy voice.”<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277">{277}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Cailleach Bein-y-Vreich.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">JOHN CAMPBELL SHAIRP</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Weird wife of Bein-y-Vreich! horo! horo!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Aloft in the mist she dwells;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Vreich horo! Vreich horo! Vreich horo!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">All alone by the lofty wells.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Weird, weird wife! with the long gray locks,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">She follows her fleet-foot stags,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Noisily moving through splinter’d rocks,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And crashing the grisly crags.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Tall wife, with the long gray hose! in haste<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The rough stony beach she walks;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But dulse or seaweed she will not taste,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Nor yet the green kail stalks.<br /></span> - -<span class="i8"><big>*</big><br /></span> - -<span class="i0">O I will not let my herd of deer,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My bonny red deer go down;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I will not let them go down to the shore,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To feed on the sea-shells brown.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Oh, better they love in the corrie’s recess,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Or on mountain top to dwell,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And feed by my side on the green, green cress,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That grows by the lofty well.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Broad Bein-y-Vreich is grisly and drear,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But wherever my feet have been<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The well-springs start for my darling deer,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And the grass grows tender and green.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And there high up on the calm nights clear,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Beside the lofty spring,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They come to my call, and I milk them there,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And a weird wild song I sing.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But when hunter men round my dun deer prowl,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I will not let them nigh;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through the rended cloud I cast one scowl,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">They faint on the heath and die.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278">{278}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And when the north wind o’er the desert bare<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Drives loud, to the corries below<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I drive my herds down, and bield them there<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From the drifts of the blinding snow.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then I mount the blast, and we ride full fast,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And laugh as we stride the storm,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I, and the witch of the Cruachan Ben,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And the scowling-eyed Seul-Gorm.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279">{279}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>An Old Tale of Three.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">UNA URQUHART</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ah bonnie darling, lift your dark eyes dreaming!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">See, the firelight fills the gloaming, though deep darkness grows without—<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><i>Hush, dear, hush, I hear the sea-birds screaming,</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>And down beyond the haven the tide comes with a shout!</i><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ah, birdeen, sweetheart, sure he is not coming,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He who has your hand in fee, while I have all your heart—<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><i>Hush, dear, hush, I hear the wild bees humming</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>Far away in the underworld where true love shall not part!</i><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Darling, darling, darling, all the world is singing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Singing, singing, singing a song of joy for me!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><i>Hush, dear, hush, what wild sea-wind is bringing</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>Gloom o’ the sea about thy brow, athwart the eyes of thee?</i><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ah, heart o’ me, darling, darling, all my heart’s aflame!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sure, at the last we are all in all, all in all we two!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i8"><i>At the Door,</i><br /></span> -<span class="i8"><i>A VOICE.</i><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">This is the way I take my own, this is the boon I claim!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> - -<span class="i4">(<i>Later, in the dark, the living brooding beside the dead</i>:—)<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> - -<span class="i0">Sure, at the last, ye are all in all, all in all, ye two—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ah, hell of my heart! Ye are dust to me—and dust with dust may woo!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280">{280}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="sidenote">UNKNOWN</div> - -<h3>Lost Love.<br /> -(From the Gaelic, Western Isles.)</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My heart! my pulse! my flame!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">O the gloom, O the pain!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He has no wish to save me<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Who will not come again.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Love! Love! Love!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The fair cheek, the dark hair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The promise forgotten;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">’Twill go with me there.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">False! false! false!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">O, youth is false for ever:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He loves far more than living me—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The lifeless heather.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The hunting field,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The greenwood tree,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The trout, the running deer, he loves,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Far more than me.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He loves—loves—loves<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To stalk the frightened doe;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He never heeds the pain he gives,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">His skill to show.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O, the dark blue eye—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A flower wet with dew;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O, the fair false face—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Too sweet to view!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Love! Love! Love!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The fair cheek, the dark hair!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For him I’d scale the walls of hell<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Gin he were there!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281">{281}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h2>IV<br /> -CONTEMPORARY<br /> - -ANGLO-CELTIC POETS<br /> -(Wales) -</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282">{282}</a></span> </p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283">{283}</a></span> </p> - -<h3>Dirge in Woods.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">GEORGE MEREDITH</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A wind sways the pines,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">And below<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Not a breath of wild air;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Still as the mosses that glow<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the flooring and over the lines<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of the roots here and there.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The pine-tree drops its dead;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They are quiet, as under the sea.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Overhead, overhead<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rushes life in a race,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As the clouds the clouds chase;<br /></span> -<span class="i8">And we go,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And we drop like the fruits of the tree,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Even we,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Even so.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284">{284}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Outer and Inner.</h3> - -<h4>I.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">From twig to twig the spider weaves<br /></span> -<span class="i2">At noon his webbing fine.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So near to mute the zephyr’s flute<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That only leaflets dance.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The sun draws out of hazel leaves<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A smell of woodland wine.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I wake a swarm to sudden storm<br /></span> -<span class="i2">At any step’s advance.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4>II.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Along my path is bugloss blue,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The star with fruit in moss;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The foxgloves drop from throat to top<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A daily lesser bell.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The blackest shadow, nurse of dew,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Has orange skeins across;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And keenly red is one thin thread<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That flashing seems to swell.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4>III.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My world I note ere fancy comes,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Minutest hushed observe:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What busy bits of motioned wits<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Through antlered mosswork strive;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But now so low the stillness hums,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My springs of seeing swerve,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For half a wink to thrill and think<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The woods with nymphs alive.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4>IV.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I neighbour the invisible<br /></span> -<span class="i2">So close that my consent<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is only asked for spirits masked<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To leap from trees and flowers.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285">{285}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">And this because with them I dwell<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In thought, while calmly bent<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To read the lines dear Earth designs<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Shall speak her life on ours.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4>V.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Accept, she says; it is not hard<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In woods; but she in towns<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Repeats, accept; and have we wept,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And have we quailed with fears,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or shrunk with horrors, sure reward<br /></span> -<span class="i2">We have whom knowledge crowns;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who see in mould the rose unfold,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The soul through blood and tears.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286">{286}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Night of Frost in May.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">With splendour of a silver day,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A frosted night had opened May:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And on that plumed and armoured night,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As one close temple hove our wood,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Its border leafage virgin white.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Remote down air an owl halloed.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The black twig dropped without a twirl;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The bud in jewelled grasp was nipped;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The brown leaf cracked with a scorching curl;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A crystal off the green leaf slipped.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Across the tracks of rimy tan,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Some busy thread at whiles would shoot;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A limping minnow-rillet ran,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To hang upon an icy foot.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In this shrill hush of quietude,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The ear conceived a severing cry.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Almost it let the sound elude,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When chuckles three, a warble shy,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From hazels of the garden came,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Near by the crimson-windowed farm.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They laid the trance on breath and frame,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A prelude of the passion-charm.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then soon was heard, not sooner heard<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Than answered, doubled, trebled, more,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Voice of an Eden in the bird<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Renewing with his pipe of four<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The sob: a troubled Eden, rich<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In throb of heart: unnumbered throats<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Flung upward at a fountain’s pitch,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The fervour of the four long notes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That on the fountain’s pool subside;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Exult and ruffle and upspring:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Endless the crossing multiplied<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of silver and of golden string.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287">{287}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">There chimed a bubbled underbrew<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With witch-wild spray of vocal dew.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">It seemed a single harper swept<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Our wild wood’s inner chords and waked<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A spirit that for yearning ached<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ere men desired and joyed or wept.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or now a legion ravishing<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Musician rivals did unite<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In love of sweetness high to sing<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The subtle song that rivals light;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From breast of earth to breast of sky:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And they were secret, they were nigh:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A hand the magic might disperse;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The magic swung my universe.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Yet sharpened breath forbade to dream,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where all was visionary gleam;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where Seasons, as with cymbals, clashed;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And feelings, passing joy and woe,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Churned, gurgled, spouted, interflashed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor either was the one we know:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor pregnant of the heart contained<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In us were they, that griefless plained,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That plaining soared; and through the heart<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Struck to one note the wide apart:—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A passion surgent from despair;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A paining bliss in fervid cold;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Off the last vital edge of air,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Leaping heavenward of the lofty-souled,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For rapture of a wine of tears;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As had a star among the spheres<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Caught up our earth to some mid-height<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of double life to ear and sight,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She giving voice to thought that shines<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Keen-brilliant of her deepest mines;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While steely drips the rillet clinked,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And hoar with crust the cowslips swelled.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288">{288}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then was the lyre of Earth beheld,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then heard by me: it holds me linked;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Across the years to dead-ebb shores<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I stand on, my blood-thrill restores.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But would I conjure into me<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Those issue notes, I must review<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What serious breath the woodland drew;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The low throb of expectancy;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How the white mother-muteness pressed<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On leaf and meadow-herb; how shook,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nigh speech of mouth, the sparkle-crest<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Seen spinning on the bracken crook.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289">{289}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Hymn to Colour.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">GEORGE MEREDITH</div> - -<h4>I.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">With Life and Death I walked when Love appeared,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And made them on each side a shadow seem.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through wooded vales the land of dawn we neared,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where down smooth rapids whirls the helmless dream<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To fall on daylight; and night puts away<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Her darker veil for grey.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4>II.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In that grey veil green grassblades brushed we by;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We came where woods breathed sharp, and overhead<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rocks raised clear horns on a transforming sky:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Around, save for those shapes, with him who led<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And linked them, desert varied by no sign<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Of other life than mine.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4>III.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">By this the dark-winged planet, raying wide,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From the mild pearl-glow to the rose upborne,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Drew in his fires, less faint than far descried,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pure-fronted on a stronger wave of morn:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And those two shapes the splendour interweaved,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Hung web-like, sank and heaved.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4>IV.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Love took my hand when hidden stood the sun<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To fling his robe on shoulder-heights of snow.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then said: There lie they, Life and Death in one.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whichever is, the other is: but know,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It is thy craving self that thou dost see,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Not in them seeing me.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4>V.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Shall man into the mystery of breath,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From his quick breathing pulse a pathway spy?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or learn the secret of the shrouded death,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By lifting up the lid of a white eye?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Cleave thou thy way with fathering desire<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Of fire to reach to fire.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290">{290}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h4>VI.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Look now where Colour, the soul’s bridegroom, makes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The house of heaven splendid for the bride.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To him as leaps a fountain she awakes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In knotting arms, yet boundless: him beside,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She holds the flower to heaven, and by his power<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Brings heaven to the flower.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4>VII.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He gives her homeliness in desert air,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And sovereignty in spaciousness; he leads<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through widening chambers of surprise to where<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Throbs rapture near an end that aye recedes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Because his touch is infinite and lends<br /></span> -<span class="i6">A yonder to all ends.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4>VIII.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Death begs of Life his blush; Life Death persuades<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To keep long day with his caresses graced.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He is the heart of light, the wing of shades,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The crown of beauty; never soul embraced<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of him can harbour unfaith; soul of him<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Possessed walks never dim.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4>IX.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Love eyed his rosy memories: he sang:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O bloom of dawn, breathed up from the gold sheaf<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Held springing beneath Orient! that dost hang<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The space of dewdrops running over leaf;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy fleetingness is bigger in the ghost<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Than Time with all his host!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4>X.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Of thee to say behold, has said adieu:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But love remembers how the sky was green,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And how the grasses glimmered lightest blue;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How saint-like grey took fervour: how the screen<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of cloud grew violet; how thy moment came<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Between a blush and flame.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291">{291}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h4>XI.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Love saw the emissary eglantine<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Break wave round thy white feet above the gloom;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lay finger on thy star; thy raiment line<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With cherub wing and limb; wed thy soft bloom,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gold-quivering like sunrays in thistle-down,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Earth under rolling brown.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4>XII.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They do not look through love to look on thee,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Grave heavenliness! nor know they joy of sight,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who deem the wave of rapt desire must be<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Its wrecking and last issue of delight.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dead seasons quicken in one petal-spot<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Of colour unforgot.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4>XIII.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">This way have men come out of brutishness<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To spell the letters of the sky and read<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A reflex upon earth else meaningless.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With thee, O fount of the Untimed! to lead;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Drink they of thee, thee eyeing, they unaged<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Shall on through brave wars waged.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4>XIV.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">More gardens will they win than any lost;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The vile plucked out of them, the unlovely slain.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Not forfeiting the beast with which they are crossed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To stature of the Gods will they attain.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They shall uplift their Earth to meet her Lord,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Themselves the attuning chord!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4>XV.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The song had ceased; my vision with the song.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then of those Shadows, which one made descent<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beside me I knew not: but Life ere long<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Came on me in the public ways and bent<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Eyes deeper than of old: Death met I too,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And saw the dawn glow through<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292">{292}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Shadows.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">SEBASTIAN EVANS</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Lonely o’er the dying ember<br /></span> -<span class="i4">I the past recall,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And remember in December<br /></span> -<span class="i0">April buds and August skies,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As the shadows fall and rise,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As the shadows rise and fall.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Quicker now they lift and flicker<br /></span> -<span class="i4">On the dreary wall;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Aye, and quicker still and thicker<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Throng the fitful fantasies,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As the shadows fall and rise,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As the shadows rise and fall.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Dimmer now they shoot and shimmer<br /></span> -<span class="i4">On the dreary wall,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dimmer, dimmer, still they glimmer<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till the light in darkness dies,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the other shadows rise,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the other shadows fall.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293">{293}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>When the World is Burning.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">EBENEZER JONES</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When the world is burning,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fired within, yet turning<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Round with face unscathed;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ere fierce flames, uprushing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O’er all lands leap, crushing,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Till earth fall, fire-swathed;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Up against the meadows,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gently through the shadows,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Gentle flames will glide,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Small, and blue, and golden.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Though by bard beholden,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When in calm dreams folden,—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Calm his dreams will bide.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Where the dance is sweeping,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through the greensward peeping,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Shall the soft lights start;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Laughing maids, unstaying,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Deeming it trick-playing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">High their robes upswaying,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">O’er the lights shall dart;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the woodland haunter<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shall not cease to saunter<br /></span> -<span class="i2">When, far down some glade,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of the great world’s burning,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">One soft flame upturning<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Seems, to his discerning,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Crocus in the shade.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294">{294}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Hand.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Lone o’er the moors I stray’d;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With basely timid mind,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Because by some betray’d<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Denouncing human-kind;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I heard the lonely wind,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And wickedly did mourn<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I could not share its loneliness,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all things human scorn.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And bitter were the tears,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I cursed as they fell;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And bitterer the sneers<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I strove not to repel:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With blindly mutter’d yell,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I cried unto mine heart,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Thou shalt beat the world in falsehood<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And stab it ere we part.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My hand I backward drave<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As one who seeks a knife;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When startlingly did crave<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To quell that hand’s wild strife<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Some other hand; all rife<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With kindness, clasp’d it hard<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On mine, quick frequent claspings<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That would not be debarr’d.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I dared not turn my gaze<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the creature of the hand;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And no sound did it raise,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Its nature to disband<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of mystery; vast, and grand,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The moors around me spread,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I thought, some angel message<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Perchance their God may have sped.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295">{295}</a></span></div> -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But it press’d another press,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So full of earnest prayer,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While o’er it fell a tress<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of cool soft human hair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I fear’d not;—I did dare<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Turn round, ’twas Hannah there!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh! to no one out of heaven<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Could I what pass’d declare.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We wander’d o’er the moor<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through all that blessed day;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And we drank its waters pure,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And felt the world away;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In many a dell we lay,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And we twined flower-crowns bright;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I fed her with moor-berries<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And bless’d her glad eye-light.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And still that earnest prayer<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That saved me many stings,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was oft a silent sayer<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of countless loving things;—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ll ring it all with rings,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Each ring a jewell’d band;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For heaven shouldn’t purchase<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That little sister hand.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296">{296}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="sidenote">EMILY DAVIS</div> - -<h3>A Song of Winter.<br /> -(Mrs Pfeiffer)</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Barb’d blossom of the guarded gorse,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I love thee where I see thee shine:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou sweetener of our common-ways,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And brightener of our wintry days.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Flower of the gorse, the rose is dead,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thou art undying, O be mine!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Be mine with all thy thorns, and prest<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Close on a heart that asks not rest.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I pluck thee and thy stigma set<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Upon my breast, and on my brow;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Blow, buds, and plenish so my wreath<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That none may know the wounds beneath.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O crown of thorn that seem’st of gold,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">No festal coronal art thou;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy honey’d blossoms are but hives<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That guard the growth of winged lives.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I saw thee in the time of flowers<br /></span> -<span class="i2">As sunshine spill’d upon the land,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or burning bushes all ablaze<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With sacred fire; but went my ways;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I went my ways, and as I went<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Pluck’d kindlier blooms on either hand;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Now of those blooms so passing sweet<br /></span> -<span class="i0">None lives to stay my passing feet.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And still thy lamp upon the hill<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Feeds on the autumn’s dying sigh,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And from thy midst comes murmuring<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A music sweeter than in spring.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Barb’d blossoms of the guarded gorse,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Be mine to wear until I die,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And mine the wounds of love which still<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bear witness to his human will.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297">{297}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Night Ride.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">ERNEST RHYS</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">To-night we rode beneath a moon<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That made the moorland pale;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And our horses’ feet kept well the tune<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And our pulses did not fail.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The moon shone clear; the hoar-frost fell,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The world slept, as it seemed;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sleep held the night, but we rode well,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And as we rode we dreamed.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We dreamed of ghostly horse and hound,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And flight at dead of night;—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The more the fearful thoughts we found,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The more was our delight.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And when we saw the white-owl fly,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With hoot, how woebegone!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We thought to see dead men go by,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And pressed our horses on.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The merrier then was Sylvia’s song<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Upon the homeward road,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh, whether the way be short or long<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Is all in the rider’s mood!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And still our pulses kept the tale,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Our gallop kept the tune,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As round and over hill and vale<br /></span> -<span class="i2">We rode beneath the moon.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298">{298}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The House of Hendra.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><i>‘S’ai Plas Hendre</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>Yn Nghaer Fyrddin:</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>Canu Brechfa,</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>Tithau Lywelyn’.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4>I.</h4> - -<div class="sidenote"> -<p>The House of Hendra stood in Merlin’s Town, and was sung by Brechva -on his Harp of gold at the October Feasting of Ivor.</p> -</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In the town where wondrous Merlin<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Lived, and still<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In deep sleep, they say, lies dreaming<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Near it, under Merlin’s Hill,<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In that town of pastoral Towy,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Once of old<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Stood the ancient House of Hendra,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sung on Brechva’s harp of gold.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">With his harp to Ivor’s feasting<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Brechva came,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There he sang and made this ballad,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While the last torch spent its flame.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Long they told,—the men of Ivor,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Of the strain<br /></span> -<span class="i0">At the heart of Brechva’s harping<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Heard that night, and not again.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299">{299}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="sidenote">ERNEST RHYS</div> - -<h4>II.</h4> - -<div class="sidenote"><p><i>Incipit</i> Brechva’s Ballad of the House of Hendra, and of his deep -sleep there on Hallowmas Night, and of his strange awaking.</p> -</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In yon town, he sang,—there Hendra<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Waits my feet,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In renownèd Merlin’s town where<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Clare’s white castle keeps the street.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There, within that house of heroes,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">I drew breath;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And ’tis there my feet must bear me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For the darker grace of death.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There that last year’s night I journeyed,—<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Hallowmas!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the dead of Earth, unburied,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the darkness rise and pass.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then in Hendra (all his harp cried<br /></span> -<span class="i4">At the stroke),<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Twelve moons gone, there came upon me<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sleep like death. At length I woke:<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I awoke to utter darkness,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Still and deep,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With the walls around me fallen<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of the sombre halls of sleep:<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">With my hall of dreams downfallen,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Dark I lay,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like one houseless, though about me<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hendra stood, more fast than they:<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But what broke my sleep asunder,—<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Light or sound?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There was shown no sound, where only<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Night, and shadow’s heart, were found.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300">{300}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h4>III.</h4> - -<div class="sidenote"> -<p>Anon he hears a voice in the night, and rising from sleep, looks -out upon the sleeping town.</p> -</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">So it passed, till with a troubled<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Lonely noise,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like a cry of men benighted,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Midnight made itself a voice.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then I rose, and from the stairloop,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Looking down,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nothing saw, where far before me<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lay, one darkness, all the town.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In that grave day seemed for ever<br /></span> -<span class="i4">To lie dead,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nevermore at wake of morning<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To lift up its pleasant head:<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">All its friendly foolish clamour,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Its delight,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fast asleep, or dead, beneath me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In that black descent of night:<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But anon, like fitful harping,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Hark, a noise!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As in dream, suppose your dreamer’s<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Men of shadow found a voice.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301">{301}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="sidenote">ERNEST RHYS</div> - -<h4>IV.</h4> - -<div class="sidenote"><p>Hearing his name called, Brechva descends to the postern, and sees -thence a circle of Shadows, in a solemn dance of Death.</p></div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Night-wind never sang more strangely<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Song more strange;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All confused, yet with a music<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In confusion’s interchange.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Now it cried, like harried night-birds,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Flying near,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Now, more nigh, with multiplying<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Voice on voice, “O Brechva, hear!”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I was filled with fearful pleasure<br /></span> -<span class="i4">At the call,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I turned, and by the stairway<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gained the postern in the wall:<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Deep as Annwn lay the darkness<br /></span> -<span class="i4">At my feet;—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like a yawning grave before me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When I opened, lay the street.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Dark as death, and deep as Annwn,—<br /></span> -<span class="i4">But these eyes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet more deeply, strangely, seeing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From that grave saw life arise.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And therewith a mist of shadows<br /></span> -<span class="i4">In a ring,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like the sea-mist on the sea-wind,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Waxing, waning, vanishing.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Circling as the wheel of spirits<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Whirled and spun,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Spun and whirled, to forewarn Merlin<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the woods of Caledon.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302">{302}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h4>V.</h4> - -<div class="sidenote"> -<p>The spirits are no dream-folk; but ancient inmates of the House of -Hendra.</p> -</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Shades of men, ay, bards and warriors!—<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Wrought of air,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You may deem, but ’twas no dream-folk,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Born of night, that crossed me there.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And my heart cried out,—“O Vorwyn!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">They are those<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who of old-time lived to know here<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Life’s great sweetness in this house.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I had bid them kinsman’s welcome,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">In a word,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For the ancient sake of Hendra,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Which they served with harp and sword.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But as still I watched them, wondering,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Curiously,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Knowing all they should forewarn me,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of my death and destiny!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ere I marked all in the silence,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Ere I knew,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Swift as they had come, as strangely<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Now their shadowy life withdrew.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303">{303}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="sidenote">ERNEST RHYS</div> - -<h4>VI.</h4> - -<div class="sidenote"> -<p>The Spirits being gone, Brechva hears aërial music, and sees in -vision all the Bards in the seventh Heaven.</p> -</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They were gone; but what sweet wonder<br /></span> -<span class="i10">Filled the air!—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With a thousand harping noises,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Harping, chiming, crying there.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">At that harping and that chiming,<br /></span> -<span class="i10">Straightway strong<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Grew my heart, and in the darkness<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Found great solace at that song.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Through the gate of night, its vision,<br /></span> -<span class="i10">Three times fine,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Saw the seventh heaven of heroes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Mid a thousand torches’ shine:<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">All the bards and all the heroes<br /></span> -<span class="i10">Of old time<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There with Arthur and with Merlin<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Weave again the bardic rhyme.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There a seat is set and ready,<br /></span> -<span class="i10">And the name<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There inscribed, and set on high there,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Brechva of the Bards of Fame.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305">{305}</a></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304">{304}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h2><a name="V" id="V"></a>V<br /><br /> -CONTEMPORARY<br /> -ANGLO-CELTIC POETS<br /> -(Manx)<br /><br /> -</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306">{306}</a></span> </p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307">{307}</a></span> </p> - -<h3>The Childhood of Kitty of the Sherragh Vane.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">T. E. BROWN</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Nice lookin’, eh?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Aye, that’s your way—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Well, I tell ye, the first time ever I seen her,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She wasn’ much more till<a name="FNanchor_27_27" id="FNanchor_27_27"></a><a href="#Footnote_27_27" class="fnanchor">[27]</a> a baby—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Six years, may be,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Would have been her<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Age; at the little clogs at her,<a name="FNanchor_28_28" id="FNanchor_28_28"></a><a href="#Footnote_28_28" class="fnanchor">[28]</a><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Clitter-clatter,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And her little hand<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In mine, to show me the way, you’ll understand,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Down yandher brew,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And me a stranger too,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That was lost on the mountain;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the little sowl in the house all alone,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And for her to be goin’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The best part of a mile—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bless the chile!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till she got me right—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Not a bit shy, not her!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor freckened,<a name="FNanchor_29_29" id="FNanchor_29_29"></a><a href="#Footnote_29_29" class="fnanchor">[29]</a> but talkin’ as purty<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As a woman of thirty—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And—“That’s the way down to the School,” says she<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“And Saul and me<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is goin’ there every day;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You’ll aisy find the way”—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And turns, and off like a bird on the wing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Aw, a bright little thing!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Isn’ it that way with these people of the mountain?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">No accountin’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But seemin very fearless though—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Very—not for fightin’, no!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308">{308}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor tearin’, but just the used they are<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of fogs and bogs, and all the war<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of winds and clouds, and ghos’es creepin’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Unknownst upon them, and fairies cheepin’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like birds, you’d think, and big bugganes<a name="FNanchor_30_30" id="FNanchor_30_30"></a><a href="#Footnote_30_30" class="fnanchor">[30]</a><br /></span> -<span class="i0">In holes in rocks; lek makin’ frens<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With the like, that’ll work like niggers, they will,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If you’ll only let them; and paisible<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Uncommon they are; and little scraps,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That’s hardly off their mammies’ laps<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’ll walk about there in the night<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The same as the day, and all right—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bless ye! ghos’es! ar’n’ they half<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ghos’es themselves? Just hear them laugh,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or hear them cry,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It’s like up in the sky—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Aw, differin’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Total—aye; for the air is thin<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And fine up there, and they suck it in<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Very strong,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Very long,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And mixes it in the mould<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of all their body and all their sowl—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So they’re often seemin’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like people dreamin’,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With their eyes open like a surt of a trance.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309">{309}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Graih my Chree.<br /><br /> -(Love of my Heart.)</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">HALL CAINE</div> - -<h4>I.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She was Joney, the rich man’s only child,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">He was Juan, a son of the sea.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Thy father hath cast me forth of his door,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But, poor as I am, to his teeth I swore<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I should wed thee, O graih my chree.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He broke a ring and gave her the half,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And she buried it close at her heart.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“I must leave thee, love of my soul,” he said,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“But I vow by our troth that living or dead,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I will come back rich to thine arms and thy bed,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And fetch thee as sure as we part.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He sailed to the north, he sailed to the south,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">He sailed to the foreign strand,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But whether he touched on the icy cone<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or the coral reef of the Indian zone,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">It turned to a golden land.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And he cried to his crew, “Hoist sail and about,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For no more do I need to roam;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I have silks and satins and lace and gold,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I have treasure as deep as my ship will hold<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To win me a wife at home.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They had not sailed but half of their course<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To the haven where they would be,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the devil beguiled their barque on a rock,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And down it sank with a woeful shock<br /></span> -<span class="i2">On the banks of Italy.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then over the roar of the clamorous waves<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The skipper his voice was heard,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“I vowed by our troth that dead or alive<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I should come back yet to wed and to wive,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And by t’ Lady I keep my word.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310">{310}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“I will come to thee still, O love of my heart,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From the arms of the envious sea;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Though the tempest should swallow my choking breath,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the spite of hell and the devil and death<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I will come to thee, graih my chree.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4>II.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“He will come no more to thine arms, my child,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">He is false or lost and dead,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Now wherefore make ye these five years’ moan,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And wherefore sit by the sea alone?”<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“He will keep his vow,” she said.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She climbed the brows of the cliffs at home,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">She gazed on the false, false sea.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“It comes and it goes for ever,” she cried,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“And tidings it brings to the wife and the bride,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But never a word to me.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then, of lovers, another came wooing the maid,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But she answered him nay and nay,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The manfullest man and her servant true,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Give me thy hand and thou shalt not rue,”<br /></span> -<span class="i2">She murmured, “Alack, the day.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Her father arose in his pride and his wrath,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">He was last of his race and name,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Because that a daughter will peak and will pine<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Must I never have child of my child to my line,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But die in my childless shame?”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They bore her a bride to the kirkyard gate,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">It was a pitiful sight to see,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her body they decked in their jewels and gold,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But the heart in her bosom sate silent and cold,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And she murmured “Ah, woe is me.”<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_311" id="page_311">{311}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="sidenote">HALL CAINE</div> - -<h4>III.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They had not been wedded a year, a year,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A year but barely two,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the good wife close to the hearth-stone crept<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And rocked her babe while the good man slept<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And the wind in the chimney blew.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Loud was the sea and fierce was the night,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Gloomy and wild and dour;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From a flying cloud came a lightning flash,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A pane of the window fell in with a crash,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And something rang on the floor.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O, was it a stone from the waste sea-beach?<br /></span> -<span class="i2">O, was it an earthly thing?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She stirred the peat and stooped to the ground,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And there in the red, red light she found<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The half of a broken ring.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She rose upright in a terror of fright<br /></span> -<span class="i2">As one that hath sinned a sin,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And out of the dark and the wind and rain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through the jagged gap of the broken pane,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A man’s white face looked in.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“Oh, why didst thou stay so long, Juan?<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Five years I waited for thee.”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“I vowed by our troth, that living or dead<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I should come back yet to thine arms and thy bed,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And my vow I have kept, my chree.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“But I have been false to my troth, Juan;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Falsely I swore me away.”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“I have silks and satins and lace and gold,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I have treasure as deep as my ship will hold;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And my barque lies out in the bay.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_312" id="page_312">{312}</a></span>”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“But I have a husband that loves me dear;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I promised him never to part.”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Through the salt sea’s foam and the earth’s hot breath,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through the grapplings of hell and the gates of death<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I have come for thee, Joney, my heart.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“But I have a child of my body so sweet—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Little Jannie that sleeps in the cot.”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“By the glimpse of the moon, at the top of the tide,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ere the crow of the cock our vessel must ride,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Or what will befall us, God wot.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“Now, ever alack, thou must kiss and go back;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My love, I am never for thee.”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“As sure as yon ship to the billows that roll,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By the plight of our troth, both body and soul<br /></span> -<span class="i2">You belong to me, graih my chree.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She followed him forth like to one in a sleep;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">It was a woeful and wonderous sight.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The moon on his face from a rift in a cloud<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Showed it white and wan as a face in a shroud,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And his ship on the sea gleamed white.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4>IV.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“Now weigh and away, my merry men all.”<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The crew laughed loud in their glee.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“With the rich man’s pride and his sweet daughter,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the spite of wind and the wild water—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To the banks of Italy!”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The anchor was weighed, the canvas was spread,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">All in the storm and the dark,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With never a reef in a stitch of sail,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But standing about to burst the gale<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Merrily sped the barque.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_313" id="page_313">{313}</a></span></div> -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The first night out there was fear on the ship,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For the lady lay in a swoon;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The second night out she woke from her trance,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the skipper did laugh and his men would dance,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But she made a piteous moan.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“O, where is my home and my sweet baby—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My Jannie I nursed on my knee?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He will wake in his cot by the cold hearth-stone<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And cry for his mother who left him alone;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My Jannie, I’m wae for thee.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The skipper he shouted for music and song,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And his crew they answered his call.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He clothed her in silk and satin and lace,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But still through the rout and riot her face<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Showed fit for a funeral.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And ever at night they sailed by the moon,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Through the wild white foam so fleet,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And ever again at the coming of day,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the sun rose out of the sea they lay<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In a mist like a winding sheet.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And still the skipper he kissed her and cried,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“Be merry and let-a-be.”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And still to soothe her he sat through the nights<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With his hand in her hand, till they opened the lights<br /></span> -<span class="i2">By the banks of Italy.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then his face shone green as with ghostly sheen,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And the moon began to dip.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“O, think not you, I am the lover ye knew;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I am a ghostly man with a ghostly crew,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And this is a ghostly ship.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then he rose upright to a fearsome height,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And stamped his foot on the deck;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He smote the mast at the topsail yards,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the rigging fell like a house of cards,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And the hulk was a splitting wreck.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_314" id="page_314">{314}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O, then as she sank in the water’s womb,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In the churn of the choking sea,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She knew that his arms were about her breast,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">As close as his arms might be.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And he cried o’er the tramp of the champing tide<br /></span> -<span class="i2">On the banks of Italy,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“By the plight of our troth, by the power of our bond,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If not in this world in the world beyond,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thou art mine, O graih my chree.”<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_315" id="page_315">{315}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h2><a name="VI" id="VI"></a>VI<br /><br /> -CONTEMPORARY<br /> ANGLO-CELTIC POETS<br /> -(Cornish)</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_316" id="page_316">{316}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_317" id="page_317">{317}</a></span> </p> - -<h3>The Splendid Spur.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">A. T. QUILLER COUCH</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Not on the neck of prince or hound,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Nor on a woman’s finger twin’d,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">May gold from the deriding ground<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Keep sacred that we sacred bind:<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Only the heel<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Of splendid steel<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shall stand secure on sliding fate,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When golden navies weep their freight.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The scarlet hat, the laurell’d stave<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Are measures, not the springs of worth;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In a wife’s lap, as in a grave,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Man’s airy notions mix with earth.<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Seek other spur<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Bravely to stir<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The dust in this loud world, and tread<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Alp-high among the whisp’ring dead.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="gesh">Trust in thyself</span>,—then spur amain:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">So shall Charybdis wear a grace,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Grim Ætna laugh, the Libyan plain<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Take roses to her shrivell’d face.<br /></span> -<span class="i6">This orb—this round<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Of sight and sound—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Count it the lists that God hath built<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For haughty hearts to ride a-tilt.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_318" id="page_318">{318}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The White Moth.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">A. T. QUILLER COUCH</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><i>If a leaf rustled, she would start:</i><br /></span> -<span class="i2"><i>And yet she died, a year ago.</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>How had so frail a thing the heart</i><br /></span> -<span class="i2"><i>To journey where she trembled so?</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>And do they turn and turn in fright,</i><br /></span> -<span class="i2"><i>Those little feet, in so much night?</i><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The light above the poet’s head<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Streamed on the page and on the cloth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And twice and thrice there buffeted<br /></span> -<span class="i2">On the black pane a white-wing’d moth:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Twas Annie’s soul that beat outside,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And “Open, open, open!” cried:<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“I could not find the way to God;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">There were too many flaming suns<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For signposts, and the fearful road<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Led over wastes where millions<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of tangled comets hissed and burned—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I was bewilder’d and I turned.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“O, it was easy then! I knew<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Your window and no star beside.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Look up and take me back to you!”<br /></span> -<span class="i2">He rose and thrust the window wide.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Twas but because his brain was hot<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With rhyming; for he heard her not.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But poets polishing a phrase<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Show anger over trivial things:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And as she blundered in the blaze<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Towards him, on ecstatic wings,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He raised a hand and smote her dead;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Then wrote, “<span class="gesh">That I had died instead</span>.”<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_319" id="page_319">{319}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Featherstone’s Doom.<a name="FNanchor_31_31" id="FNanchor_31_31"></a><a href="#Footnote_31_31" class="fnanchor">[31]</a></h3> - -<div class="sidenote">STEPHEN HAWKER</div> - -<h4>I.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Twist thou and twine! in light and gloom<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A spell is on thine hand;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The wind shall be thy changeful loom,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thy web, the shifting sand.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4>II.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Twine from this hour, in ceaseless toil,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">On Blackrock’s sullen shore;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till cordage of the hand shall coil<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Where crested surges roar.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4>III.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Tis for that hour, when, from the wave,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Near voices wildly cried;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When thy stern hand no succour gave,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The cable at thy side.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4>IV.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Twist thou and twine! in light and gloom<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The spell is on thine hand;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The wind shall be thy changeful loom,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thy web, the shifting sand.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_320" id="page_320">{320}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Trebarrow.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">STEPHEN HAWKER</div> - -<h4>I.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Did the wild blast of battle sound,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of old, from yonder lonely mound?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Race of Pendragon! did ye pour,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On this dear earth, your votive gore?<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4>II.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Did stern swords cleave along this plain<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The loose rank of the roving Dane?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or Norman chargers’ sounding tread<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Smite the meek daisy’s Saxon head?<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4>III.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The wayward winds no answer breathe,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">No legend cometh from beneath,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of chief, with good sword at his side,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or Druid in his tomb of pride.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4>IV.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">One quiet bird that comes to make<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her lone nest in the scanty brake;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A nameless flower, a silent fern—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lo! the dim stranger’s storied urn.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4>V.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Hark! on the cold wings of the blast<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The future answereth to the past;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The bird, the flower, may gather still,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy voice shall cease upon the hill!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_321" id="page_321">{321}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Witch Margaret.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">RICCARDO STEPHENS</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Who hath not met Witch Margaret?<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Red gold her rippling hair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Eyes like sweet summer seas are set<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Beneath her brow so fair;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And cream and damask rose have met<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Her lips and cheek to share.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Come up! and you shall see her yet,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Before she groweth still;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Before her cloak of flame and smoke<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The winter air shall fill;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For they must burn Witch Margaret<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Upon the Castle Hill.<br /></span> - -<span class="idtts">. . . . . . . . . . <br /></span> -<span class="i0">They found on her the devil’s mark,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Wherein naught maketh pain,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Bind her and dip her! stiff and stark<br /></span> -<span class="i2">She floateth aye again;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her body changeth after dark,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">When powers of darkness reign.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They drave the boot on Margaret<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And crushed her dainty feet;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The hissing searing-irons set<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To kiss her lips so sweet:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She hath not asked for mercy yet,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Nor mercy shall she meet.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The silent sky was cold and grey,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The earth was cold and white,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They brought her out that Christmas Day<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To burn her in our sight;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The snow that fell and fell alway<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Would cover her ere night.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_322" id="page_322">{322}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">All feebly as a child would go<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Her bleeding feet dragged by,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Blood-red upon the white, white snow<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I saw her footprints lie;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And some one shrieked to see her so—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">God knows if it was I!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Upon her body, all in black,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Fell down her red-gold hair;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All bruised and bleeding from the rack<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Her writhen arms hung bare;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Red blood dripped all along her track,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Red blood seemed in the air.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The while they told her deeds of shame,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">She, resting in the snow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Stretched out weak hands toward the flame,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Watched the sparks upward go,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till on the pale pinched face there came<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Some of the red fire’s glow.<br /></span> - -<span class="idtts">. . . . . . . . . . <br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh, is it blood that blinds mine eyes,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Or is it driving snow?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And are these but the wild wind’s cries<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That drive me to and fro,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That beat about mine ears and rise<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Wherever I may go?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">It’s red and black on Castle Hill!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The people go to pray,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A little wind sighs on, until<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The ashes float away;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And then God’s earth is very still,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For this is Christmas Day.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_323" id="page_323">{323}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>A Ballad.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">RICCARDO STEPHENS</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The Autumn leaves went whispering by,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Like ghosts that never slept.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Up through the dusk a curlew’s cry<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From glen to hill-top crept.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Dead Man heard the burn moan by<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And thought for him it wept.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Lapped in his grave, a night and day,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The Dead Man marked the sound:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He knew the moon rose far away,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Grey shadows gathered round,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then down the glen, he heard the bay<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Raised by his great grey hound.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A stag crashed out, and thundered back<br /></span> -<span class="i2">—She never turned aside.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The swollen stream ran cold and black,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">—She leapt the waters wide,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor paused, nor left the shadowy track<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Till at the dark grave side.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“What brings you here, my great grey hound,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">What brings you here, alone?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">True I am dead, but is there found<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Beneath my board no bone?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">No rushy bed for your grey head<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Now I am dead and gone?”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“Your brother reads your title-deeds,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Your wife counts out red gold,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And laughs in rich black widow’s-weeds,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Red-lipped and smooth and bold.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I want no bone, to gnaw alone,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Now that your hand is cold.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The Dead Man laughed in scornful hate,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">While the great hound growled low,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_324" id="page_324">{324}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Last night I rose to Heaven’s gate,”<br /></span> -<span class="i2">He said, “for I would know<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The best or worst dealt out by Fate,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And whither I must go.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He paused—“My grave is damp and cold;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I feel the slow worms glide<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Smoothly and softly through the mould,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And nestle by my side.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What lives and moves, in wood and wold,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Where love and laughter bide?”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“The wild fowl fly across, and call<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In from the grey salt sea;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I scent the red stag by the Fall,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">He fears no more from me.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The moon comes up, and over all<br /></span> -<span class="i2">She glimmers eerily.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The corpse replied, “At Heaven’s gates<br /></span> -<span class="i2">They stand to let me through,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And there, years hence, a welcome waits<br /></span> -<span class="i2">False Wife and Brother too.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Do what you will, my hound, and still<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Heaven holds no place for you.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“With tooth and claw tear down to me,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And Death shall be no tether.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The swift red deer once more shall flee,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Panting through burn and heather:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And you and I once more shall be<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Hunting my hills together!”<br /></span> -<span class="idtts">. . . . . . . . . . <br /></span> -<span class="i0">That night the deer across the wold<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From dark to dawning fled;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The lady dreamt that, shroud-enrolled,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A corpse had shared her bed;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But by the grave wind-swept and cold,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The great grey hound lay dead!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_325" id="page_325">{325}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Hell’s Piper.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">RICCARDO STEPHENS</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O have ye heard of Angus Blair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who lived long since in black Auchmair?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And have ye heard old pipers tell<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His story—how he piped in Hell?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When Angus piped the old grew young,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Crutches across the floor were flung;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nay more, ’twas said his witching breath<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Had robbed the grave, and cheated death.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Above all else, a march of war<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was what men praised and feared him for;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When that he played, like fire it ran<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In blood and brain of every man;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then stiffened hair began to rise,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bent brows scowled over staring eyes;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then, at his will, men spilt their blood<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like water of a winter flood,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Swearing, with Angus, ill or well,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They’d charge light-hearted into Hell.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Long years, through many a feast and fray,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Did Piper Angus pipe his way;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till, swept upon the swirling tide<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of a night-charge, he sank and died.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">That night the Piper rose to tread<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The ways that lie before the dead.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He saw God’s battlements afar<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Blazing behind the utmost star,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And turning in the chill night air,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thought he might find a shelter there.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But as he turned to leave the earth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With all its music, maids, and mirth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The battered pipes beneath his feet<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Screamed out a wailing, last retreat;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_326" id="page_326">{326}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then Piper Angus paused, and thought<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of the wild work those pipes had wrought;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“But there,” quoth he, “in peace and rest,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Up there, the holy ones, the blest,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Praise aye the Lord, and aye they sing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While golden harps and cymbals ring.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To my wild march or mad strathspey<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The heavenly host would say me nay,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And none would hear my chanter more<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Unless the Lord went out to war.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But often have I heard men tell<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How they would follow pipes to Hell:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That way I’ll try: in Hell maybe<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Some corner’s kept for them and me.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">So said, so done—for well content<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Down the dark way to Hell he went.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Chanter felt his finger-tips,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Blow-pipe thrilled between his lips,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Drones across his shoulder flung,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Moaned till the Earth’s foundations rung,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The streamers flaunted on the blast<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As, striding smoke and shadow past,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With bonnet cocked, and careless air,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Piping his march, went Piper Blair.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Down where the shackled earthquakes dwell<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Are piled the reeking halls of Hell.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Their walls are steel, their gates are brass;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Round them four flaming rivers pass;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And sleepless sentinels are set<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On every point and parapet,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To hedge the souls whose far-off cries<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Up to the world may never rise.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">That night, so still the whole place seemed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You’d think all Hell had peace, and dreamed<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For the dark Master, brooding aye<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Over lost hope and ancient fray,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_327" id="page_327">{327}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Had, from his vantage, pale and grim,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Perchance to please a passing whim,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hissed down a word which quelled and cowed<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And silenced all that shuddering crowd.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So now aloft upon his throne<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He sat indifferent, alone,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While poor damned souls who dared not cry<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In writhing droves went whirling by.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">These, dumb, before he noted aught,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Some strange and wandering sound now caught.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And first a little note they heard<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Far off—and like a lonely bird;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And then it grew, and grew, and grew,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As near and nearer still it drew,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Until Hell’s Lord in slow surprise<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Turned on the gates his weary eyes.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then they that bent beneath a load<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Stood up, nor felt the fiery goad.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then they that trod on forks of flame<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tramped to the wild notes as they came.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then, look, old foes of long ago<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Feel old revenge revive and glow.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then, heedless of the flaming whip,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They roll in one another’s grip<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With shout and shriek and throttled jeer,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">—And over all the pipes rang clear.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But from the march those pipes turned soon,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And sank, to sing another tune;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A low lament, whose sobbing wail<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Filled aching hearts and made them fail.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And they that fought a breath ago<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Now wept at one another’s woe.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A second change—a lilting air<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Made Hell look bright, made Hell look fair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And wretches gasping new from death<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Followed the tune beneath their breath<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_328" id="page_328">{328}</a></span>—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then, piping yet, erect, alone,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Piper stood before the throne.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Up rose the Master in his place,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Eyeing the Piper’s careless face,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“No room, no room in Hell can be<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For Piper Angus Blair,” cried he;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Would to such sounds my host had trod<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ere I was hurled down here by God;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mine hadst thou been, before I fell,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’d rule in Heav’n now—not in Hell.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then every night and every day<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On Heav’n’s high ramparts shouldst thou play,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But here—here’s neither war nor mirth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor more in Heav’n; so back to Earth.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Thus now, as over glen and brae<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The wild wind wanders on its way,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dead Piper Angus Blair goes too,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And pipes and pipes the whole world through.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Unseen, unknown he goes. To-day<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He’ll pipe perchance for bairns at play<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To set them dancing: maybe steal<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To-night to watch a roaring reel.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There, when the panting pipers tire,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He joins, and sets all hearts afire;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And ere the dawn his pipes have pealed<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fiercely across some stricken field.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But when each year is at its close<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Right down the road to Hell he goes.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There the gaunt porters all a-grin<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fling back the gates to let him in,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then damned and devil, one and all,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Make mirth and hold high carnival,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The while the Master sits apart<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Plotting rebellion in his heart.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till, when above the dawn is grey,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Piper turns and tramps away.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_329" id="page_329">{329}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h2><a name="VII" id="VII"></a>VII<br /><br /> -MODERN AND<br /> CONTEMPORARY<br /> BRETON</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_330" id="page_330">{330}</a></span></p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><i>O Breiz-Izel, O Kaera bro!</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>Koat enn hi c’ hreiz, mor enn he zro!</i><br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_331" id="page_331">{331}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Poor Clerk.<br /><br /> -(Ar C’Hloarek Paour.)</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">MEDIÆVAL BRETON</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My wooden shoes I’ve lost them, my naked feet I’ve torn<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A-following my sweeting through field and brake of thorn;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The rain may beat, and fall the sleet, and ice chill to the bone,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But they’re no stay to hold away the lover from his own.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My sweeting is no older than I that love her so:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She’s scarce seventeen, her face is fair, her cheeks like roses glow.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In her eyes there is a fire, sweetest speech her lips doth part;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her love it is a prison where I’ve locked up my heart.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Oh, to what shall I liken her, that a wrong it shall not be?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the pretty little white rose, that is called Rose-Marie?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The pearl of girls; the lily when among the flowers it grows,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The lily newly opened, among flowers about to close.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When I came to thee a-wooing, my sweet, my gentle May,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I was as is the nightingale upon the hawthorn spray:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When he would sleep the thorns they keep a-pricking in his breast,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That he flies up perforce and sings upon the tree’s tall crest.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I am as is the nightingale, or as a soul must be<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That in the purgatory fires lies longing to be free,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_332" id="page_332">{332}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Waiting the blessèd time when I unto your house shall come,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All with the marriage-messenger<a name="FNanchor_32_32" id="FNanchor_32_32"></a><a href="#Footnote_32_32" class="fnanchor">[32]</a> bearing his branch of broom.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ah, me! my stars are froward: ’gainst nature is my state;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Since in this world I came I’ve dreed a dark and dismal fate:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I have nor living kin nor friends, mother nor father dear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There is no Christian on earth to wish me happy here.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There lives no one hath had to bear so much of grief and shame<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For your sweet sake as I have, since in this world I came;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And therefore on my bended knees, in God’s dear name I sue,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Have pity on your own poor clerk, that loveth only you!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_333" id="page_333">{333}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Cross by the Way.<br /><br /> -(Kroaz ann Hent.)</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">MEDIÆVAL BRETON</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sweet in the green-wood a birdie sings,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Golden-yellow its two bright wings,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Red its heartikin, blue its crest:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh, but it sings with the sweetest breast!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Early, early it ’lighted down<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the edge of my ingle-stone,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As I prayed my morning prayer,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Tell me thy errand, birdie fair.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then sung it as many sweet things to me<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As there are roses on the rose-tree:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Take a sweetheart, lad, an’ you may;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To gladden your heart both night and day.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Past the cross by the way as I went,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Monday, I saw her fair as a saint:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sunday, I will go to mass,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There on the green I’ll see her pass.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Water poured in a beaker clear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dimmer shows than the eyes of my dear;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pearls themselves are not more bright<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Than her little teeth, pure and white.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then her hands and her cheek of snow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whiter than milk in a black pail, show.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yes, if you could my sweetheart see,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She would charm the heart from thee.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Had I as many crowns at my beck,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As hath the Marquis of Poncalec;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Had I a gold-mine at my door,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wanting my sweetheart, I were poor.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_334" id="page_334">{334}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">If on my door-sill up should come<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Golden flowers for furze and broom,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till my court were with gold piled high,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Little I’d reck, but she were by.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Doves must have their close warm nest,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Corpses must have the tomb for rest;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Souls to Paradise must depart,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I, my love, must to thy heart.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Every Monday at dawn of day<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ll on my knees to the cross by the way;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">At the new cross by the way I’ll bend,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In thy honour, my gentle friend!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_335" id="page_335">{335}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Secrets of the Clerk.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">LATER BRETON</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Each night, each night, as on my bed I lie,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I do not sleep, but turn myself and cry.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I do not sleep, but turn myself and weep,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When I think of her I love so deep.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Each day I seek the Wood of Love so dear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In hopes to see you at its streamlet clear.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When I see you come through the forest grove,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On its leaves I write the secret of my love.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">—But a fragile trust are the forest leaves,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To hold the secrets close which their page receives.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When comes the storm of rain, and gusty air,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Your secrets close are scattered everywhere.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Twere safer far, young clerk, on my heart to write.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Graven deep they’d rest, and never take their flight.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_336" id="page_336">{336}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Love Song.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">MODERN BRETON</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In the white cabin at the foot of the mountain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is my sweet, my love:<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Is my love, is my desire,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all my happiness.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Before the night must I see her<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or my little heart will break.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My little heart will not break,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For my lovely dear I have seen.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Fifty nights I have been<br /></span> -<span class="i0">At the threshold of her door; she did not know it.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The rain and the wind whipped me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Until my garments dripped.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Nothing came to console me<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Except the sound of breathing from her bed.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Except the sound of breathing from her bed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Which came through the little hole of the key.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Three pairs of shoes I have worn out,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her thought I do not know.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The fourth pair I have begun to wear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her thought I do not know.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Five pairs, alas, in good count,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her thought I do not know.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">—If it is my thought you wish to know,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It is not I who will make a mystery of it.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There are three roads on each side of my house,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Choose one among them.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Choose whichever you like among them,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Provided it will take you far from here.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_337" id="page_337">{337}</a></span></div> -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">—More is worth love, since it pleases me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Than wealth with which I do not know what to do.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Wealth comes, and wealth it goes away,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wealth serves for nothing.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Wealth passes like the yellow pears:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Love endures for ever.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">More is worth a handful of love<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Than an oven full of gold and silver.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_338" id="page_338">{338}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Hymn to Sleep.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">HERVÉ-NOËL LE BRETON</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Keeper of the keys of Heaven,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lingering near the starry Seven!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Guardian of the gates of Hell,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hushed beneath thy drowsy spell!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Fold thy wings and come to me,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When the pilgrim of strange lore<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Haunts thy pale phantasmal shore,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dreams and absolution grant,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Priestess thou and hierophant!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Fold thy wings and come to me,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Builder of eternal towers!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Weaver of enchanted bowers!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou dost forge the fighter’s arms,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thee the lover woos for charms:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Fold thy wings and come to me,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Thou dost soothe the virgin’s fears,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou dost staunch the widow’s tears,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Smooth the wrinkled brows of Care,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Still the cries of wild Despair:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Fold thy wings and come to me,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Healer of the sores of shame!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Cleanser of the unholy flame!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou dost breathe beatitude<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the evil and the good:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Fold thy wings and come to me,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_339" id="page_339">{339}</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When the cup that Pleasure sips<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Turns to wormwood on the lips;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When Remorse, with venomed mesh,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Frets and tears the writhing flesh:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Fold thy wings and come to me,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Queller of the storms of Fate!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Quencher of the fires of Hate!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In thy peaceful bosom furled<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lies the turmoil of the world:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Fold thy wings and come to me,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Calm as noon’s abysmal blue,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Soundless as the falling dew,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Soft as snow with fleecy plumes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sweet as curling incense-fumes:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Fold thy wings and come to me,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Keeper of the keys of Heaven!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">(Cease your vigil, starry Seven)<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Guardian of the gates of Hell!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">(Loosen not the drowsèd spell)<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Fold thy wings and come to me,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sleep! thou soul’s euthanasy.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_340" id="page_340">{340}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Burden of Lost Souls.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">This was our sin. When Hope, with wings enchanted<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And shining aureole,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hung on the blossomed steps of Youth and haunted<br /></span> -<span class="i6">The chancel of the soul;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When we whose lips haply had blown the bugle<br /></span> -<span class="i6">That cheers the wavering line,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And solaced those to whom the world was frugal<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Of Love, the food divine;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Whose hands had strength to strike men’s chains asunder<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And heal the poor man’s wrong,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whose breath was blended with the chords that thunder<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Along the aisles of song;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Whose eyes had seen and hailed the Light of Ages,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">In cloudiest heavens a star,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whose ears had heard, on ringing wheels, the stages<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Of Freedom’s trophied car:—<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We turned, rebellious children, to the clamour<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And tumult of the world;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We gave our souls in fee for Circe’s glamour<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And white limbs lightly whirled;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We drank deep draughts of Moloch’s unclean liquor<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Even to the dregs of shame,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And blinded by the golden lights that flicker<br /></span> -<span class="i6">From Mammon’s altar-flame<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We burned strange incense, bowed before his idol<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Whose eucharist is fire,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And on the neck of passion loosed the bridle<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Of fierce and wild desire:—<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_341" id="page_341">{341}</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Till now in our own hearts the ashy embers<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Of Love lie smouldering,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And scarce our Autumn chill and bare remembers<br /></span> -<span class="i6">The glory of the Spring;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">While faith, that in the mire was fain to wallow,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Returns at last to find<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The cold fanes desolate, the niches hollow,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">The windows dim and blind,<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And, strown with ruins round, the shattered relic<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Of unregardful youth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where shapes of beauty once, with tongues angelic,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Whispered the runes of Truth.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_342" id="page_342">{342}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Confession.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">VILLIERS DE L’ISLE-ADAM</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Since I have lost the words, the flower<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of youth and the fresh April breeze ...<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Give me thy lips; their perfumed dower<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Shall be the whisper of the trees!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Since I have lost the deep sea’s sadness,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Her sobs, her restless surge, her graves ...<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Breathe but a word; its grief or gladness<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Shall be the murmur of the waves!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Since in my soul a sombre blossom<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Broods, and the suns of yore take flight ...<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O hide me in thy pallid bosom,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And it shall be the calm of night!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_343" id="page_343">{343}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Discouragement.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">VILLIERS DE L’ISLE-ADAM</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Athwart the unclean ages whirled<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To solitary woods sublime,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh! had I first beheld this world<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Alone and free in Nature’s prime!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When on its loveliness first seen<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Eve cast her pure blue eyes abroad:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When all the earth was fresh and green,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And simple Man believed in God!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When sacred accents, vibrating<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Beneath the naked sun and sky,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rose from each new-created thing<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To hail the Lord of Life on high;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I would have learned and lived in hope<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And loved! For in those vanished days,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Faith wandered on the mountain-slope ...<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But now the world has changed her ways:<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Our feet, less free, less fugitive,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Tread beaten tracks from shore to shore ...<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Alas! what is the life we live?<br /></span> -<span class="i2">—A dream of days that are no more!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_344" id="page_344">{344}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Black Panther.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">LECONTE DE LISLE</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Along the rosy cloud light steals and twinkles;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The East is flecked with golden filigree:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Night from her loosened necklace slowly sprinkles<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Pearl-clusters on the sea.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Clasped on the bosom of the sparkling azure<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Soft skirts of flame trail like a flowing train,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And cast on emerald blades a bright emblazure,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Like drops of fiery rain.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The dew shines, like a sheaf of splendour shaken,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">On cinnamon leaves and lychee’s purple flesh;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Among the drowsed bamboos the wind’s wings waken<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A myriad whisperings fresh.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">From mounds and woods, from mossy tufts and flowers,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In the warm air, with sudden tremours thrilled,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fragrance bursts forth in sweet and subtile showers,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With feverish rapture filled.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">By virgin jungle-track and hidden hollow,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Where in the morning sun smoke tangled weeds,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And where live streams their winding channels follow<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Through arches of green reeds,<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Steals the black panther from her midnight prowling,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With dawn turned to the lair in which her cubs<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Among smooth shining bones, with hunger growling,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Grovel beneath the shrubs.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Restless she slinks along, with arrowy flashes<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That scan the shadows of the drooping wood.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The bright, fresh-sprinkled crimsoned dew that dashes<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Her velvet skin is blood.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_345" id="page_345">{345}</a></span></div> -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Behind she drags the relict of her quarry<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Torn from the stricken stag, a mangled spoil<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That leaves a loathsome trail and sanguinary<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Along the moss-flowered soil.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Round her the tawny bees and light-winged dragons<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Flit fearless as she glides with supple flanks;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And clustering foliage from a thousand flagons<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Pours fragrance on the banks.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The python, through a scarlet cactus peering,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Slowly above the bush lifts his flat head<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And curious eyes, his scaly folds uprearing<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To watch her stealthy tread.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She glides in silence into the tall bracken,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Then plunges lost beneath the lichened boughs:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Air burns in the vast light, earth’s noises slacken,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And wood and welkin drowse.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_346" id="page_346">{346}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Spring.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A live spring sparkles in the bosky gloom,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Hidden from the noonday glare;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The green reeds bend above its banks and there<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Blue-bells and violets bloom.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">No kids that batten on the bitter herb,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">On slopes of the near hill,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor shepherd’s song, nor flute-note sweet and shrill,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Its crystal source disturb.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Hard by, the dark oaks weave a peaceful screen<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Whose shade the wild-bee loves,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And nestled in dense leaves the murmuring doves<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Their ruffled plumage preen.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The lazy stags in mossy thickets browse<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And sniff the lingering dew;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beneath cool leaves, that let the sunlight through,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The languorous Sylvans drowse.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">White Naïs, near the sacred spring that drips,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Closing her lids awhile,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dreams as she slumbers, and a radiant smile<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Floats on her purple lips.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">No eye, kindling with love’s desire, has scanned<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Beneath those lucent veils<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The nymph whose snowy limbs and hair that trails<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Gleam on the silvery sand.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">None gazed on the soft cheek, suffused with youth,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The splendid bosom’s swerve,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The ivory neck, the shoulder’s delicate curve,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">White arms and innocent mouth.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_347" id="page_347">{347}</a></span></div> -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But now the lecherous Faun, that haunts the grove,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Spies from his leafy trench<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Those supple flanks, kissed by the oozy drench<br /></span> -<span class="i2">As with a kiss of love;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then laughs, as when the Satyr’s wanton imps<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A wood-nymph’s bower assail,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And, waking with the sound the virgin pale<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Flies like the lightning-glimpse.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Even as the Naiad, haunting the clear stream,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Slumbers in woods obscure,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fly from the impious look and laugh impure<br /></span> -<span class="i2">O Beauty, the soul’s dream!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_348" id="page_348">{348}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Return of Taliesen.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">LEO-KERMORVAN</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">On my lips the speech, in my ears the sound of the Armorican:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I hear the voice of Esus by the shores of the ocean,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the songs which the great bard Ossian<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Resings by the ancient dolmen.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Many times since this, my twelfth rebirth on earth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Have I seen the mistletoe grow green on the oak,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Seen the yellow crocus, the sunbright, and the vervein<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Bloom again in the woodlands:<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But never shall I see again the white-robed Druid of old<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Seek the sacred mistletoe as one seeketh a treasure;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Never more shall I see him cut the living plant<br /></span> -<span class="i6">With his golden sickle.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Alas! the valiant chiefs with the flowing locks!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All sleep in the cairns, beneath the fresh green grass;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In vain my voice o’er the fields of the dead lamenting—<br /></span> -<span class="i6">“Vengeance! Treason!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Be swift, Revenge, on the feet of the sorrows of Arvor!”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Alas, dull echoes alone answer my wailing summons.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Treason, indeed, and Vengeance! for lo, in the hallowed Némèdes<br /></span> -<span class="i6">The wayside flaunt of the Cross!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Tarann no longer sends forth his terror of thunder!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Camul no longer laughs behind the strength of his arm!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tentatès, rising in wrath, has not yet crumbled the earth;<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Esus is deaf to our call!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Whither, O whither fled are ye, ye powerful, redoubtable gods;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And ye, ye famous Druids, the glory and terror of Armor?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who has usurped, who has o’erwhelmed ye, unconquerable knights,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Warriors of the golden collar?<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_349" id="page_349">{349}</a></span></div> -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Thou, who harkenest, I have been in the place of the Ancients!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I, alone among mortals, thence have issued alive:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Alas, the temple was deserted: I saw nought but some wind-haunted oaks<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Swaying in the silence.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">All is fugitive! pride, pleasure, the song, the dance,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Blithe joys of friendship, noble rivalries all:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The keen swift song of the swords, the whistling lances!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Dreams of a dreamer all!... But no,<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A new dawn wakes and laughs on the breast of the darkness;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Earth has her sunshine still, the grave her Spring;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Many a time Dylan hath oared me afar in the deathbarque,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Many a death-sleep mine, and long!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">For long I have slept with the heavy sleep of the dead,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ofttimes my fugitive body has passed into divers forms,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I have spread strong wings on the air, I have swum in dark waters,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">I have crawled in the woods.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But, amid all these manifold changes, my soul<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Remaineth ever the same: it is always, always “myself”!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And now I see well that this is the law of all that liveth,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Though none beholdeth the reason, none the end.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Still stand our lonely menhirs, and still the wayfarer shudders<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As in the desolate dusk he passes these Stones of Silence!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou speakest, I understand! Thy Breton tongue<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Is that of the ancient Kymry.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_350" id="page_350">{350}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Lights steal through the hours of shadow flame-lit for unknown saints,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As, in the days of old, our torches flared on the night:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ah, before ever these sacred lamps shone for your meek apostles,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">They burned for Héol.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Blind without reason are we, thus changing the names of the gods:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thus, mayhap, we think to destroy them, we who abandon their altars!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But, cold, calm, unsmiling before our laughter and curses,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">The gods wait, immortal.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Yea, while the sacred fires still burn along the hill-tops,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yea, while a single lichened menhir still looms from the brushwood,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yea, whether they name thee Armorica, Brittany, Breiz-Izèl,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Thou art ever the same dear land!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ah, soul of me ofttimes to thee, Land of mystery!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ofttimes again shall I breathe in thy charmèd air!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sure, every weary singer knoweth the secret name of thee,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Land of Heart’s Desire!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Enduring thou art! For not the slow frost of the ages<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shall dim from thy past thy glory immortally graven!—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Granite thy soil, thy soul, loved nest of Celtic nations!—<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Sings the lost Voice, Taliesin.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_351" id="page_351">{351}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>By Menec’hi Shore.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">LOUIS TIERCELIN</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sad the sea-moan that echoes through my dream,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And sad the auroral sky suffused with gold,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sad the blue wave that croons along the shore—<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O Joy of Night in whose still calms I sleep!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sadness of love, and O tired heart of man:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sadness of hope, and all brave vows that be:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sadness of joy itself, the joys we know!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Joy of Oblivion, is there bliss with thee?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sad is the splendour, glory, the bright flame<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And laughter of the soul, since underneath<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dreams and Desires veiled Mystery broods obscure ...<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O Joy of Death, with thee the Vials of Peace!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_353" id="page_353">{353}</a></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_352" id="page_352">{352}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h2><a name="VIII" id="VIII"></a>VIII<br /><br /> -THE CELTIC FRINGE</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_354" id="page_354">{354}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_355" id="page_355">{355}</a></span> </p> - -<h3>Song.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">BLISS CARMAN</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Love, by that loosened hair<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Well now I know<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the lost Lilith went<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So long ago.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Love, by those starry eyes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I understand<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How the sea-maidens lure<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mortals from land.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Love, by that welling laugh<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Joy claims his own<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sea-born and wind-wayward<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Child of the sun.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_356" id="page_356">{356}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The War-Song of Gamelbar.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">Bowmen, shout for Gamelbar!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Winds, unthrottle the wolves of war!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Heave a breath<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And dare a death<br /></span> -<span class="i6">For the doom of Gamelbar!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Wealth for Gamel,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Wine for Gamel,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Crimson wine for Gamelbar!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Chorus:—Oh, sleep for a knave<br /></span> -<span class="i6">With his sins in the sod!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And death for the brave,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">With his glory up to God!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And joy for the girl,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And ease for the churl!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">But the great game of war<br /></span> -<span class="i6">For our lord Gamelbar,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Gamelbar!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">Spearmen, shout for Gamelbar,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">With his warriors thirty score!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Heave a sword<br /></span> -<span class="i6">For our overlord,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Lord of warriors, Gamelbar!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Life for Gamel,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Love for Gamel,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Lady-loves for Gamelbar!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">Horsemen, shout for Gamelbar!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Swim the ford and climb the scaur!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Heave a hand<br /></span> -<span class="i6">For the maiden land,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">The maiden land of Gamelbar!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Glory for Gamel,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Gold for Gamel,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Yellow gold for Gamelbar!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_357" id="page_357">{357}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">Armourers for Gamelbar,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Rivet and forge and fear no scar!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Heave a hammer<br /></span> -<span class="i6">With anvil clamour,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">To weld and brace for Gamelbar!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Ring for Gamel,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Rung for Gamel,<br /></span> -<span class="i6"><span class="gesh">Ring-rung-ring</span> for Gamelbar!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">Yeomen, shout for Gamelbar,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And his battle-hand in war!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Heave his pennon;<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Cheer his men on,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">In the ranks of Gamelbar!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Strength for Gamel,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Song for Gamel,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">One war-song for Gamelbar!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">Roncliffe, shout for Gamelbar!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Menthorpe, Bryan, Castelfar!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Heave, Thorparch<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Of the Waving Larch,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And Spofford’s thane, for Gamelbar!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Blaise for Gamel,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Brame for Gamel,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Rougharlington for Gamelbar!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">Maidens, strew for Gamelbar<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Roses down his way to war!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Heave a handful,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Fill the land full<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Of your gifts to Gamelbar!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Dream of Gamel,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Dance for Gamel,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Dance in the halls for Gamelbar!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_358" id="page_358">{358}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">Servitors, shout for Gamelbar!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Roast the ox and stick the boar!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Heave a bone<br /></span> -<span class="i6">To gaunt Harone,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">The great war-hound of Gamelbar!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Mead for Gamel,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Mirth for Gamel,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Mirth at the board for Gamelbar!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">Trumpets, speak for Gamelbar!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Blare as ye never blared before!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Heave a bray<br /></span> -<span class="i6">In the horns to-day,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">The red war-horns of Gamelbar!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">To-night for Gamel,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">The North for Gamel,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">With fires on the hills for Gamelbar!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">Shout for Gamel, Gamelbar,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Till your throats can shout no more!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Heave a cry<br /></span> -<span class="i6">As he rideth by,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Sons of Orm, for Gamelbar!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Folk for Gamel,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Fame for Gamel,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Years and fame for Gamelbar!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Chorus:—Oh, sleep for a knave<br /></span> -<span class="i6">With his sins in the sod!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And death for the brave,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">With his glory up to God!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And joy for the girl,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And ease for the churl!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">But the great game of war<br /></span> -<span class="i6">For our lord Gamelbar,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Gamelbar!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_359" id="page_359">{359}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Golden Rowan.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">BLISS CARMAN</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She lived where the mountains go down to the sea,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">And river and tide confer.<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Golden Rowan, in Menalowan,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was the name they gave to her.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She had the soul no circumstance<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Can hurry or defer.<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Golden Rowan, of Menalowan,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How time stood still for her!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Her playmates for their lovers grew,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">But that shy wanderer,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Golden Rowan, of Menalowan,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Knew love was not for her.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Hers was the love of wilding things;<br /></span> -<span class="i4">To hear a squirrel chirr<br /></span> -<span class="i6">In the golden rowan of Menalowan<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was joy enough for her.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She sleeps on the hill with the lonely sun,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Where in the days that were,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">The golden rowan of Menalowan<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So often shadowed her.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The scarlet fruit will come to fill,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">The scarlet spring to stir<br /></span> -<span class="i6">The golden rowan of Menalowan,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And wake no dream for her.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Only the wind is over her grave,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">For mourner and comforter;<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And “Golden Rowan, of Menalowan,”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is all we know of her.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_360" id="page_360">{360}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>A Sea Child.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">BLISS CARMAN</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The lover of child Marjory<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Had one white hour of life brim full;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Now the old nurse, the rocking sea,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Hath him to lull.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The daughter of child Marjory<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Hath in her veins, to beat and run,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The glad indomitable sea,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The strong white sun.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_361" id="page_361">{361}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Quest.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">ELLEN MACKAY HUTCHINSON</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">It was a heavenly time of life<br /></span> -<span class="i2">When first I went to Spain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The lovely lands of silver mists,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The land of golden grain.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My little ship through unknown seas<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sailed many a changing day;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sometimes the chilling winds came up<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And blew across her way.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sometimes the rain came down and hid<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The shining shores of Spain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The beauty of the silver mists<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And of the golden grain.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But through the rains and through the winds,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Upon the untried sea,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My fairy ship sailed on and on,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With all my dreams and me.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And now, no more a child, I long<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For that sweet time again,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When on the far horizon bar<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Rose up the shores of Spain.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O lovely land of silver mists,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">O land of golden grain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I look for you with smiles, with tears,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But look for you in vain!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_362" id="page_362">{362}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Moth-Song.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">What dost thou here,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Thou dusky courtier,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Within the pinky palace of the rose?<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Here is no bed for thee,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">No honeyed spicery,—<br /></span> -<span class="i4">But for the golden bee,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">And the gay wind, and me<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Its sweetness grows.<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Rover, thou dost forget;—<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Seek thou the passion-flower<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Bloom of one twilight hour.<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Haste, thou art late!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Its hidden savours wait.<br /></span> -<span class="i6">For thee is spread<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Its soft, purple coverlet;<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Moth, art thou sped?<br /></span> -<span class="i4">—Dim as a ghost he flies<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Through the night mysteries.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_363" id="page_363">{363}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>June.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">ELLEN MACKAY HUTCHINSON</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Of silvery-shining rains<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And noonday golds and shadows<br /></span> -<span class="i0">June weaves wild-daisy chains<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For happy meadows.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She stoops to set the stream<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With scented alder-bushes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And with the rainbow gleam<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of iris ’mid the rushes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She scatters eglantine<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And scarlet columbine.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ah, June, my lovely lass,—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sweetheart, dost thou not see<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I stay to watch thee pass—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">What hast thou brought to me?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Thy mystic ministries<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of glorious far skies,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy wild-rose sermons, Sweet,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like dreams profound and fleet,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thy woodland harmony<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thou givest me.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The vision that can see,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The loving will to learn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How fair thy skies may be,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">What in thy roses burn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy secret harmonies,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ah, give me these!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_364" id="page_364">{364}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Scent o’ Pines.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">HUGH M‘CULLOCH</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Love, shall I liken thee unto the rose<br /></span> -<span class="i4">That is so sweet?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nay, since for a single day she grows,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then scattered lies upon the garden-rows<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Beneath our feet.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But to the perfume shed when forests nod,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">When noonday shines,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That lulls us as we tread the woodland sod,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Eternal as the peace of God<br /></span> -<span class="i4">The scent o’ pines.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_365" id="page_365">{365}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Reed-Player.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">By a dim shore where water darkening<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Took the last light of spring,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I went beyond the tumult, harkening<br /></span> -<span class="i4">For some diviner thing.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Where the bats flew from the black elms like leaves,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Over the ebon pool<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Brooded the bittern’s cry, as one that grieves<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Lands ancient, bountiful.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I saw the fire-flies shine below the wood,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Above the shallows dank,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As Uriel, from some great altitude,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">The planets rank on rank.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And now unseen along the shrouded mead<br /></span> -<span class="i4">One went under the hill;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He blew a cadence on his mellow reed,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">That trembled and was still.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">It seemed as if a line of amber fire<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Had shot the gathered dusk,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As if had blown a wind from ancient Tyre<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Laden with myrrh and musk.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He gave his luring note amid the fern;<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Its enigmatic fall<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Haunted the hollow dusk with golden turn<br /></span> -<span class="i4">And argent interval.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I could not know the message that he bore,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">The springs of life from me<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hidden; his incommunicable lore<br /></span> -<span class="i4">As much a mystery.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And as I followed far the magic player<br /></span> -<span class="i4">He passed the maple wood;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And, when I passed, the stars had risen there,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">And there was solitude.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_366" id="page_366">{366}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Celtic Cross.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">THOMAS D’ARCY M‘CGEE</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Through storm and fire and gloom, I see it stand<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Firm, broad, and tall,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Celtic Cross that marks our Fatherland,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Amid them all!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Druids and Danes and Saxons vainly rage<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Around its base;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It standeth shock on shock, and age on age,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Star of our scatter’d race.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O Holy Cross! dear symbol of the dread<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Death of our Lord,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Around thee long have slept our martyr dead<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sward over sward.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An hundred bishops I myself can count<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Among the slain:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Chiefs, captains, rank and file, a shining mount<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of God’s ripe grain.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The monarch’s mace, the Puritan’s claymore,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Smote thee not down;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On headland steep, on mountain summit hoar,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In mart and town,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In Glendalough, in Ara, in Tyrone,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">We find thee still,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy open arms still stretching to thine own,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">O’er town and lough and hill.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And would they tear thee out of Irish soil,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The guilty fools!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How time must mock their antiquated toil<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And broken tools!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Cranmer and Cromwell from thy grasp retir’d,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Baffled and thrown;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">William and Anne to sap thy site conspir’d,—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The rest is known.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_367" id="page_367">{367}</a></span></div> -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Holy Saint Patrick, father of our faith,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Belov’d of God!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shield thy dear Church from the impending scaith,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Or, if the rod<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Must scourge it yet again, inspire and raise<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To emprise high<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Men like the heroic race of other days,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Who joyed to die.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Fear! wherefore should the Celtic people fear<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Their Church’s fate?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The day is not—the day was never near—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Could desolate<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Destin’d Island, all whose clay<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Is holy ground:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Its Cross shall stand till that predestin’d day<br /></span> -<span class="i2">When Erin’s self is drown’d.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_368" id="page_368">{368}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="sidenote">MARY C. G. BYRON</div> - -<h3>The Tryst of the Night.<br /> - -(M. C. Gillington)</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Out of the uttermost ridge of dusk, where the dark and the day are mingled,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The voice of the Night rose cold and calm—it called through the shadow-swept air;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through all the valleys and lone hillsides, it pierced, it thrilled, it tingled—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It summoned me forth to the wild sea-shore, to meet with its mystery there.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Out of the deep ineffable blue, with palpitant swift repeating<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of gleam and glitter and opaline glow, that broke in ripples of light—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In burning glory it came and went,—I heard, I saw it beating,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pulse by pulse, from star to star,—the passionate heart of the Night!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Out of the thud of the rustling sea—the panting, yearning, throbbing<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Waves that stole on the startled shore, with coo and mutter of spray—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The wail of the Night came fitful-faint,—I heard her stifled sobbing:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The cold salt drops fell slowly, slowly, gray into gulfs of gray.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There through the darkness the great world reeled, and the great tides roared, assembling—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Murmuring hidden things that are past, and secret things that shall be;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There at the limits of life we met, and touched with a rapturous trembling—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">One with each other, I and the Night, and the skies, and the stars, and sea.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_369" id="page_369">{369}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Doom-Bar.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">ALICE E. GILLINGTON</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O d’you hear the seas complainin’, and complainin’, whilst it’s rainin’?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Did you hear it mourn in the dimorts,<a name="FNanchor_33_33" id="FNanchor_33_33"></a><a href="#Footnote_33_33" class="fnanchor">[33]</a> when the surf woke up and sighed?<br /></span> -<span class="i4">The choughs screamed on the sand,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">And the foam flew over land,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the seas rolled dark on the Doom-Bar at rising of the tide.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I gave my lad a token, when he left me nigh heartbroken,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To mind him of old Padstow town, where loving souls abide;<br /></span> -<span class="i4">’Twas a ring with the words set<br /></span> -<span class="i4">All round, “Can Love Forget?”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I watched his vessel toss on the Bar with the outward-turning tide.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">D’you hear the seas complainin’, and complainin’, while it’s rainin’?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And his vessel has never crossed the Bar from the purple seas outside;<br /></span> -<span class="i4">And down the shell-pink sands,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Where we once went, holding hands,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Alone I watch the Doom-Bar and the rising of the tide.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">One day—’twas four years after—the harbour-girls, with laughter<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So soft and wild as sea-gulls when they’re playing seek-and-hide,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Coaxed me out—for the tides were lower<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Than had ever been known before;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And we ran across the Doom-Bar, all white and shining wide.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_370" id="page_370">{370}</a></span></div> -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I saw a something shinin’, where the long, wet weeds were twinin’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Around a rosy scallop; and a gold ring lay inside;<br /></span> -<span class="i4">And around its rim were set<br /></span> -<span class="i4">The words “Can Love Forget?”—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And there upon the Doom-Bar I knelt and sobbed and cried.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I took my ring and smoothed it where the sand and shells had grooved it;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But O! St Petrock bells will never ring me home a bride!—<br /></span> -<span class="i4">For the night my lad was leavin’<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Me, all tearful-eyed and grievin’,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He had tossed my keepsake out on the Bar to the rise and fall of the tide!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">D’you hear the seas complainin’, and complainin’, while it’s rainin’?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Did you hear them call in the dimorts, when the surf woke up and sighed?<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Maybe it is a token<br /></span> -<span class="i4">I shall go no more heart-broken—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I shall cross the Doom-Bar at the turning of the tide.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_371" id="page_371">{371}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Seven Whistlers.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">ALICE E. GILLINGTON</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Whistling strangely, whistling sadly, whistling sweet and clear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Seven Whistlers have passed thy house, Pentruan of Porthmeor;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It was not in the morning, nor the noonday’s golden grace,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It was in the dead waste midnight, when the tide yelped loud in the Race:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The tide swings round in the Race, and they’re plaining whisht and low,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And they come from the gray sea-marshes, where the gray sea-lavenders grow,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And the cotton-grass sways to and fro;<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And the gore-sprent sundews thrive<br /></span> -<span class="i6">With oozy hands alive.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Canst hear the curlews’ whistle through thy dreamings dark and drear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How they’re crying, crying, crying, Pentruan of Porthmeor?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Shall thy hatchment, mouldering grimly in yon church amid the sands,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Stay trouble from thy household? Or the carven cherub-hands<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Which hold thy shield to the font? Or the gauntlets on the wall<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Keep evil from its onward course as the great tides rise and fall?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The great tides rise and fall, and the cave sucks in the breath<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of the wave when it runs with tossing spray, and the ground-sea rattles of Death;<br /></span> -<span class="i6">“I rise in the shallows,” ’a saith,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">“Where the mermaid’s kettle sings,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And the black shag flaps his wings!”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ay, the green sea-mountain leaping may lead horror in its rear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When thy drenched sail leans to its yawning trough, Pentruan of Porthmeor!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_372" id="page_372">{372}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Yet the stoup waits at thy doorway for its load of glittering ore,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And thy ships lie in the tideway, and thy flocks along the moor;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And thine arishes gleam softly when the October moonbeams wane,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When in the bay all shining the fishers set the seine;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The fishers cast the seine, and ’tis “Heva!” in the town,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And from the watch-rock on the hill the huers are shouting down;<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And ye hoist the mainsail brown,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">As over the deep-sea roll<br /></span> -<span class="i6">The lurker follows the shoal;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To follow and to follow, in the moonshine silver-clear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the halyards creek to thy dipping sail, Pentruan of Porthmeor!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And wailing, and complaining, and whistling whisht and clear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Seven Whistlers have passed thy house, Pentruan of Porthmeor!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It was not in the morning, nor the noonday’s golden grace,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It was in the fearsome midnight, when the tide-dogs yelped in the Race:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">—The tide swings round in the Race, and they’re whistling whisht and low,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And they come from the lonely heather, where the fur-edged foxgloves blow,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And the moor-grass sways to and fro,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Where the yellow moor-birds sigh,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And the sea-cooled wind sweeps by.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Canst hear the curlews’ whistle through the darkness wild and drear,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How they’re calling, calling, calling Pentruan of Porthmeor?<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_373" id="page_373">{373}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Requiem.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">SHANE LESLIE</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In sweet Irish clay may I lie<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Heart clasped to my race,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O brothers and sisters of mine,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Give me your space.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For mine was the life that you lived,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The fight that you fought,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And bright in the gloom of mine own<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Were deeds you had wrought.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So let the dear dust of your head<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Drift over my face,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And this be the dirge that you sing<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And song that you trace.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A pebble is thrown to the beach<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From whence it was brought,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A leaf has dropped weary for rest<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To those it had sought.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_374" id="page_374">{374}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>An Old Woman of the Roads.<br /><br /> -(“Wild Earth and other Poems.” Macmillan.)</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">PADRAIC COLUM</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O, to have a little house!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To own the hearth and stool and all!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The heaped-up sods upon the fire,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The pile of turf against the wall!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">To have a clock with weights and chains<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And pendulum swinging up and down!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A dresser filled with shining delph,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Speckled and white and blue and brown!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I could be busy all the day<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And fixing on their shelf again<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My white and blue and speckled store!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I could be quiet there at night<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beside the fire and by myself,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sure of a bed, and loath to leave<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The ticking clock and the shining delph!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Och! but I’m weary of mist and dark,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And roads where there’s never a house or bush,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And tired I am of bog and road,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And I am praying to God on high,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I am praying Him night and day,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For a little house—a house of my own—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Out of the wind’s and the rain’s way.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_375" id="page_375">{375}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>A Cradle Song.<br /><br /> -(“Wild Earth and other Poems.” Macmillan.)</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">PADRAIC COLUM</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O, men from the fields!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Come softly within.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tread softly, softly,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O men coming in.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Mavourneen is going<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From me and from you,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where Mary will fold him<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With mantle of blue<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">From reek of the smoke<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And cold of the floor,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And peering of things<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Across the half-door.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O men from the fields!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Soft, softly come thro’.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mary puts round him<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her mantle of blue.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_376" id="page_376">{376}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Coolun.<br /><br /> -(“Reincarnations.” Macmillan.)</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">ELEANOR HULL</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Come with me, under my coat,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And we will drink our fill<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of the milk of the white goat,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or wine if it be thy will;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And we will talk until<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Talk is a trouble, too,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Out on the side of the hill,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And nothing is left to do,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But an eye to look into an eye<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And a hand in a hand to slip,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And a sigh to answer a sigh,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And a lip to find out a lip:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What if the night be black<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the air on the mountain chill,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the goat lies down in her track<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all but the fern is still!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Stay with me under my coat,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And we will drink our fill<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of the milk of the white goat<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Out on the side of the hill.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_377" id="page_377">{377}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Clouds.<br /><br /> -(“Songs from the Clay.” Macmillan.)</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">JAMES STEPHENS</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I stood and looked around where, far and nigh,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The heather bloom was swaying in the air,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The clouds chased one another down the sky<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Beyond my sight, and everywhere<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The birds flew through the sunshine, where they sang<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So loud, so clear, so sweet, the heavens rang<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of lark and thrush and stare.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I never heard a melody so sweet<br /></span> -<span class="i2">As I heard then; I never knew a day<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So filled with sunshine; never saw the fleet<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And tinted clouds so high and free and gay;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Each danced to the horizon like a boy<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Let out from school, each tumbled in its joy<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And ran away.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_378" id="page_378">{378}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Old Woman of Beare.<br /><br /> -(“The Poem Book of the Gael.” Chatto & Windus.)</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">ELEANOR HULL</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ebb tide to me!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My life drifts downward with the drifting sea;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Old age has caught and compassed me about,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The tides of time run out.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The “Hag of Beare!”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Tis thus I hear the young girls jeer and mock;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet I, who in these cast-off clouts appear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Once donned a queenly smock.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ye love but self,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ye churls! to-day ye worship pelf!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But in the days I lived we sought for men,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We loved our lovers then!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ah! swiftly when<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Their splendid chariots coursed upon the plain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I checked their pace, for me they flew amain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Held in by curb and rein.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I envy not the old,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whom gold adorns, whom richest robes enfold,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But ah! the girls, who pass my cell at morn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While I am shorn!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">On sweet May-morn<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Their ringing laughter on the breeze is borne,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While I, who shake with ague and with age,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In Litanies engage.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Amen! and woe is me!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I lie here rotting like a broken tree;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Each acorn has its day and needs must fall,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Time makes an end of all!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_379" id="page_379">{379}</a></span></div> -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I had my day with kings!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We drank the brimming mead, the ruddy wine,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where now I drink whey-water; for company more fine<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Than shrivelled hags, hag though I am, I pine.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The flood-tide thine!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mine but the low down-curling ebb-tide’s flow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My youth, my hope, are carried from my hand,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy flood-tide foams to land.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My body drops<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Slowly but sure towards the abode we know;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When God’s High Son takes from me all my props<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It will be time to go!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Bony my arms and bare<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Could you but see them ’neath the mantle’s flap.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wizened and worn, that once were round and fair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When kings lay in my lap.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Tis, “O my God” with me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Many prayers said, yet more prayers left undone;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If I could spread my garment in the sun<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’d say them, every one.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The sea-wave talks,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Athwart the frozen earth grim winter stalks;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Young Fermod, son of Mugh, ne’er said me nay,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet he comes not to-day.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">How still they row,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oar dipped by oar the wavering reeds among,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To Alma’s shore they press, a ghostly throng,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Deeply they sleep and long.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">No lightsome laugh<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Disturbs my fireside’s stillness; shadows fall,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And quiet forms are gathering round my hearth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet lies the hand of silence on them all.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_380" id="page_380">{380}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I do not deem it ill<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That a nun’s veil should rest upon my head;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But finer far my feast-robe’s various hue<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To me, when all is said.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My very cloak grows old;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Grey its tint, its woof is frayed and thin;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I seem to feel grey hairs within its fold,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or are they on my skin?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O happy Isle of Ocean,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy flood-tide leaps to meet eddying wave<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lifting it up and onward. Till the grave<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The sea-wave comes not after ebb for me.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I find them not<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Those sunny sands I knew so well of yore;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Only the surf’s sad roar sounds up to me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My tide will turn no more.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_381" id="page_381">{381}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>From a “Litany of Beauty.”</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">THOMAS MACDONAGH</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O shapely Flower that must for aye endure!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O Voice of God that every heart must hear!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O Hymn of purest souls that dost unsphere<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The ravished soul that lists! O white, white Gem!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O Rose that dost the senses drown in bliss!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">No thing can stay, no thing can stem,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">No thing can lure the heart to miss<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy love, thy joy, thy rapture divine—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O Beauty, Beauty, ever thine<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The soul, the heart, the brain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To hymn thee in a loud perpetual strain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shriller and sweeter than song of wine,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Than lay of sorrow or love or war—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beauty of heaven and sun and day,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beauty of water and frost and star,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beauty of dusk-tide, narrowing, grey ...<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beauty of silver light,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beauty of purple night,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beauty of solemn breath,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beauty of closed eye, and sleep, and death ...<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beauty of dawn and dew,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beauty of morning peace<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ever ancient and ever new,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ever renewed till waking cease<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or sleep forever, when loud the angel’s word<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through all the world is heard ...<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beauty of brute and bird,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beauty of earthly creatures<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whose hearts by the hand of God are stirred ...<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beauty of the soul,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beauty informing forms and features,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fairest to God’s eye,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beauty that cannot fade or die<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till eternal atoms to ruin roll!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i3">(By permission of The Talbot Press, Dublin.)<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_382" id="page_382">{382}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Beauty of blinded Trust,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Led by the hand of God<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To a heaven where cherub hath never trod.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Austere Beauty of Truth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lighting the way of the Just ...<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Splendid Beauty of Youth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Staying when Youth is fled,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Living when Life is dead,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Burning in funeral dust!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The glory of form doth pale and pall,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beauty endures to the end of all.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_383" id="page_383">{383}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>I will go with my Father a-ploughing.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">SEOSAMH MACCATHMHAOIL</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I will go with my father a-ploughing<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the green field by the sea,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the rooks and the crows and the seagulls<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Will come flocking after me.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I will sing to the patient horses<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With the lark in the white of the air,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And my father will sing the plough-song<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That blesses the cleaving share.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I will go with my father a-sowing<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the red field by the sea,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the rooks and the gulls and the starlings<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Will come flocking after me.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I will sing to the striding sowers<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With the finch on the flowering sloe,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And my father will sing the seed-song<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That only the wise men know.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I will go with my father a-reaping<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the brown field by the sea,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the geese and the crows and the children<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Will come flocking after me.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I will sing to the weary reapers<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With the wren in the heat of the sun,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And my father will sing the scythe-song<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That joys for the harvest done.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_384" id="page_384">{384}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>A Northern Love Song.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">SEOSAMH MACCATHMHAOIL</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Brighidín Bhán of the lint-white locks,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What was it gave you that flaxen hair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Long as the summer heath in the rocks?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What was it gave you those eyes of fire,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lip so waxen and cheek so wan?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tell me, tell me, Brighidín Bhán,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Little white bride of my heart’s desire.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Was it the Good People stole you away,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Little white changeling, Brighidín Bhán?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Carried you off in the ring of the dawn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Laid like a queen on her purple car,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Carried you back between night and day;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gave you that fortune of flaxen hair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gave you those eyes of wandering fire,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lit at the wheel of the northern star?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gave you that look so far away?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tell me, tell me, Brighidín Bhán,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Little white bride of my heart’s desire.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_385" id="page_385">{385}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Fairy Workers.<br /><br /> -(“Songs of Donegal.” Herbert Jenkins.)</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">PATRICK MACGILL</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Said the Fairies of Kilfinnan<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the Fairies of Macroom:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Oh! send to us a shuttle<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For our little fairy loom.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Our workers, one and twenty,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Are waiting in the Coom——”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So Kilfinnan got a shuttle<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From the Fairies of Macroom.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Kilfinnan got the shuttle,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The shuttle for the loom.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Now, send us back a hammer,”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Said the Fairies of Macroom.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“We’ve cobblers, one and twenty,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All idle in their room.”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And Kilfinnan sent a hammer<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the Fairies of Macroom.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The Queen of all the Fairies<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sat in her drawing-room:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her robes came from Kilfinnan,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her brogues came from Macroom.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Now, at the Royal Dinner<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The proudest in the room<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Were the Fairies from Kilfinnan<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the Fairies from Macroom.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_386" id="page_386">{386}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Shadow People.<br /><br /> -(“Complete Poems.” Published by Herbert Jenkins.)</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">FRANCIS LEDWIDGE</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Old lame Bridget doesn’t hear<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fairy music in the grass<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the gloaming’s on the mere<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the shadow people pass:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Never hears their slow grey feet<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Coming from the village street<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Just beyond the parson’s wall,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the clover globes are sweet<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the mushroom’s parasol<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Opens in the moonlit rain.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Every night I hear them call<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From their long and merry train.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Old lame Bridget says to me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“It is just your fancy, child.”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She cannot believe I see<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Laughing faces in the wild,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hands that twinkle in the sedge<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bowing at the water’s edge<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the finny minnows quiver,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shaping on a blue wave’s ledge<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bubble foam to sail the river.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the sunny hands to me<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beckon ever, beckon ever.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh! I would be wild and free,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And with the shadow people be.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_387" id="page_387">{387}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>My Mother.<br /><br /> -(“Complete Poems.” Published by Herbert Jenkins.)</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">FRANCIS LEDWIDGE</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">God made my mother on an April day,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From sorrow and the mist along the sea,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lost birds’ and wanderers’ songs and ocean spray,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the moon loved her wandering jealously.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Beside the ocean’s din she combed her hair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Singing the nocturne of the passing ships,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Before her earthly lover found her there<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And kissed away the music from her lips.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She came unto the hills and saw the change<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That brings the swallow and the geese in turns.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But there was not a grief she deeméd strange,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For there is that in her which always mourns.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Kind heart she has for all on hill or wave<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whose hopes grew wings like ants to fly away.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I bless the God Who such a mother gave<br /></span> -<span class="i0">This poor bird-hearted singer of a day.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_388" id="page_388">{388}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Lyric from “The Crier by Night.”<br /><br /> -(“King Lear’s Wife and other Plays.” Published by Constable.)</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">GORDON BOTTOMLEY</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The bird in my heart’s a-calling through a far-fled, tear-grey sea<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the soft slow hills that cherish dim waters weary for me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the folk of rath and dun trail homeward silently<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the mist of the early night-fall that drips from their hair like rain.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The bird in my heart’s a-flutter, for the bitter wind of the sea<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shivers with thyme and woodbine as my body with memory;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I feel their perfumes ooze in my ears like melody—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The scent of the mead at the harping I shall not hear again.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The bird in my heart’s a-sinking to a hushed vale hid in the sea,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the moonlit dew o’er dead fighters is stirred by the feet of the Shee,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who are lovely and old as the earth but younger than I an be<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who have known the forgetting of dying to a life one lonely pain.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_389" id="page_389">{389}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Quest.<br /><br /> -(Dublin University Press.)</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They said: “She dwelleth in some place apart,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Immortal Truth, within whose eyes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who looks may find the secret of the skies<br /></span> -<span class="i4">And healing for life’s smart.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I sought Her in loud caverns underground—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On heights where lightnings flashed and fell;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I scaled high Heaven; I stormed the gates of Hell,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">But Her I never found.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Till thro’ the tumults of my Quest I caught<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A whisper: “Here, within thy heart,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I dwell; for I am thou: behold thou art<br /></span> -<span class="i4">The Seeker—and the Sought.”<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_390" id="page_390">{390}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Fool.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">PADRAIC H. PEARSE</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Since the wise men have not spoken, I speak that am only a fool;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A fool that hath loved his folly,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yea, more than the wise men their books or their counting houses, or their quiet homes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or their fame in men’s mouths;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A fool that in all his days hath done never a prudent thing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Never hath counted the cost, nor recked if another reaped<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The fruit of his mighty sowing, content to scatter the seed;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A fool that is unrepentant, and that soon at the end of all<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shall laugh in his lonely heart as the ripe ears fall to the reaping-hooks<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the poor are filled that were empty,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tho’ he go hungry.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I have squandered the splendid years that the Lord God gave to my youth<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In attempting impossible things, deeming them alone worth the toil.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was it folly or grace? Not men shall judge me, but God.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I have squandered the splendid years:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lord, if I had the years I would squander them over again,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Aye, fling them from me!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For this I have heard in my heart, that a man shall scatter, not hoard,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shall do the deed of to-day, nor take thought of to-morrow’s teen,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shall not bargain or huxter with God; or was it a jest of Christ’s<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And is this my sin before men, to have taken Him at His word?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The lawyers have sat in council, the men with the keen, long faces,<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_391" id="page_391">{391}</a></span></div> -<div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And said, “This man is a fool,” and others have said, “He blasphemeth”;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the wise have pitied the fool that hath striven to give a life<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the world of time and space among the bulks of actual things,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To a dream that was dreamed in the heart, and that only the heart could hold.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O wise men, riddle me this: what if the dream come true?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What if the dream come true? and if millions unborn shall dwell<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the house that I shaped in my heart, the noble house of my thought?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lord, I have staked my soul, I have staked the lives of my kin<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the truth of Thy dreadful word. Do not remember my failures,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But remember this my faith.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And so I speak.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yea, ere my hot youth pass, I speak to my people and say:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ye shall be foolish as I; ye shall scatter, not save;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ye shall venture your all, lest ye lose what is more than all;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ye shall call for a miracle, taking Christ at His word.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And for this I will answer, O people, answer here and hereafter,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O people that I have loved, shall we not answer together?<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="c"> -(By permission of Messrs. Maunsel & Roberts, Dublin.)<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_392" id="page_392">{392}</a></span></p> - -<h3>The Return of Song.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">LORD DUNSANY</div> - -<p>“The swans are singing again,” said to one another the gods. And looking -downwards, for my dreams had taken me to some fair and far Valhalla, I -saw below me an iridescent bubble not greatly larger than a star shine -beautifully but faintly, and up and up from it looking larger and larger -came a flock of white, innumerable swans, singing and singing and -singing, till it seemed as though even the gods were wild ships swimming -in music.</p> - -<p>“What is it?” I said to one that was humble among the gods.</p> - -<p>“Only a world has ended,” he said to me, “and the swans are coming back -to the gods returning the gift of song.”</p> - -<p>“A whole world dead!” I said.</p> - -<p>“Dead,” said he that was humble among the gods. “The worlds are not for -ever; only song is immortal.”</p> - -<p>“Look! look!” he said. “There will be a new one soon.”</p> - -<p>And I looked and saw the larks, going down from the gods.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_393" id="page_393">{393}</a></span></p> - -<h3>Dance to your Shadow.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">KENNETH MACLEOD</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Dance to your shadow when it’s good to be living, lad,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dance to your shadow when it’s fine to be living, lad,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you.<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Ho ro haradal, hind<a name="FNanchor_34_34" id="FNanchor_34_34"></a><a href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</a> ye haradal,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Ho ro haradal, hind ye han dan.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Dance to your shadow when it’s hard to be living, lad,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dance to your shadow when it’s sore to be living, lad,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you.<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Ho ro haradal, etc.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Dance to your shadow, letting Fate to her fiddle, lad,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dance to your shadow, for it’s fine to be living, lad,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you.<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Ho ro haradal, etc.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_394" id="page_394">{394}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Sea Longing.</h3> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sore sea-longing in my heart,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Blue deep Barra waves are calling,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sore sea-longing in my heart.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Glides the sun, but ah! how slowly,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Far away to luring seas!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sore sea-longing in my heart,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Blue deep Barra waves are calling,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sore sea-longing in my heart.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hear’st, O Sun, the roll of waters,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Breaking, calling by yon Isle?<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sore sea-longing in my heart,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Blue deep Barra waves are calling,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sore sea-longing in my heart.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sun on high, ere falls the gloamin’,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Heart to heart, thou’lt greet yon waves.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Mary Mother, how I yearn,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Blue deep Barra waves are calling,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Mary Mother, how I yearn.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_395" id="page_395">{395}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>The Reiving Ship.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">KENNETH MACLEOD</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i10">A ho hi! hirrum bo!<br /></span> -<span class="i12">Early sails she to the reiving,<br /></span> -<span class="i10">A ho hi! Hirrum bo!<br /></span> -<span class="i12">Flashing by the frowning headlands.<br /></span> -<span class="i10">A ho hi! Hirrum bo!<br /></span> -<span class="i12">Early sails she to the reiving.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i10">A ho hi! Hirrum bo!<br /></span> -<span class="i12">Grinds beneath her, gray-blue limpets,<br /></span> -<span class="i10">A ho hi! hirrum bo!<br /></span> -<span class="i12">Crunches curving whelks to sand-drift.<br /></span> -<span class="i10">A ho hi! hirrum bo!<br /></span> -<span class="i12">Early sails she to the reiving.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sweeps she gaily<a name="FNanchor_35_35" id="FNanchor_35_35"></a><a href="#Footnote_35_35" class="fnanchor">[35]</a>Moola’s waters, Kyles and Moyles to fair green Isla,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Leaps her way to Isles of daring, gleaming Isles of blades and laughter.<br /></span> -<span class="i10">A ho hi! hirrum bo!<br /></span> -<span class="i10">Early sails she to the reiving.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_396" id="page_396">{396}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Land of Heart’s Desire.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">MARJORY KENNEDY-FRASER</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Land of Heart’s Desire, Isle of Youth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dear Western Isle, gleaming in sunlight!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Land of Heart’s Desire, Isle of Youth!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Far the cloudless sky stretches blue<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Across the isle, green in the sunlight,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Far the cloudless sky stretches blue.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There shall thou and I wander free,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On sheen-white sands, dreaming in starlight.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Land of Heart’s Desire, Isle of Youth!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_397" id="page_397">{397}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Ossian’s Midsummer Day-Dream.<br /><br /> -“Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky.”</h3> - -<p class="c">(After Thos. Pattison’s translation from Ossian—“The sweet voice of -Cona.”)</p> - -<div class="sidenote">MARJORY KENNEDY-FRASER</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While bright the sun shines on Cona’s steep.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sweet sounds the note of the lonely heron,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Bright the sun shines on Cona’s steep,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While hounds for chase all on fire are straining.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Their deep-mouthed bay sweet as bardic music,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sweet the winds softly murmuring,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of eagle sweet is the far-heard cry.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As sails she o’er Morven’s mighty sea-board,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_398" id="page_398">{398}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Kishmul’s Galley.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">MARJORY KENNEDY-FRASER</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">High from the Ben a Hayich<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On a day of days<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Seaward I gaz’d,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Watching Kishmul’s galley sailing.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O hio huo faluo!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Homeward she bravely battles<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Gainst the hurtling waves<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor hoop nor yards,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Anchor, cable, nor tackle has she.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O hio huo faluo!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Now at last ’gainst wind and tide<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They’ve brought her to<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Neath Kishmul’s walls,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Kishmul Castle our ancient glory.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O hio huo faluo!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Here’s red wine and feast for heroes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And harping too,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O hio hu!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sweet harping too!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O hio huo faluo!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_399" id="page_399">{399}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Aignish on the Machair.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">AGNES MURE MACKENZIE</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When day and night are over,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the World is done with me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh carry me West and lay me<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In Aignish by the Sea.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And never heed me lying<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Among the ancient dead,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beside the white sea breakers<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And sand-drift overhead.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The grey gulls wheeling ever,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the wide arch of sky,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On Aignish on the Machair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And quiet there to lie.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_400" id="page_400">{400}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h3>Fingal’s Weeping.</h3> - -<div class="sidenote">NEIL MUNRO</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">Because they were so brave and young<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Who now are sleeping,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">His old heart wrung, his harp unstrung,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Fingal’s a-weeping.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There’s warble of waters at morning in Etive glen,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">And the mists are flying;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Chuckle of Spring in the wood, on the moor, on the ben,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">No heed for their dying!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">So Fingal’s weeping the young brave sleeping,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Fingal’s weeping.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">They’ll be forgot in Time,—forgot!<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Time that goes sweeping;<br /></span> -<span class="i6">The wars they fought remembered not,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">And Fingal’s weeping.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Hearken for voices of sorrow for them in the forest den<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Where once they were rovers—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Only the birds of the wild at their building again,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Whispering of lovers!<br /></span> -<span class="i6">So Fingal’s weeping, his old grief keeping,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Fingal’s weeping.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">They should be mourned by the ocean wave<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Round lone isles creeping,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">But the laughing wave laments no grave,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">And Fingal’s weeping.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Morven and Moidart, glad, gallant and gay in the sun,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Rue naught departed;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The moon and the stars shine out when the day is done,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Cold, stony-hearted,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And Fingal’s weeping war’s red reaping,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Fingal’s weeping!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_401" id="page_401">{401}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_402" id="page_402">{402}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_403" id="page_403">{403}</a></span> </p> - -<h2><a name="NOTES" id="NOTES"></a>NOTES</h2> - -<h3>ANCIENT IRISH AND SCOTTISH</h3> - -<p class="nind2">THE MYSTERY OF AMERGIN.<br /><a href="#page_3">PAGE 3</a></p> - -<p>Of this strange pantheistical fragment, Dr Douglas Hyde writes:—“The -first poem written in Ireland is said to have been the work of Amergin, -who was brother of Evir, Ir, and Eremon, the first Milesian princes who -colonised Ireland many hundred of years before Christ. The three short -pieces of verse ascribed to Amergin are certainly very ancient and very -strange. But, as the whole story of the Milesian invasion is wrapped in -mystery and is quite possibly only a rationalised account of early Irish -mythology (in which the Tuatha De Danann, Firbolgs, and possibly -Milesians, are nothing but the gods of the early Irish euhemerised into -men), no faith can be placed in the alleged date or genuineness of -Amergin’s verses. They are, however, of interest, because as Irish -tradition has always represented them as being the first verses made in -Ireland, so it may very well be that they actually do present the oldest -surviving lines in any vernacular tongue in Europe except Greek.”</p> - -<p class="nind2">THE SONG OF FIONN.<br /><a href="#page_4">PAGE 4</a></p> - -<p>“The Song of Finn MacCool, composed after his eating of the Salmon of -Knowledge.” This, if not the earliest, is almost the earliest authentic -fragment of Erse poetry. The translation is after O’Donovan and Dr -Douglas Hyde.</p> - -<p class="nind2">CREDHE’S LAMENT.<br /><a href="#page_5">PAGE 5</a></p> - -<p>From <i>The Colloquy of the Ancients</i> (called also “The Dialogue of the -Sages,” and by other analogues), translated by Standish Hayes O’Grady -(<i>vide</i> <i>The Book of Lismore</i>; <i>Silva Gadelica</i>; etc.). See specific -mention in Introduction.</p> - -<p class="nind2">CUCHULLIN IN HIS CHARIOT.<br /><a href="#page_6">PAGE 6</a></p> - -<p>(<i>Source</i>: Hector MacLean’s <i>Ultonian Hero Ballads</i>. See Introduction.)<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_404" id="page_404">{404}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind2">DEIRDRE’S LAMENT FOR THE SONS OF USNACH.<br /><a href="#page_8">PAGE 8</a></p> - -<p>Of the many Irish-Gaelic and Scottish-Gaelic and English translations -and paraphrases, I have selected the rendering of Sir Samuel Ferguson. -The original Erse is of unknown antiquity. (See Introduction.)</p> - -<p class="nind2">THE LAMENT OF QUEEN MAEV.<br /> -<a href="#page_10">PAGE 10</a></p> - -<p>This admirable translation is by Mr T. W. Rolleston (<i>vide</i> Note to p. -166), after the original in <i>The Book of Leinster</i>.</p> - -<p class="nind2">THE MARCH OF THE FAERIE HOST.<br /><a href="#page_12">PAGE 12</a></p> - -<p>This striking poem is given as translated by Professor Kuno Meyer. It -and other verses are to be found, in the original, in <i>The Book of -Lismore</i> (15th century). The particular narrative therein deals with the -visit of Laegaire mac Crimthainn to the land of Faerie. The episodic -portion of this narrative has been translated and edited by Mr Standish -Hayes O’Grady (see <i>Silva Gadelica</i>); but the general reader may be more -interested in the brief and lucid commentary of Professor Kuno Meyer -(see <i>The Voyage of Bran</i>—with Essay on the Celtic Elysium, by Mr -Alfred Nutt—recently published by D. Nutt). Professor Meyer considers -this and the other verses of “Laegaire mac Crimthainn” to be as old as -the 10th century period. “The Faerie Host,” as here given, is -fragmentary, being part of an episode; but I have further curtailed it -by three lines, for the sake of effect and unity of impression. The -other three lines are—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"> -“At all times melodious are they,<br /> -Quick-witted in song-making,<br /> -Skilled at playing <i>fiachell</i>.”<br /> -</div></div> - -<p class="nind2"> -VISION OF A FAIR WOMAN.<br /><a href="#page_13">PAGE 13</a></p> - -<p>This characteristic Scoto-Celtic poem is supposed by some scholars to be -very ancient. The Gaelic version permits of some doubt on the -conjecture, but the text is not in this instance conclusive. The -“Aisling” will be found in Smith’s <i>Collection of Ancient Poems, from -the Gaelic of Ossian, Ullin, Orran, and others</i> (1780)—the reputed -originals of which were published in 1787. See, for easier reference, -Nigel MacNeil’s <i>Literature of the Highlanders</i>, p. 218.</p> - -<p class="nind2">THE FIAN BANNERS.<br /><a href="#page_14">PAGE 14</a></p> - -<p>This paraphrase of an ancient poem is modern. The original is supposed -to relate to the Scoto-Celtic and Viking<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_405" id="page_405">{405}</a></span> wars of the 11th century. (See -Nigel MacNeil’s <i>Literature of the Highlanders</i>, p. 117.)</p> - -<p class="nind2">THE RUNE OF ST PATRICK (“THE FAEDH; OR, THE CRY OF THE DEER”).<br /><a href="#page_17">PAGE 17</a></p> - -<p>This translation of the “Faedh,” from <i>The Book of Hymns</i> (11th -century), is by Charles Mangan.</p> - -<p class="nind2">COLUMCILLE CECENIT.<br /><a href="#page_18">PAGE 18</a></p> - -<p>The version of Colum’s Hymn here given is the translation of Dr Douglas -Hyde, himself a poet, and one of the foremost living Irish folk-lorists. -All students of Celtic literature should see his fascinating volume of -metrical renderings of the old Erse, <i>The Three Sorrows of -Story-Telling</i>. (<i>Vide</i> Notes to p. 126.)</p> - -<p class="nind2">COLUMCILLE FECIT.<br /><a href="#page_20">PAGE 20</a></p> - -<p>This well-known poem is given as translated by Michael O’Curry, from an -Irish MS. in the Burgundian Library of Brussels.</p> - -<p class="nind2">THE SONG OF MURDOCH THE MONK.<br /><a href="#page_22">PAGE 22</a></p> - -<p>This “Monastic Shaving Song” is the version of Professor Blackie, as -translated from <i>Bishop Ewing’s Book</i>.</p> - -<p class="nind2">DOMHNULL MAC FHIONNLAIDH. “THE AGED BARD’S WISH.”<br /><a href="#page_23">PAGE 23</a></p> - -<p>Although this undoubtedly old Gaelic poem is attributed by its -translators, Charles Edward Stuart and John Sobieski, to the early bard -Domhnull Mac Fhionnlaidh, there is no certainty (as they admit) either -as to authorship or date. This version is taken from <i>Ballads and Songs</i> -by Charles Edward Stuart and John Sobieski.</p> - -<p class="nind2">“OSSIAN SANG.”<br /><a href="#page_28">PAGE 28</a></p> - -<p>The original was jotted down in phonetic Gaelic by Dean Macgregor some -380 years ago.</p> - -<p class="nind2">FINGAL AND ROS-CRANA.<br /><a href="#page_29">PAGE 29</a></p> - -<p>This is not part of the text of Macpherson’s <i>Ossian</i> though the -Englishing is by Macpherson, who attributes the original to Colgan, an -ancient Scoto-Irish bard. It will be found in the Notes to <i>Temora</i>. -(See Introduction.)</p> - -<p class="nind2">THE NIGHT-SONG OF THE BARDS.<br /><a href="#page_31">PAGE 31</a></p> - -<p>Macpherson “translated” this, he avers, from an old Gaelic original. His -version is to be found in the Notes to <i>Croma</i>.</p> - -<p class="nind2">OSSIAN. “COMALA.”<br /><a href="#page_35">PAGE 35</a></p> - -<p>I have selected this short poem as representative of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_406" id="page_406">{406}</a></span> the semi-mythical -Ossian of Macpherson. It is undoubtedly ancient substantially.</p> - -<p class="nind2">THE DEATH-SONG OF OSSIAN.<br /><a href="#page_41">PAGE 41</a></p> - -<p>The close of “The Songs of Selma.” (See foregoing Note.)</p> - -<h3>ANCIENT CORNISH</h3> - -<p class="nind2">THE POOL OF PILATE.<br /><a href="#page_45">PAGE 45</a></p> - -<p>From the ancient Cornish drama, <i>The Resurrection of Christ</i> (<i>vide</i> -section: “The Death of Pilate”). See the volume on the subject by Mr -Edwin Norris, referred to in Note to “The Vision of Seth.”</p> - -<p class="nind2">MERLIN THE DIVINER.<br /><a href="#page_46">PAGE 46</a></p> - -<p>(<i>Vide</i> Introduction.) This, though it exists in the old Cornish -dialect, is really an ancient Breton incantation. The Cornish variant is -to be found in that invaluable depository of Armorican legendary lore, -the <i>Barzaz Breiz</i>. The translation here given is by Thos. Stephens. -(<i>Vide</i> <i>Thos. Stephens: a Memoir</i>. Wm. Rees, Llandovery, 1849.)</p> - -<p class="nind2">THE VISION OF SETH.<br /><a href="#page_47">PAGE 47</a></p> - -<p>This dramatic fragment is from <i>The Ancient Cornish Drama</i>, edited and -translated by Edwin Norris, Sec. R.A.S. (Oxford, 1859).</p> - -<h3>ARMORICAN</h3> - -<p class="nind2">THE DANCE OF THE SWORD.<br /><a href="#page_53">PAGE 53</a></p> - -<p>(<i>Vide</i> Introduction.) In Armorican, <i>Gwin ar C‘ Hallaoued: Ha Korol or -C‘ Hlezf</i>—<i>i.e.</i> The Wine of the Gauls, and the Dance of the Sword. -Supposed to be the fragment of a Song that accompanied the old Celtic -sword-dance in honour of the Sun. [This and the following translation by -the late Tom Taylor are, by courteous permission of Messrs Macmillan, -quoted from <i>Ballads and Songs of Brittany</i> (selections from the <i>Barzaz -Breiz</i> of the Vicomte Hersart de la Villemarqué).]</p> - -<p class="nind2">THE LORD NANN AND THE FAIRY.<br /><a href="#page_55">PAGE 55</a></p> - -<p>(By the same, and from the same source.) The “Korrigan” of Breton -superstition has his familiar congeners in Celtic Scotland and Ireland; -and is identical with the “elf” of Scandinavian mythology and of the -Danish ballads. In this English version of “The Lord Nann” the metre and -divisions into stanzas of the original Armorican have been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_407" id="page_407">{407}</a></span> adhered to. -The triplet indicates antiquity in Cambrian and Armorican compositions.</p> - -<p class="nind2">ALAIN THE FOX.<br /><a href="#page_58">PAGE 58</a></p> - -<p>This and the following poem are from the same Franco-Breton source as -their two predecessors, but are translated by Mr F. G. Fleay, M.A. (<i>The -Masterpieces of Breton Ballads.</i> Printed for Private Circulation. -Halifax, 1870).</p> - -<p class="nind2">BRAN (THE CROW).<br /><a href="#page_60">PAGE 60</a></p> - -<p>See foregoing Note.</p> - -<h3>EARLY CYMRIC</h3> - -<p class="nind2">THE SOUL.<br /><a href="#page_67">PAGE 67</a></p> - -<p>This strange fragment is of unknown antiquity, and may well be, as -affirmed, of as remote a date as the 6th or even 5th century. It is from -that remarkable depository of early Cymric lore, <i>The Black Book of -Caermarthen</i> (1154-1189).</p> - -<p class="nind2">LLYWARC’H HEN.<br /><a href="#page_68">PAGE 68</a></p> - -<p>The “Gorwynion” of Llywarc’h Hên, “Prince of the Cambrian Britons” (if -it is really the work of that poet), is one of the most famous -productions of early Cymric literature. Llywarc’h Hên’s <i>floreat</i> is by -some authorities placed in the middle of the 7th century, by others so -early as the beginning of the 6th, and by others as really extending -from early in the 6th till the middle of the 7th: the drift of evidence -indicates the remoter date as the more probable. The translation here -given was made about a hundred years ago by William Owen. It is not easy -to find an English equivalent for “Gorwynion,” a plural word which -signifies objects that have a very bright whiteness or glare. Perhaps -the word glitterings might serve, though, as has been suggested, the -nearest term would be <i>Coruscants</i>. The last line of these verses -generally contains some moral maxim, unconnected with the preceding -lines, except in the metre. It is said that the custom arose through the -desire of the bards to assist the memory in the conveyance of -instruction by oral means. In the translation the rhymed or assonantal -unity of the tercets is lost, with the result that the third-line maxim -generally comes in with almost ludicrous inappositeness. According to -the <i>Triads of the Isle of Britain</i>, Llywarc’h Hên passed his younger -days at the Court of Arthur. In<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_408" id="page_408">{408}</a></span> one triad he is alluded to as one of -the three free guests at the Arthurian Court; in another, as one of the -three counselling warriors. According to tradition, the bones of this -princely bard lie beneath the Church of Llanvor, where, as averred, he -was interred at the patriarchal age of 150 years. He was not one of the -Sacred Bards, because of his military profession as a prince and knight; -for these might not carry arms, and in their presence a naked sword even -might not be held. The <i>Beirdd</i> were not poets and sages only, but were -accounted and accepted as missioners of peace.</p> - -<p class="nind2">LLYWARC’H HEN.<br /><a href="#page_71">PAGE 71</a></p> - -<p>This is another series of “Gorwynion,” attributed to Llywarc’h Hên by Mr -Skene, who has translated it from <i>The Red Book of Hergest</i> (MS. -compiled in 14th and 15th centuries). The English rendering of <i>The Red -Book</i> was issued through Messrs Edmonston & Douglas of Edinburgh in -1868.</p> - -<p class="nind2">TALIESIN.<br /><a href="#page_73">PAGE 73</a></p> - -<p>“Song to the Wind” (<i>Vide</i> Introduction). “The Song about the Wind,” of -which only a section is given here, will be found in full in Skene’s -<i>Four Ancient Books of Wales</i>, Vol. I., page 535, and is the most famous -poem by the most famous of Cymric bards. It was first translated, some -forty-five years ago, by Lady Charlotte Guest, whose Englished -renderings of the “Mabinogion” attracted the attention of scholars -throughout the whole Western world. (Longmans, 1849 and later.) Emerson -delighted in the “Song,” and declared it to be one of the finest pieces -of its kind extant in any literature. See also the <i>Myvyrian -Archaiology</i>.</p> - -<p class="nind2">ANEURIN.<br /><a href="#page_75">PAGE 75</a></p> - -<p>Aneurin was one of the famous warrior bards of ancient Wales. His birth -is noted as <i>Circa</i> 500 <small>A.D.</small>, and in any case he flourished during the -first half of the 6th century. Aneurin—like Taliesin, called “the -monarch of the bards”—was a Briton of Manau Gododin, a principality or -province of Cymric Scotland, now Mid-Lothian and Linlithgowshire. Manau -Gododin stretched from the Carron of to-day (the Carun of Ossian), some -miles to the north-west of Falkirk to the river Esk, that now divides -Mid-Lothian and East Lothian. Manau Gododin was then much more Celtic -(Pictish) than Gododin. “Breatan Cymru” (<i>i.e.</i> the country of the Welsh -Britons) then comprised the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_409" id="page_409">{409}</a></span> larger part of southern Scotland—that is, -from the north end of Loch Lomond, and from the upper reaches of the -Gwruid (the Forth), to the Mull of Galloway on the south-west; eastward -to a line drawn from the western Lammermuirs, by Melrose, Kelso, and -Jedburgh, and so down by the Cheviots to Hexham, and thence -southwesterly by Cumberland. The exception was the Pictish or Celtic -province of Galloway—bounded on the west by Carrawg (that part of -Ayrshire known as Carrick); on the north by Coel (Kyle); on the east by -a line drawn from Sanquhar through Nithsdale and by Dumfries to -Locharmoss and the Solway; on the south-west, by Novant (Mull of -Galloway); and on the south by the Solway Firth.</p> - -<p>Aneurin was a contemporary of the princely poet, Llywarc’h Hên. He was -called Aneurin y Coed Awr ap Caw o Gwm Cawlwyd—or, again, Aneurin -Gwadrydd—both designations indicative of his greatness. It has been -maintained that Aneurin is identical with the celebrated Gildas, “the -author of the Latin epistle which Bede so blindly copied,” both Aneurin -and Gildas having been sons of Caw. He is supposed to be alluded to as -the seventh bard, in a curious fragment preserved in the <i>Myvyrian -Archaiology</i> (Vol. III.), which I excerpt here.</p> - -<p>“The seven questions put by Catwg the Wise, to the Seven Wise Men of the -College of Llanvuthan, and the answers of these men:</p> - -<p class="hang">1. “What is the greatest wisdom of man?” “To be able to do evil and -not to do it,” answered <i>St Tedio</i>.</p> - -<p class="hang">2. “What is the highest goodness of man?” “Justice,” answered -<i>Tahaiarn</i>.</p> - -<p class="hang">3. “What is the worst principle of man?” “Falsehood,” answered -<i>Taliesin</i>, chief of Bards.</p> - -<p class="hang">4. “What is the noblest action of man?” “Correctness,” answered -<i>Cynan</i>, son of Clydno Eddin.</p> - -<p class="hang">5. “What is the greatest folly of man?” “To desire a common evil, -which he cannot do,” answered <i>Ystyvan</i>, the Bard of Teilo.</p> - -<p class="hang">6. “Who is the poorest man?” “He who is not contented with his own -property,” answered <i>Arawn</i>, son of Cynvarch.</p> - -<p class="hang">7. “Who is the richest man?” “He who does not covet anything -belonging to others,” answered <i>Gildas</i> of Coed Awr.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_410" id="page_410">{410}</a></span></p> - -<p>“The Ode to the Months” is given in the translation of William Probert -(1820), according to whom the Ode contains moral maxims and observations -which were known and repeated long before Aneurin lived, and were put -into verse by him as an aid to the memory: “valuable, because they show -the modes of thinking and expression which the primitive inhabitants of -Britain used nearly 2000 years ago.”</p> - -<p class="nind2">DAFYDD AP GWILYM.<br /><a href="#page_78">PAGE 78</a></p> - -<p>(Fl. 14th century.) In his love of Nature, and in the richness of his -poetic imagination (as well, so say those who can read Welsh fluently, -as in his poetry), Dafydd ap Gwilym is the Keats of Wales. The romance -of his life and wild-wood experiences has yet to be written: and we -still await an adequate translator—though, to judge from some recent -renderings by Mr Ernest Rhys, in an interesting short study of Dafydd, -recently published in <i>The Chap Book</i> (Stone & Kimball, Chicago) we may -not have to wait much longer. He was a love-child: of noble parentage, -though born under a hedge at Llandaff. His mother wedded after his -birth; but he remained the “wilding” throughout his life. He became the -favourite of Ivor Hael of Emlyn, with whose daughter Morvydd he fell in -love. He wooed and won her “under the greenwood tree,” but only to lose -her shortly afterward, when she was forcibly married to a man called Bwa -Bach. Dafydd stole her from her legitimate husband, but was captured and -imprisoned. His ultimate release was due to the payment of the imposed -fine, the sum having been got together by the men of Glamorgan. His most -ardent love-poetry is addressed to this fair Morvydd.</p> - -<p class="nind2">RHYS GOCH OF ERYRI.<br /><a href="#page_82">PAGE 82</a></p> - -<p>There are two famous poets of the name of Rhys Goch; probably both -belong to the 14th century (and Wilkins certainly disputes the claim of -Rhys Goch ap Rhiccart to be of the 12th century). This Ode is an -illustration of the sound answering the sense. Rhys was in love with the -fair Gwen of Dol, and sent a peacock to her. His rival, also a bard, -composed a poem to the Fox, beseeching it to kill his rival’s present, -and, singularly enough, the bird was destroyed by a fox, and the rival -bard was happy. Stung by this misadventure, Rhys composed the above, -which, in the original, so teems with gutturals that Sion<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_411" id="page_411">{411}</a></span> Tudor called -it the “Shibboleth of Sobriety, because no man, when drunk, could -possibly pronounce it.”</p> - -<p class="nind2">RHYS GOCH AP RHICCART.<br /><a href="#page_83">PAGE 83</a></p> - -<p>See foregoing Note.</p> - -<h3>IRISH (MODERN AND CONTEMPORARY)</h3> - -<p class="nind2"> -A.E. <a href="#page_87">PAGES 87-91</a><br /> -</p> - -<p>From <i>Homeward Songs by the Way</i> (Whaley, Dublin).</p> - -<p>This little book, published in paper covers, and apparently with every -effort to avoid rather than court publicity, almost immediately -attracted the notice of the few who watch contemporary poetry with -scrupulously close attention. The author, who is well known in Dublin -literary society, prefers to disguise his identity in public under the -initials A.E., though it is no longer a secret that Mr G. W. Russell is -the name of this poet-dreamer, who, like Blake, of whom he is a student -and interpreter, has also a faculty of pictorial expression of a rare -and distinctive kind.</p> - -<p class="nind2"> -WM. ALLINGHAM. (1824-1889.) <a href="#page_92">PAGES 92-94</a><br /> -</p> - -<p>Every lover of Irish poetry is familiar with “The Fairies” of the late -William Allingham. He is an Irish rather than distinctively a Celtic -poet in the strict sense of the word; but every now and again he strikes -the genuine Celtic note, as in his well-known “Fairies,” and the little -poem called the “Æolian Harp,” by which he is also represented here. -Much the best critical summary of his life-work is to be found in the -brief memoir by Mr W. B. Yeats in Miles’ <i>Poets and Poetry of the -Century</i>, Vol. V., p. 209. Among the innumerable love songs of the Irish -peasantry there are few more beautiful than Allingham’s “Mary Donnelly.” -As Mr Yeats says, he was “the poet of little things and little moments, -and neither his emotions nor his thoughts took any wide sweep over the -world of Man and Nature.” His “Laurence Bloomfield” is already -practically forgotten; but many of the lighter and often exquisitely -deft lyrics of his early life will remain in the memory of the Irish -people, and one or two at least in English literature.</p> - -<p class="nind2"> -THOMAS BOYD.<br /><a href="#page_95">PAGE 95</a></p> - -<p>So far as I know, Mr Thomas Boyd has not published any volume of verse. -Some of his poems have appeared in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_412" id="page_412">{412}</a></span> <i>United Ireland</i>, among them the -beautiful lines, “To the Lianhaun Shee.”</p> - -<p class="nind2">EMILY BRONTË. (1818-1848.)<br /><a href="#page_97">PAGE 97</a></p> - -<p>It may be as well to explain to those readers who take it for granted -that Emily Brontë is to be accounted an English poet, that she was of -Irish nationality and birth. The name Brontë, so familiar now through -the genius of herself and her sister, was originally Prunty. Everything -from her pen has a note of singular distinction; but perhaps she could -hardly be more characteristically represented than by the poem called -“Remembrance.” The, in quantity, meagre poetic legacy of the author of -<i>Wuthering Heights</i> is comprised (under her pseudonym, Ellis Bell) in -the volume <i>Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell</i>.</p> - -<p class="nind2"> -STOPFORD A. BROOKE.<br /> <a href="#page_98">PAGE 98-100</a><br /> -</p> - -<p>“The Earth and Man” and “Song” (from the poem called “Six Days”) are -from Mr Stopford Brooke’s volume, <i>Poems</i> (Macmillan & Co.). These seem -to me fairly representative of the distinctive atmosphere which Mr -Brooke conveys in all his poetry. See particularly his <i>Riquet of The -Tuft</i> (1880) and <i>Poems</i> (1888).</p> - -<p class="nind2"> -JOHN K. CASEY.<br /> <a href="#page_101">PAGE 101-3</a><br /> -</p> - -<p>Most of Mr Casey’s poems appeared above the signature “Leo.” Born in -1846, the son of a peasant, his early efforts to make literature his -profession were handicapped by inevitable disadvantages. In 1876 he was -arrested as a Fenian conspirator, and imprisoned. This, combined with -the influence of his unselfish patriotism and the popularity of many of -his lyrics, gave him a recognised place in the Irish Brotherhood of -Song.</p> - -<p> -GEORGE DARLEY. (1795-1846.)<br /><a href="#page_104">PAGE 104</a></p> - -<p>This remarkable poet, who has so strangely lapsed from public -remembrance, was in his own day greatly admired by his fellow-poets and -the most discerning critics of the period. Mrs Browning, and Robert -Browning still more, were deeply impressed by what is now his best known -production—<i>Sylvia: a Lyrical Drama</i> (1836); and Alfred Tennyson was so -struck by the quality of the young poet’s work that he volunteered to -defray the cost of publishing his verse. Lord Tennyson frequently, in -conversation, alluded to George Darley as one of the “hopelessly -misapprehended men”; and we have Robert Browning’s own authority, says -Darley’s latest biographer, Mr John<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_413" id="page_413">{413}</a></span> H. Ingram, for stating that -<i>Sylvia</i> did much to determine the form of his own early dramas. -<i>Sylvia</i>, again, charmed Coleridge; and in 1836, Miss Mitford, whom Mr -Ingram calls a leading spirit among the <i>literati</i> of her day, -writes:—“I have just had a present of a most exquisite poem, which old -Mr Carey (the translator of Dante and Pindar) thinks more highly of than -any poem of the present day—‘Sylvia, or The May Queen,’ by George -Darley. It is exquisite—something between the ‘Faithful Shepherdess’ -and the ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>Darley was the eldest child of Arthur Darley, of the Scalp, County -Wicklow. The poet, however, was not born there, but in Dublin, in the -year 1795. While he was a child, his parents emigrated to the United -States; and the boy spent the first ten years of his life at the family -home in Wicklow. In due time, and subsequent to the return of his -parents from America, he went through the usual scholastic routine, -though he did not graduate at Trinity College, Dublin, till his -twenty-fifth year—a delay in great part due to what, then and later, he -considered a disastrous impediment of speech. From the loss of a -scholarship to the social deprivations he underwent in London, this -infirmity, he declared, was his evil fortune. His first book, <i>The -Errors of Ecstasie</i>, was published (1822) in London, where he had -settled. Needless to say, as this volume consists mainly of a dialogue -between a Mystic and the Moon, the reading public remained in absolute -ignorance of the new poet. His second book (1826) consisted of a series -of prose tales and verses, collectively entitled—<i>The Labours of -Idleness; or, Seven Nights’ Entertainments</i>—set forth as by “Guy -Penseval.” Three years later appeared his chief work, <i>Sylvia</i>. -Notwithstanding its divers shortcomings, some of them frankly -acknowledged by the author himself, <i>Sylvia</i> is a creation of genuine -imagination, and possesses a haunting and quite distinctive charm. Both -the merits and demerits of his too often uncontrolled style are -adequately indicated in the criticism of Mr Ingram: “[frequently] his -wild Celtic fancy breaks its curb and carries him into clouds of -metaphor as marvellous as they are musical, although often the flight -ends by a hasty and undignified descent to commonplace earth.” There is -no commonplace, however, in his exquisite faëry verse, which, in the -words of the same critic, “is among<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_414" id="page_414">{414}</a></span> the loveliest in the language; at -times is even sweeter than Drayton’s, and is as fantastic as -Shakespeare’s own.”</p> - -<p>For ten years the poet kept silence; but in 1839 he issued his -fragmentary and extraordinary <i>Nepenthe</i>—a poem which, with all its -brilliant quality and daring richness of imagery, might well be taken as -an example of the Celtic genius <i>in extremis</i>—so unreservedly does he -give way to an uncontrolled imagination. Perhaps the best thing said -about <i>Nepenthe</i> is in a letter from the author himself, wherein he -writes:—“Does it not speak a heat of brain mentally Bacchic?”</p> - -<p>Nothing that Darley published afterwards enhanced his reputation. Lovers -of his best work, however, should read the posthumous volume of his -“Poems” edited by R. and M. J. Livingstone—a rare volume, as it was -printed for private circulation. It contains some of the songs from an -unpublished lyrical drama called <i>The Sea Bride</i>; and it is from this -that the “Dirge,” quoted at page 104 in this book, comes. In this -posthumous collection also is included the following striking and -characteristic lyric:—</p> - -<p class="c">THE FALLEN STAR.</p> - -<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"> -A star is gone! a star is gone!<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There is a blank in Heaven,</span><br /> -One of the cherub choir has done<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His airy course this even.</span><br /> -<br /> -He sat upon the orb of fire<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That hung for ages there,</span><br /> -And lent his music to the choir<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That haunts the nightly air.</span><br /> -<br /> -But when his thousand years are passed,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With a cherubic sigh</span><br /> -He vanished with his car at last,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For even cherubs die!</span><br /> -<br /> -Hear how his angel brothers mourn—<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The minstrels of the spheres—</span><br /> -Each chiming sadly in his turn<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And dropping splendid tears.</span><br /> -<br /> -The planetary sisters all<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Join in the fatal song,</span><br /> -And weep this hapless brother’s fall<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who sang with them so long.</span><br /> -<br /> -But deepest of the choral band<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The Lunar Spirit sings,</span><br /> -And with a bass-according hand<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_415" id="page_415">{415}</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sweeps all her sullen strings.</span><br /> -<br /> -From the deep chambers of the dome<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where sleepless Uriel lies,</span><br /> -His rude harmonic thunders come<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Mingled with mighty sighs.</span><br /> -<br /> -The thousand car-borne cherubim,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The wandering eleven,</span><br /> -All join to chant the dirge of him<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who fell just now from Heaven.</span><br /> -</div></div> - -<p>After a life of great intellectual activity, but of singular isolation -and of misanthropic unhappiness, George Darley died in London on the -23rd of November 1846, in his fifty-first year. For further information -as to the personality and writings of this strange, undeservedly -neglected, but unbalanced man of genius, the reader may be referred to -the delightful edition of <i>Sylvia</i>, with Introduction, by Mr John H. -Ingram, published by Mr J. M. Dent (1892).</p> - -<p class="nind2"> -AUBREY DE VERE.<br /> <a href="#page_105">PAGE 105-6</a><br /> -</p> - -<p>Mr Aubrey De Vere is one of the most scholarly poets of Ireland. All his -work is informed with a high and serious spirit; and though the bulk of -it is not distinctively Celtic, either in sentiment or utterance, not -even distinctively Irish, he has written some poems which are as dear to -Nationalists and Celticists as is almost any other verse by contemporary -poets. Mr Aubrey De Vere is the younger brother of Sir Stephen De Vere, -Bart. (the translator of Horace, and himself a poet of distinction), and -son of Aubrey De Vere, the poet friend of Wordsworth. He was born in -1814, and has lived most of his life, with long intervals in London and -in several parts of Europe, at his birthplace, Curragh Chase, Adare, Co. -Limerick. Among his most noteworthy writings are:—<i>The Waldensees</i> -(1842); <i>The Search after Proserpine</i> (1843); <i>Poems</i> (1853); <i>The -Sisters</i> (1861); <i>The Infant Bridal: and other Poems</i> (1864); <i>Irish -Odes</i> (1869); <i>The Legends of St Patrick</i> (1872); <i>Alexander the Great</i>, -a poetical drama (1874); and another drama, <i>St Thomas of Canterbury</i> -(1876); <i>Antar and Zara: and other Poems</i> (1877); <i>Legends of the Saxon -Saints</i> (1879); and <i>The Foray of Queen Meave</i>, based upon an ancient -Irish epic (1882). Since then Mr Aubrey De Vere has published a -Selection of his poems and one or two books of a religious nature. His -best prose work is to be found in his <i>Essays chiefly on Poetry</i> (1887), -and <i>Essays chiefly Literary and Ethical</i> (1889).<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_416" id="page_416">{416}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind2"> -FRANCIS FAHY.<br /><a href="#page_107">PAGE 107</a></p> - -<p>Author of <i>Irish Songs and Poems</i>, published under the pseudonym -“Dreolin.” Mr Fahy is a member of the group of notable lyrists whose -captain is Sir Samuel Ferguson.</p> - -<p class="nind2">SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON. (1810-1886.)<br /><a href="#page_109">PAGE 109</a></p> - -<p>This celebrated poet and archæologist was born in Belfast. He has aptly -been called a man of encyclopædic learning; but this learning did not -prevent his becoming perhaps the foremost Irish poet of the Middle -Victorian period. His most ambitious poetic work is <i>Congal: an Epic -Poem</i> (1872)—a work full of lofty imagination and epical music, but -unfortunate in its metrical setting. His short poem, “The Forging of the -Anchor,” is one of the most celebrated and popular poems of our era. -Even yet, the influence of his <i>Lays of the Western Gael</i> (1865) is -considerable, and for good. “Cean Dubh Deelish” (darling dark head), of -which several able, and one or two good translations have been made, -finds its happiest interpreter in Ferguson. How many poets and lovers -have repeated these lines—</p> - -<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"> -“Then put your head, darling, darling, darling,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Your darling black head my heart above;</span><br /> -Oh, mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?”</span><br /> -</div></div> - -<p class="rt"><a href="#page_110">PAGE 110</a></p> - -<p>“Molly Asthore” is also a paraphrase. The original is ascribed to a -celebrated Irish Gaelic bard, Cormac O’Con.</p> - -<p class="rt"><a href="#page_112">PAGE 112</a></p> - -<p>“The Fair Hills of Holy Ireland,” is familiar to Irish men and women in -every part of the world.</p> - -<p class="nind2"> -ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES.<br /><a href="#page_113">PAGE 113</a></p> - -<p>One of the best known names of Ireland of to-day. Mr Graves, born in -Dublin in 1846, is thoroughly national, and his delightful work is -perhaps as adequately typical of the Irish spirit as that of any one man -could be. His lyric faculty—or at any rate his movement, his verve—is -unsurpassed by any living Irishman. These few examples of his poetical -writings should win him many more readers. His first book, <i>Songs of -Killarney</i>, was published over twenty years ago. Since then he has -issued <i>Irish Songs and Ballads</i>, <i>Songs of Old Ireland</i>, and (1880) his -best known<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_417" id="page_417">{417}</a></span> collection, <i>Father O’Flynn: and other Irish Lyrics</i>. <i>Irish -Songs and Airs</i> is the title of his promised contribution to Sir Gavan -Duffy’s Irish Library.</p> - -<p class="nind2">GERALD GRIFFIN. (1803-1840.)<br /><a href="#page_121">PAGE 121</a></p> - -<p>The author of the lovely song, “Eileen Aroon” (Nellie, my Darling), was -born in Limerick. His chief work is his novel, <i>The Collegians</i>, which -has been pronounced to be “the most perfect Irish novel published.” I -have heard that Tennyson once “went mooning about for days,” repeating -with endless gusto, and with frequent expressions of a wish that he was -the author of, the closing lines:—</p> - -<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"> - -Youth must with time decay,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Eileen Aroon!</span><br /> -Beauty must fade away,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Eileen Aroon!</span><br /> -Castles are sacked in war,<br /> -Chieftains are scattered far,<br /> -Truth is a fixèd star,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Eileen Aroon!</span><br /> -</div></div> - -<p class="nind2"> -NORA HOPPER. <br /> <a href="#page_123">PAGE 123</a> ETC.<br /> -</p> - -<p>This young Irish poet made an immediate impression by her <i>Ballads in -Prose</i> (John Lane). Both in prose and verse she displays the true Celtic -note, and often the unmistakable Celtic intensity. The lovely lyrics -“April in Ireland,” and “The Wind among the Reeds,” are from <i>Ballads in -Prose</i>. “The Dark Man” has not hitherto appeared in print, and I am -indebted to Miss Hopper for her permission to quote it here. It is, I -understand, to be included in her shortly forthcoming volume, to be -published by Mr John Lane.</p> - -<p class="nind2"> -DOUGLAS HYDE, LL.D.<br /><a href="#page_126">PAGE 126</a></p> - -<p>Dr Hyde, one of the foremost living expositors of Gaelic folklore in -Ireland, was born about thirty-five years ago in the Co. Roscommon, -where he has since resided. He graduated at Trinity College, Dublin, -after an exceptionally brilliant University career. He is now President -of the Gaelic League, and one of the acknowledged leaders of the Gaelic -wing of the Celtic Renascence; but from the first he was in the front -rank of those who are working for the preservation of the ancient Irish -language and the rescue of its beautiful fugitive literature. Although -best known by his Irish Tales, taken down at first hand from the -peasantry, and other Folk-<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_418" id="page_418">{418}</a></span>collections, and his invaluable and unique -<i>The Love Songs of Connacht</i> (Connaught), he is himself a poet of mark. -(See, also, Note XI., <i>supra</i>.) Those who are in a position to judge -declare his Gaelic poetry, which appears in the Irish Press above the -signature “An Chraoibhin Aoibhinn,” to be of altogether exceptional -excellence. The work Dr Douglas Hyde does deserves the most cordial -recognition. No man has worked more whole-heartedly, more -enthusiastically, and with more far-reaching success for the cause of -the Irish-Gaelic language, folk-lore, and literature, and, it may be -added, the best interests of the Irish of the soil.</p> - -<p>The songs by which he is represented in this volume are from the <i>Love -Songs of Connacht</i> (Fisher Unwin, 1893), a book which is not only -indispensable to the Celtic scholar, but should be in the hands of every -lover of Celtic literature, old-time or new. All are translations, -though perhaps paraphrastic rather than metaphrastic. Both in their -music and in their intensity—in, also, their peculiar lyric lilt—they -are distinctively West Irish. The collection from which these poems are -drawn was issued as <i>The Fourth Chapter of the Songs of Connacht</i>. The -preceding three appeared in the now defunct <i>Nation</i>. They were all -originally written in Irish; but very wisely, or at any rate for us very -fortunately, Dr Hyde interpolated translations. In these he has -endeavoured to reproduce the vowel-rhymes as well as the exact metres of -the original poems. We must hope to see the reprint, in like fashion, of -the predecessors of this volume.</p> - -<p class="nind2">LIONEL JOHNSON.<br /><a href="#page_133">PAGE 133</a></p> - -<p>Though come of a Dublin family, and otherwise Irish by descent, Mr -Johnson was born at Broadstairs in Kent (1867). He first became known to -the reading public, as a poet, by his contributions to <i>The Book of the -Rhymers’ Club</i>, notable for their distinction of touch. Since then Mr -Johnson has published much in prose and verse, though in book form he -has not, I think, produced any other prose work than his admirable study -of Thomas Hardy, or any other volume of poetry than his <i>Poems</i>. His -work is not characterised by distinctively Celtic quality, though -occasionally, as in “The Red Wind” and “To Morfydd,” the Celtic note -makes itself audible. No doubt—to judge from internal evidence in his -later writings—Mr Johnson’s poetic work, at least, will develop more -and more along the line of his racial bent.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_419" id="page_419">{419}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind2">DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY. (1817-1882.)<br /><a href="#page_135">PAGE 135</a></p> - -<p>Mr Maccarthy, who was a barrister in Dublin, and one of the main -supports of the <i>Nation</i>, is best known by his fine translations of -Calderon’s Dramas. The “Lament,” by which he is here represented, has -always seemed to me his most haunting lyrical achievement. It is -necessary to add, however, that this poem is somewhat condensed from the -original—which is weakened by diffuseness. The score or so of lines -beginning “As fire-flies fade,” have been favourites with many poets of -Maccarthy’s own time and later.</p> - -<p class="nind2">JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. (1803-1849.)<br /><a href="#page_137">PAGE 137</a></p> - -<p>While it is not the case, as sometimes averred, that Mangan was, or is, -to Ireland what Burns is to Scotland, it is indisputable that the claim -may be made for him rather than for any other Irish poet of the Early -Victorian period. In fire and energy his faculty is unsurpassed by any -of his poetic countrymen, though we may dispute Sir Charles Gavan -Duffy’s assertion that Mangan “has not, and perhaps never had, any rival -in mastery of the metrical and rhythmical resources of the English -tongue.” Mangan was the child of a small tradesman of Dublin, where, in -1803, he was born. From childhood, fate dealt hardly with him. Abandoned -in his early boyhood, he was indebted to a relative for his education; -but when, in his fifteenth year, he became a copyist in a lawyer’s -office, at a small pittance, his kindred discovered him and compelled -him to share his meagre gains with them. For ten years thereafter he -toiled in this bitter bondage. In his own words:—“I was obliged to work -seven years of the ten from five in the morning, winter and summer, to -eleven at night; and during the three remaining years, nothing but a -special Providence could have saved me from suicide.” No wonder that, -from an early period in his life, he found relief from his misery in -drink; but it was misery and unbroken ill-fortune and adversity, much -more than the curse of his fatal habit, that really killed him. There is -a period in his life which is a blank, “a blank into which he entered a -bright-haired youth and emerged a withered and stricken man.” His first -chance for a happier life came with his appointment to a minor post in -the University Library of Dublin, and it was during this time that most -of his best work was done. His highest level is reached<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_420" id="page_420">{420}</a></span> in his -brilliant free paraphrases of German originals: <i>Anthologia Germania</i> -(1845). His later years were darkened by the worst phases of his malady, -and he died (as in most part he had lived, in misery and poverty) in -Meath Hospital, in his forty-seventh year. He has written one lyric that -Irishmen will always account immortal: “Dark Rosaleen”—a wild and -passionate rhapsody on Ireland herself. “Dark Rosaleen,” “Silk of the -Kine,” “The Little Black Rose,” “Kathleen Ny Houlahan”—these were at -one time the familiar analogues of Ireland. Of his Oriental paraphrases -the most stirring is “The Karamanian Exile.” Strangely enough, Mangan’s -Irish renderings are less happy than those poems which he based upon -German and Oriental originals; but sometimes, as in the beautiful “Fair -Hills of Eiré, O!” after the Irish of Donough mac Con-Mara, he has -bequeathed a memorable lyric. Of poems that are strictly original, -nothing seems to me more characteristic of Mangan than “The One Mystery” -(see p. 142).</p> - -<p class="nind2">ROSA MULHOLLAND.<br /><a href="#page_144">PAGE 144</a></p> - -<p>This accomplished prose-writer and poet was born in Belfast. Since her -<i>Vagrant Verses</i> (1886) she has published many stories and poems, and is -a regular contributor to the leading Irish periodicals. Her “Fionnula” -is one of the happiest renderings of the legend of the Swan Daughters of -Lir; but is too long for quotation in the text. “The Wild Geese,” by -which she is represented here, is eminently characteristic. Her latest -poem, and one of her best, appears under the title “Under a Purple -Cloud” in the autumn number of <i>The Evergreen</i>. It is a vision of Earth -personified, and opens thus:</p> - -<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"> -Under a purple cloud along the west<br /> -The great brown mother lies and takes her rest,<br /> -A dark cheek on her hand, and in her eyes<br /> -The shadow of primeval mysteries.<br /> -<br /> -Her tawny velvets swathe her, manifold,<br /> -Her mighty head is coifed in filmy gold,<br /> -Her youngest babe, the newly-blossomed rose<br /> -Upon her swarthy bosom feeds and grows.<br /> -<br /> -With her wide darkling gaze the mother sees<br /> -Her children in their homes, the reddening trees,<br /> -Roofing wet lawns, fruit-laden lattices,<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_421" id="page_421">{421}</a></span> -Blue mountain domes, and the grey river-seas.<br /> -</div></div> - -<p class="nind2">THE HON. RODEN NOËL. (1834-1894.)<br /><a href="#page_146">PAGE 146</a></p> - -<p>Mr Roden Noël was son of the first Earl of Gainsborough, grandson of -Lord Roden of Tullymore in Ireland, and nephew to the present Marquis of -Londonderry. By birth, descent, training, and sympathy, he considered -himself an Irishman: though he was half English by blood, and lived the -greater part of his life in England, while his intellectual homage was -largely evoked by Hellenic mythology and lore, and by Teutonic mysticism -and speculation. It was this confused blending of influences which, -perhaps, militated so strongly against the concentration of his -brilliant abilities into long-sustained and organic creative effort. -With all his shortcomings, he still remains a poet of genuine impulse -and occasionally of high distinction; and some of his lyrics and -ballads, of a more essentially human interest than his more ambitious -work, are likely to be held in honourable remembrance. The “Lament for a -Little Child” (see p. 146) has passed into literature; as, indeed, may -perhaps be said of the book whence it comes: <i>A Little Child’s Monument</i> -(1881). In one of his Cornish poems he begins thus:—</p> - -<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"> -“For me, true son of Erin, thou art rife,<br /> -Grand coast of Cornwall, cliff, and cave, and surge,<br /> -With glamour of the Kelt.”<br /> -</div></div> - -<p>I do not think there is much “glamour of the Kelt” in Roden Noël’s work, -but it may be discerned in one or two poems in each of his volumes, and -in many of his lyrics and irregular lyrical compositions there is much -of Celtic intensity and dream. Few poets have written of the sea with -more loving knowledge and profound sympathy; hence it is that he is -represented here by one characteristic sea-poem, called “The -Swimmer”—as autobiographical as anything of the kind can be. The -swimmer’s joy was Roden Noël’s chief physical delight. All who knew the -man himself remember him as one of the personalities of his time, and as -a man of individual distinction and charm. Besides the book already -mentioned, his chief poetic volumes are <i>Beatrice and Other Poems</i> -(1868); <i>Songs of the Heights and Deeps</i> (1885); and <i>A Modern Faust</i> -(1888). See also the Selection from his poems published in the -Canterbury Poets Series (edited, with a Critical Introduction, by Mr -Robert Buchanan), and the posthumous volumes <i>My Sea</i> and <i>Selected -Lyrics</i> (Elkin Mathews).<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_422" id="page_422">{422}</a></span></p> - -<p> -CHARLES P. O’CONOR.<br /><a href="#page_158">PAGE 158</a></p> - -<p>Besides this typical Irish song, Mr O’Conor has written other winsome -lyrics of the same kind. One of the best is that called “Erinn” -beginning—</p> - -<p> -“O, a lovely place is Erinn, in the summer of the year,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Roseen dhu ma Erinn.”</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>This and “Maura Du of Ballyshannon” are from his <i>Songs of a Life</i> -(Kentish Mercury Office, 1875).</p> - -<p> -JOHN FRANCIS O’DONNELL.<br /><a href="#page_160">PAGE 160</a></p> - -<p>This pretty Spinning Song is characteristic of the always deft and -generally delicate and winsome lyrical writing of Mr Francis O’Donnell.</p> - -<p class="nind2">JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY.<br /><a href="#page_161">PAGE 161</a></p> - -<p>This prolific writer, often designated an Irish-American poet, through -the accident of his enforced exile to, and long residence in, the United -States, is inadequately represented by the brief lyric, “A White Rose”; -but it is significant of his best achievement, for he is always at his -happiest in brief, spontaneous lyrics, often in a Heinesque vein. John -Boyle O’Reilly was born at Dowth Castle in Ireland. In his early manhood -he enlisted in a hussar regiment; and it was while as a hussar that he -was arrested on the charge of spreading republican principles in the -ranks, and was sentenced to be shot. This sentence was commuted to -twenty years of penal servitude; when the unfortunate man, victim of -that disastrous as well as iniquitous tyranny which has characterised -the English official attitude towards the Celtic populations, was taken -to the convict settlements of Western Australia. Thence, in time, he -escaped, and after hairbreadth escapes reached Philadelphia. From there -he went to Boston, where he settled; and in a few years, by virtue of -his remarkable gifts as a poet, a prose-writer, and a brilliant -journalist, became an acknowledged power in trans-Atlantic literature. A -novel of his, <i>Moondyne</i>, is widely and deservedly celebrated. Of his -poetical works, the best are <i>Songs of the Southern Seas</i>, <i>Songs, -Legends, and Ballads</i>, and <i>In Bohemia</i>.</p> - -<p class="nind2">ARTHUR O’SHAUGHNESSY. (1844-1881.)<br /><a href="#page_162">PAGE 162</a></p> - -<p>O’Shaughnessy is to be ranked as an English rather than as an Irish -poet; for the national sentiment played a minor, indeed hardly a -perceptible part in his poetic life. The Celtic part of him found its -best expression in his translations<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_423" id="page_423">{423}</a></span> of the <i>Lays of Marie</i> -(particularly the difficult and extraordinary “Bisclaveret”), powerful -paraphrases rather than translations. The poem by which he is -represented here shows the influence of Edgar Allan Poe, but is founded -upon a Celtic legend. In his early youth he was appointed to a -subordinate position in the Library of the British Museum, and was -afterwards promoted to the Natural History Department. His first -literary success was his <i>Epic of Women</i> (1870), a volume of exceptional -promise, which, however, was never adequately fulfilled. His <i>Lays of -France</i> (1872) was followed by <i>Music and Moonlight</i> (1874) and a -posthumous volume, <i>Songs of a Worker</i> (1881). Always delicate, his -death without any previous breakdown surprised none of his friends. I -recollect that on the Saturday preceding his death, which I think was on -a Wednesday, he came into the rooms of his brother-in-law, and -fellow-poet and friend, Philip Bourke Marston, and asked me to come to -his residence on the following Wednesday, to hear him read from the -proofs of his new book. That evening he went to a theatre, came home on -the top of an omnibus, caught a chill, and died before any of his -friends knew that he was seriously indisposed. The best critical and -biographical accounts of this charming if insubstantial poet, are to be -found in Dr Garnett’s memoir in Miles’ <i>Poets and Poetry of the -Century</i>, Vol. VIII., and in the biographical edition of his poems -recently put forth by Mrs Louise Chandler Moulton. Of the poem here -given, Dr Garnett speaks as a “miracle of melody,” and as one of the -pieces in which “the poet’s inward nature has perhaps most clearly -expressed itself.”</p> - -<p class="nind2">FANNY PARNELL. (1855-1883.)<br /><a href="#page_165">PAGE 165</a></p> - -<p>A remarkable poem by a remarkable woman. Frances Isabelle Parnell was -the sister of Charles Stewart Parnell, and grand-daughter of Charles -Stewart (from whom the great Irish patriot derived his baptismal names), -the historic commander of the U.S. Frigate <i>Constitution</i>. Miss -Parnell’s poems, which always appeared above the signature of Fanny -Parnell, have not yet been published collectively. She was secretary of -the Ladies’ Land League, and was as intensely wrought by the fervour of -patriotism as was her famous brother.</p> - -<p class="nind2">T. W. ROLLESTON.<br /><a href="#page_166">PAGE 166</a></p> - -<p>The sometime editor of the <i>Dublin University Review</i>, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_424" id="page_424">{424}</a></span> one of the -most valued present members of the Irish Literary Society, was born at -Shinrone, King’s County, in 1857. Mr Rolleston has had a cosmopolitan -training since he left Trinity College, and has in particular been -influenced by his long residence in Germany; but he has remained a -Celtic poet and ardent Celticist through every intellectual development. -While resident in Germany and in London, he wrote his <i>Life of Lessing</i> -and his introductions to Epictetus and Plato. He is now responsibly -connected with the Irish Industries Association, but is more and not -less engrossed by his Celtic studies. If there were a few more -poet-scholars who could translate or paraphrase so beautifully as Mr -Rolleston has paraphrased the Irish of Enoch o’ Gillan (see p. 166) and -other poems, there would be a wider public in England for the lovely -work of early Irish poetry. “The Lament of Queen Maev,” given here in -the Ancient Irish section, is also a translation by Mr Rolleston.</p> - -<p class="nind2">DORA SIGERSON.<br /><a href="#page_167">PAGE 167</a></p> - -<p>This young and promising writer comes of poetic stock. Her sister Hester -is also a writer of verse, and her father, Dr Sigerson, is one of the -foremost workers in the Gaelic Revival. Miss Dora Sigerson’s only -published book as yet bears the modest title <i>Verses</i>. It is, perhaps, -more significant in its promise than in its achievement; and I find -nothing in it so mature as the poem by which she is represented here, -taken from a recent issue of the <i>Chap Book</i> (Stone & Kimball, Chicago). -The following lines, from <i>Verses</i>, may be given as an example of her -poetic first-fruits:—</p> - -<h4>IN SOUTHERN SEAS.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"> -In southern seas we sailed, my love and I,<br /> -In southern seas.<br /> -Death joined no chorus as the waves swept by,<br /> -No storm hid in the breeze.<br /> -Low keeled our boat until her white wings dipped half wet with spray,<br /> -And seeking gulls tossed on the passing wave laughed on our way,<br /> -The rhyme of sound, the harmony of souls—of silence too;<br /> -Your silence held my thoughts, my love, as mine of you;<br /> -The wingèd whispering wind that blew our sails was summer sweet—<br /> -I found my long-sought paradise crouched at thy feet.<br /> -<br /> -In northern seas I weep alone, alone,<br /> -In winter seas.<br /> -Death’s hounds are on the waves, with many moans<br /> -Death’s voice comes with the breeze,<br /> -My helpless boat, rocked in the wind, obeys no steadfast hand,<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_425" id="page_425">{425}</a></span>Her swinging helm and ashing sheet have lost my weak command;<br /> -The shrieking sea-birds seek the sheltering shore,<br /> -The writhing waves leap upward, and their hoar<br /> -Strong hands tear at the timbers of my shuddering craft.<br /> -I cry in vain, the Fates have seen and laughed,<br /> -Time and the world have stormed my summer sea—<br /> -I ate my fruit, the serpent held the tree.<br /> -</div></div> - -<p class="nind2"> -DR GEORGE SIGERSON.<br /><a href="#page_168">PAGE 168</a></p> - -<p>The distinguished translator and editor of <i>The Poets and Poetry of -Munster</i> was born near Strabane, Co. Tyrone, in 1839. Much of his -original work has appeared above his Irish pen-name “Erionnach”; and -from first to last Dr Sigerson’s name is indissolubly associated with -the wide-reaching Celtic Renascence in Ireland.</p> - -<p class="nind2">DR JOHN TODHUNTER.<br /><a href="#page_170">PAGE 170</a></p> - -<p>One of the foremost contemporary poets of Ireland, was born in Dublin in -1839, and, like so many of his literary compatriots, was educated at -Trinity. He then pursued his medical studies in Paris and Vienna; -returned to Dublin and practised awhile as a physician; succeeded Prof. -Dowden as Professor of English Literature in Alexandria College; and, -since 1875, has devoted himself exclusively to literature. Some of his -lyrical pieces are known to all lovers of poetry—<i>e.g.</i> “The Banshee”; -and for the rest he has won a distinctive place for himself by work at -once varied in theme and beautiful in treatment. Though he has won -deserved reputation as a playwright for the contemporary stage, as well -as in the poetic drama, he seems to me to be at his best when most -Celtic in feeling and expression. He is represented here, not by pieces -so well known as “The Banshee” or any part of <i>The Three Sorrows of -Story-Telling</i>, but by two typical Irish poems, and one lovely fragment -(see p. 173) from <i>Forest Songs</i>. Personally, I consider the “Love Song” -given at page 170 to be one of the finest compositions of its kind in -modern Celtic literature. I have regretfully refrained from quoting two -other poems by Dr Todhunter, one familiar to every Irishman, “The Shan -Van Vocht of ’87,” beginning—</p> - -<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"> -There’s a spirit in the air,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Says the <i>Shan Van Vocht</i>,</span><br /> -And her voice is everywhere,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Says the <i>Shan Van Vocht</i>;</span><br /> -Though her eyes be full of care,<br /> -Even as Hope’s, born of Despair,<br /> -Her sweet face looks young and fair,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Says the <i>Shan Van Vocht</i>.—</span><br /> -</div></div> - -<p class="nind2">and the other, which I think the strongest of his short lyrical<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_426" id="page_426">{426}</a></span> poems, -“Aghadoe”—of which I may give the two concluding quatrains—</p> - -<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"> -I walked to Mallow town from Aghadoe, Aghadoe;<br /> -Brought his head from the gaol’s gate to Aghadoe,<br /> -Then I covered him with fern, and I piled on him the cairn,<br /> -Like an Irish king he sleeps in Aghadoe.<br /> -<br /> -Oh! to creep into that cairn in Aghadoe, Aghadoe!<br /> -There to rest upon his breast in Aghadoe,<br /> -Sure your dog for you could die with no truer heart than I,<br /> -Your own love, cold on your cairn, in Aghadoe.<br /> -</div></div> - -<p class="nind2"> -KATHERINE TYNAN.<br /><a href="#page_174">PAGE 174</a></p> - -<p>The author of <i>Louise de la Vallière</i> (1885), <i>Shamrocks</i> (1887), -<i>Ballads and Lyrics</i> (1891), and later volumes in prose as well as -verse, is one of the best known representatives of the Irish poetic -fellowship. Mrs Hinkson (though best known by her maiden name) is -distinctively Irish rather than Celtic, and pre-eminently a Catholicist -in the spirit of her work. She has a St Francis-like love of birds and -all defenceless creatures and humble things, and has a most happy lyric -faculty in dealing with aspects and objects which excite her rhythmic -emotion. In lyric quality and in her all-pervading sense of colour, she -is, however, characteristically Celtic. Miss Tynan was born in Dublin in -1861, but since her marriage a few years ago to Mr Hinkson (himself one -of the Dublin University <i>Young Ireland</i> men) she has resided in or near -London. Some of her work has a lyric ecstasy, of a kind which -distinguishes it from the poetry of any other woman-writer of to-day.</p> - -<p class="nind2">CHARLES WEEKES.<br /><a href="#page_179">PAGE 179</a></p> - -<p>Mr Weekes is one of the small band of Irish poet-dreamers who may be -particularly associated with Mr W. B. Yeats and Mr G. W. Russell -(“A.E.”). His book, <i>Reflections and Refractions</i>, contains fine -achievement as well as noteworthy promise.</p> - -<p class="nind2">WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS.<br /><a href="#page_181">PAGE 181</a></p> - -<p>Born (of an Irish father, and of a Cornish mother come of a family -settled in Ireland) at Sandymount, Dublin, in 1866; but early life -chiefly spent in Sligo, and on the Connaught seaboard. Of late years, Mr -Yeats has passed much of his time in London, but is never absent from -Ireland for any long period—</p> - -<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"> -“... for always night and day<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I hear lake-water lapping with low sounds on the shore;</span><br /> -While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I hear it in the deep heart’s core.”</span><br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_427" id="page_427">{427}</a></span> -</div></div> - -<p class="nind">W. B. Yeats is the prince of contemporary Irish poets. While no one is -more essentially Celtic, and none is more distinctively national, his -poetry belongs to English literature. Mr Yeats himself would be the last -man to nail his flag to the mast of parochialism in literature. He is -one of the two or three absolutely poetic personalities in literature at -the present moment; and in outlook, and, above all, in atmosphere, -stands foremost in the younger generation. It is noteworthy that the two -most convincingly poetic of all our younger poets, since the giants who -(with the exception of George Meredith, A. C. Swinburne, and William -Morris) have gone from our midst, are predominantly Celtic; W. B. Yeats -and John Davidson—and noteworthy, also, that both are too wise, too -clear-sighted, too poetic, in fact, to aim at being Irish or -Scoto-Celtic at the expense of being English in the high and best sense -of the word. This, fortunately, is consistent with being paramountly -national in all else. In the world of literature there is no geography -save that of the mind.</p> - -<p>Mr Yeats’ poetic work is best to be read, and perhaps best to be -enjoyed, in the revised collective edition of his poems, in one volume, -published recently by Mr Fisher Unwin. His first volume of verse, <i>The -Wanderings of Oisìn</i>, was published in 1889. This was followed (in 1892) -by <i>The Countess Kathleen: and Various Legends and Lyrics</i>; <i>The Land of -Heart’s Desire</i>, and two short prose tales (in the Pseudonym Library), -<i>John Sherman</i> and <i>Dhoya</i>. Two new books are promised in 1896 (through -Mr Elkin Mathews), <i>The Shadowy Waters</i> (a poetic play), and <i>The Wind -Among the Reeds</i> (poems). He has also published several volumes of -selected Irish tales and legendary lore; edited, in conjunction with Mr -E. J. Ellis, the <i>Works of William Blake</i> (3 vols., 1893); and <i>A Book -of Irish Verse</i> (Methuen, 1895), an interesting rather than an -adequately representative anthology of nationalistic Irish poetry. All -that is most distinctive in Mr Yeats’ own original work is to be found -in his <i>Poems</i> (Collective Edition, in 1 vol., Fisher Unwin, 1895), and -the prose volume entitled <i>The Celtic Twilight</i> (Lawrence & Bullen, -1893), one of the most fascinating prose-books by a poet published in -our time.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_428" id="page_428">{428}</a></span></p> - -<h3>LATER SCOTO-CELTIC</h3> - -<p class="nind2"> -THE PROLOGUE TO GAUL.<br /><a href="#page_189">PAGE 189</a></p> - -<p>Comes from the <i>Sean Dana</i>: <i>vide</i> Dr John Smith’s <i>Collection of -Ancient Poems</i> (1780), (<i>vide</i> Note to page 13 <i>supra</i>, and also -Introduction).</p> - -<p class="nind2">IN HEBRID SEAS.<br /><a href="#page_191">PAGE 191</a></p> - -<p>This stirring Hebridean poem is given as from the ancient Gaelic. -Probably by this is meant merely old Gaelic, mediæval or even later. The -translation is by Mr Thomas Pattison, and is included in his <i>Gaelic -Bards</i>. He has the following note upon it: “This effusion, although in -its original form it is only a kind of wild chant—almost indeed half -prose—yet it is the germ of the ballad. It occurs in many of the tales -contained in that collection, the repository of old Gaelic lore, the -<i>Popular Tales of the West Highlands</i>, sometimes more and sometimes less -perfect. The original will be found in the second volume of the -Tales.... The vigorous and elastic spirit that pervades these verses -must have strung the heart of many a hardy mariner who loved to feel the -fresh and briny breeze drive his snoring birlinn bounding like a living -creature over the tumbling billows of the inland loch or the huge swell -of the majestic main.”</p> - -<p class="nind2">LULLABY.<br /><a href="#page_193">PAGE 193</a></p> - -<p>Supposed to be the composition of the wife of Gregor MacGregor after the -judicial murder of her husband.</p> - -<p class="nind2">DROWNED.<br /><a href="#page_194">PAGE 194</a></p> - -<p>This folk-poem, the antiquity of which may be anywhere from a hundred to -two hundred years or more, is given in the translation of the Rev. Dr -Stewart of Nether Lochaber.</p> - -<p class="nind2">ALEXANDER MACDONALD.<br /><a href="#page_195">PAGE 195</a></p> - -<p>This celebrated Gaelic poet was born in the first half of the 17th -century. In the Highlands and Western Isles he is invariably styled <i>Mac -Mhaighstir Alastair</i>—<i>i.e.</i> the son of Mr Alexander. Alastair the Elder -resided at Dalilea in Moydart of Argyll, and was both Episcopal -clergyman and official tacksman. He was a man of immense strength and -vigour, and his muscular Christianity may be inferred from the saying -current in Moydart that “his hand was heavier on the men of Suainart -than on the men of Moydart.” Alexander Macdonald had a good education -for his time<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_429" id="page_429">{429}</a></span>—first under his father, and later, for a year or so, at -Glasgow University. Poverty, however, compelled him to leave Glasgow and -retire to Ardnamurchan, where, as his biographer, Mr Pattison, says, he -lived, teaching and farming, and composing poetry, until the advent of -the year 1745. In this momentous year he left not only his farm and his -teaching, but even his eldership in the Established Church, and forsook -all to join Prince Charlie, and to take upon him the onus of a change to -the detested Roman Catholic faith. He was a Jacobite of the Jacobites, -and his fiery and warlike songs were repeated from mouth to mouth -throughout Celtic Scotland. It is supposed that he had a commission in -the Highland army of the Prince, though whether he served as an officer -is uncertain; at any rate, after the battle of Culloden he had to share -the privations of his leaders, and he lived in hiding in the woods and -caves of the district of Arisaig. On one occasion, when lurking among -these caves with his brother Angus, the cold was so intense that the -side of Macdonald’s head which rested on the ground became quite grey in -a single night. When the troubles were over he went to Edinburgh, where -he taught the children of a staunch Jacobite, but soon returned to his -beloved West, where he remained till his death. Macdonald’s first -published book was a <i>Gaelic and English Vocabulary</i> (1741), nor was it -till ten years later that his poems were published in Edinburgh—said to -be one of the earliest volumes of original poems ever published in -Gaelic. Pattison declares that he is the most warlike, and much the -fiercest of the Highland poets; and altogether ranks him as, if not the -foremost, certainly second only to the famous Duncan Bàn MacIntyre. His -poem called “The Birlinn of the Clan-Ranald” is by this critic, and most -others, ranked as the finest composition in Modern Gaelic; certainly -many Highlanders prefer it even to the “Coire Cheathaich,” or the still -more famous “Ben Dorain” of Duncan Bàn. Assuredly no one could read this -poem “Of the hurling of the birlinn through the cold glens of the sea, -loudly snoring,” without being stirred by its vigour and power. The -portion here given is merely a fragment, for the original is much too -long for quotation—indeed, it is said to be the longest poem in Gaelic, -except such as are Ossianic. For a full account of Macdonald and his -poems, including the translation of the greater part of “The Manning of -the Birlinn,” see Pattison’s <i>Gaelic Bards</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_430" id="page_430">{430}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind2">ANGUS MACKENZIE.<br /><a href="#page_201">PAGE 201</a></p> - -<p>“The Lament of the Deer” is the work of a favourite Highland poet whose -name is particularly familiar in the Northern Highlands. Angus Mackenzie -was head forester of Lord Lovat, and most of his poems have the impress -of his well-loved profession. “The Cumha nam Fiadh” was composed during -the recovery from a severe illness, when the poet’s chief regret was his -inability to be with Lovat and his Frasers at the hunting of the stag. -The translation here given was made by Charles Edward and John Sobieski -Stuart, and is to be found in their <i>Lays of the Deer Forest</i> -(Blackwood, 1848).</p> - -<p class="nind2">DUNCAN BÀN MACINTYRE.<br /><a href="#page_203">PAGE 203</a></p> - -<p>A name loved throughout the Highlands and Islands. Even the most -illiterate crofters are familiar with Duncan Bàn and much of his poetry, -and there are few who could not repeat at least some lines of “Ben -Dorain.” The Hunter Bard of Glenorchy, as he is often called—though his -best title is the affectionate Gaelic “Duncan of the Songs”—was born on -the 20th of March 1724, at Druimliaghart in Glenorchy, Argyll. His first -song was composed on a sword with which he was armed at the battle of -Falkirk—where he served on the Royalist side as substitute for a -gentleman of the neighbourhood. “This sword,” says his biographer, -Thomas Pattison, “the poet lost or threw away in the retreat. On his -return home therefore, the gentleman to whom it belonged, and whose -substitute he had been, refused to pay the sum for which he had engaged -Duncan Bàn to serve in his stead. Duncan consequently composed his song -on ‘The Battle of the Speckled Kirk’—as Falkirk is called in Gaelic—in -which he good-humouredly satirised the gentleman who had sent him to the -war, and gave a woful description of ‘the black sword that worked the -turmoil,’ and whose loss, he says, made its owner ‘as fierce and furious -as a grey brock in his den.’ The song immediately became popular, and -incensed his employer so much that he suddenly fell upon the poor poet -one day with his walking-stick, and, striking him on the back, bade him -‘go and make a song about that.’ He was, however, afterward compelled by -the Earl of Breadalbane to pay the bard the sum of 300 merks Scots (£16, -17s. 6d.), which was his legal due.” Although in his later years he was -for a time one of the Duke of Argyll’s foresters,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_431" id="page_431">{431}</a></span> most of his later -life was spent in Edinburgh, where he was one of the City Guard. In that -city he died in 1812, in his eighty-ninth year, and lies in Greyfriars -Churchyard. In all there have been seven editions of his <i>Gaelic Songs</i>. -“Ben Dorain” has been translated several times, most successfully by -Thomas Pattison and the late Professor Blackie. The version here given -is that of the former; while the following poem (“The Hill Water,” page -208) is that of Professor Blackie.</p> - -<p>Translations of both “Ben Dorain” (in full) and of “Coire Cheathaich” -(The Misty Corrie) are included in Pattison’s <i>Gaelic Bards</i>. Professor -Blackie’s version of “Ben Dorain” is in his well-known book, <i>Altavona</i>.</p> - -<p class="nind2">MARY MACLEOD.<br /><a href="#page_210">PAGE 210</a></p> - -<p>The most famous of Hebridean poets was born in Harris of the Outer -Hebrides in 1569. She may be regarded either as the last of the poets of -the Middle Scoto-Celtic period, or, more properly, as the first of the -moderns. She is generally spoken of in the Western Isles as Màiri -nighean Alastair Ruaidh (Mary, daughter of Alexander the Red). “Although -she could never either read or write, her poetry is pure and chaste in -its diction, melodious, though complicated, in its metre, clear and -graceful, and frequently pathetic” (Pattison). She died at Dunvegan, in -the Isle of Skye, in 1674, at the great age of 105. For some reason, -Mary Macleod was banished from Dunvegan by Macleod of Macleod, but his -heart was melted by the song here given, and the exile was recalled, and -that, too, with honour, and enabled to live in Macleod’s country -thenceforth in prosperity and happiness.</p> - -<h3>MODERN AND CONTEMPORARY SCOTO-CELTIC</h3> - -<p class="nind2">MONALTRI.<br /><a href="#page_217">PAGE 217</a></p> - -<p>These lines tell their own tale. The translation given is that of Thomas -Pattison.</p> - -<p class="nind2">HIGHLAND LULLABY.<br /><a href="#page_218">PAGE 218</a></p> - -<p>This lullaby first appeared in the <i>Duanaire</i>, edited by D. C. -Macpherson (1864). It is supposed to be sung by a disconsolate mother -whose babe has been stolen by the fairies. In each verse she mentions -some impossible task she has performed, but still she has not found her -baby. <i>Coineachan</i> is a term of endearment applied to a child. (Quoted -by “Fionn” in the <i>Celtic Monthly</i> for September 1893.)<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_432" id="page_432">{432}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind2">BOAT SONG.<br /><a href="#page_219">PAGE 219</a></p> - -<p>This boat song, so familiar to West Highlanders, is in the rendering of -Professor Blackie.</p> - -<p class="nind2">JOHN STUART BLACKIE. (1809-1895.)<br /><a href="#page_222">PAGE 222</a></p> - -<p>The late Professor Blackie was born in Glasgow and brought up for the -law. This he forsook for literature, and ultimately, in 1852, was -appointed to the Greek Chair in Edinburgh University. All particulars of -the brilliant Professor’s life and writings will be found in the -recently-published biography by Miss Anna Stoddart. Professor Blackie’s -name will always be held in affectionate regard for his unselfish -efforts to preserve and cultivate the Gaelic language and literature, -and because of his having been mainly instrumental in founding the Chair -of Celtic Literature in the University of Edinburgh. His poetical -writings are mostly to be found in <i>Lays and Legends of Ancient Greece</i> -(1857), <i>Lyrical Poems</i> (1860), and <i>Lays of the Highlands and Islands</i> -(1872).</p> - -<p class="nind2">ROBERT BUCHANAN.<br /><a href="#page_224">PAGE 224</a></p> - -<p>The foremost Scoto-Celtic poet of our time, was born in Glasgow, 1841. -It would be needless to give particulars concerning the life and work of -so eminent a contemporary. Lovers of the Celtic Muse will doubtless be -familiar (or if not, ought to be) with Mr Buchanan’s <i>Book of Orm</i>. Much -of his early poetry is strongly imbued with the Celtic atmosphere. Those -who have read his several volumes of verse need no further guidance, but -readers unacquainted with the poetical work of one of the foremost poets -of our day should obtain the collective edition of his poems published -by Messrs Chatto & Windus. “The Flower of the World” (page 224), “The -Dream of the World without Death” (pages 228-234) are from <i>The Book of -Orm</i>; “The Strange Country” comes from <i>Miscellaneous Poems and Ballads</i> -(1878-1883). No more memorable poem than “The Dream” has been written by -an Anglo-Celtic poet.</p> - -<p class="nind2"> -LORD BYRON. (1788-1824.)<br /> <a href="#page_238">PAGES 238-239</a><br /> -</p> - -<p>Byron is represented in <i>Lyra Celtica</i> by virtue of his Celtic blood and -undoubtedly Celtic nature, rather than because there is much trace of -Celtic influence in his poetry. The two lyrics given here may be taken -as fairly representative of that part of his poetical work which may -with some reason be called Celtic, though, of course, there is nothing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_433" id="page_433">{433}</a></span> -in them which radically differentiates them from the lyrics of any -English poet. More than one eminent critic, foreign as well as British, -has claimed for Byron that he was the representative Celtic voice of the -early part of the century; but Byron was really much more the voice of -his own day and time than anything more restricted.</p> - -<p class="nind2"> -CRODH CHAILLEAN.<br /><a href="#page_240">PAGE 240</a></p> - -<p>This familiar Highland Milking Song is given in the translation of Dr -Alexander Stewart of Nether Lochaber.</p> - -<p class="nind2">MACCRIMMON’S LAMENT.<br /><a href="#page_241">PAGE 241</a></p> - -<p>Perhaps the most famous pipe-tune in the Highlands is the “Cumha mhic -Criomein,” composed by Donald Bàn MacCrimmon, on the occasion of the -Clan MacLeod, headed by their chief, embarking to join the Royalists in -1746. The Lament is said to have been composed by Donald Bàn under the -influence of a presentiment that he as well as many others of the clan -would never return; a presentiment fulfilled, for he was killed in a -skirmish near Moyhall. The tune and the chorus are old, but it is -commonly believed the poem was composed by Dr Norman Macleod; at any -rate, they first appeared in a Gaelic article on the MacCrimmons, which -he contributed in 1840 to “Cuairtear nan Gleann” (“Fionn,” the <i>Celtic -Monthly</i>). The translation here given is that of Professor Blackie.</p> - -<p class="nind2">IAN CAMERON (“IAN MOR”).<br /><a href="#page_242">PAGE 242</a></p> - -<p>Translated from the Gaelic by Miss Fiona Macleod.</p> - -<p class="nind2">JOHN DAVIDSON.<br /><a href="#page_243">PAGE 243</a></p> - -<p>Mr Davidson was born at Barrhead, near Paisley, on April 11th, 1857. -After his preliminary education at the Highlanders’ Academy, Greenock, -he went to Edinburgh University. For a time he taught in Greenock, and -also gained a certain amount of literary experience in occasional -contributions to the <i>Glasgow Herald</i> and other papers. In 1886 he -published <i>Bruce: a Drama</i>, followed by <i>Smith: a Tragedy</i> (1888), -<i>Scaramouch in Naxos: and other Places</i> (1889), <i>In a Music Hall, and -other Poems</i> (1891), <i>Fleet Street Eclogues</i> (1893), <i>Ballads and Songs</i> -(1894), <i>Second Series of Fleet Street Eclogues</i> (1895), besides several -volumes of prose papers and fiction. Although <i>Bruce</i> was Mr Davidson’s -first published work, he had begun to write at a much earlier period: -his <i>An Historical Pastoral</i> was composed in 1877; <i>A Romantic Farce</i> in -1878;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_434" id="page_434">{434}</a></span> while <i>Bruce</i> was written four years before its publication. Mr -Davidson’s later poetical writings have been mainly in the form of songs -and lyrical ballads, and these have placed him in the foremost rank of -the younger poets of to-day. He has the widest range, the largest -manner, and the intensest note of any of the later Victorians. The two -poems by which he is represented here are eminently characteristic, and -none the less Celtic in their essential quality from the fact that the -one deals with a loafer of the London streets and the other with a -scenic rendering of an impression gained in Romney Marsh. Mr Davidson’s -latest writings are “The Ballad of an Artist’s Wife,” not as yet issued -in book form, and the just published second series of the <i>Fleet Street -Eclogues</i> (John Lane). Both “A Loafer” and “In Romney Marsh” are from -<i>Ballads and Songs</i>.</p> - -<p class="nind2">JEAN GLOVER. (1758-1800.)<br /><a href="#page_246">PAGE 246</a></p> - -<p>The author of “O’er the Muir amang the Heather” was the daughter of a -Highland weaver settled in Kilmarnock. She married a strolling actor, -and her fugitive songs became familiar throughout the West of Scotland. -“O’er the Muir amang the Heather” has become a classic.</p> - -<p class="nind2">GEORGE MACDONALD.<br /><a href="#page_247">PAGE 247</a></p> - -<p>This popular Scottish novelist and poet was born at Huntly, in -Aberdeenshire, December 10, 1824. As a novelist he has almost as large -an audience as have any of his contemporary romancists. His poems are -less widely known, though in them he has expressed himself with great -variety and subtlety. The Celtic element is not conspicuous in Dr -Macdonald’s work either in prose or verse; but sometimes, as in the -little song “Oimè,” quoted here, it finds adequate expression. This song -is from his early volume <i>Within and Without</i>.</p> - -<p class="nind2">RONALD CAMPBELL MACFIE.<br /><a href="#page_249">PAGE 249</a></p> - -<p>The author of <i>Granite Dust</i> (Kegan Paul) is one of the most promising -of the younger Celtic Scots.</p> - -<p class="nind2">WILLIAM MACDONALD.<br /><a href="#page_250">PAGE 250</a></p> - -<p>One of the band of young writers associated with <i>The Evergreen</i> -(Patrick Geddes and Colleagues, Edinburgh). Mr Macdonald has not yet -issued his poems in book form.</p> - -<p class="nind2">AMICE MACDONELL.<br /><a href="#page_251">PAGE 251</a></p> - -<p>Miss Macdonell has not, so far as I know, published a volume. “Culloden -Moor” appeared in the <i>Celtic Monthly</i> in June 1893.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_435" id="page_435">{435}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind2">ALICE C. MACDONELL.<br /><a href="#page_252">PAGE 252</a></p> - -<p>Miss Alice Macdonell of Keppoch has contributed many poems to Scottish -and other periodicals. “The Weaving of the Tartan” appeared in the -<i>Celtic Monthly</i> for December 1894.</p> - -<p class="nind2">WILLIAM MACGILLIVRAY. (1796-1852.)<br /><a href="#page_254">PAGE 254</a></p> - -<p>The author of “The Thrush’s Song” was not a poet, but occasionally -indulged in the pleasure of verse-making. He was a well-known Highland -ornithologist, and it may be added that his attempt at an onomatopoeic -rendering of the song of the thrush has been pronounced by Buckland and -other ornithologists to be remarkably close.</p> - -<p class="nind2">FIONA MACLEOD.<br /><a href="#page_255">PAGE 255</a></p> - -<p>Miss Macleod is one of the younger writers most intimately associated -with the Celtic Renascence in Scotland. “The Prayer of Women” (see page -255) is from <i>Pharais: a Romance of the Isles</i> (Frank Murray, Derby, -1894); “The Rune of Age” and “A Gaelic Milking Song” are from <i>The -Mountain Lovers</i> (John Lane); the “Lullaby” and the two songs of Ethlenn -Stuart are from her last volume, <i>The Sin-Eater: and other Tales</i> -(Patrick Geddes and Colleagues, Edinburgh). “The Closing Doors” has not -been published hitherto. The brief lyric, “The Sorrow of Delight,” was -contributed to an as yet unpublished fantastic sketch, <i>The Merchant of -Dreams</i>, written in collaboration with a friend. Such of the poems -scattered through her several volumes, and others, as she wishes to -preserve in connected form, will be published by Miss Macleod early in -1896 (Patrick Geddes and Colleagues), under the title of <i>Lyric Runes -and Fonnsheen</i>.</p> - -<p class="nind2">NORMAN MACLEOD.<br /><a href="#page_266">PAGE 266</a></p> - -<p>There is no Highlander held in more affectionate remembrance and -admiration than the late Dr Norman Macleod: and with justice; for no one -worked more arduously, understandingly, and sympathetically for the -cause of the Gaelic language, Gaelic literature, and the Gaelic people -than the famous poet-minister, who, to this day, is commonly spoken of -as “The Great Norman.” It was, however, Dr Norman the elder who wrote -“Fiunary,”—and not, as commonly stated, the late Dr Norman. His -“Farewell to Fiunary” is probably the most universally-known modern poem -in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_436" id="page_436">{436}</a></span> the West Highlands. (For critical remarks as to the authenticity of -this poem, see Dr Nigel M‘Neil’s <i>Literature of the Highlanders</i>, pp. -283-286.)</p> - -<p class="nind2">SARAH ROBERTSON MATHESON.<br /><a href="#page_267">PAGE 267</a></p> - -<p>Mrs Robertson Matheson, some of whose poems in periodicals have -attracted the attention of lovers of poetry, is chief secretary and -treasurer of the Clan Donnachaidh Society. The fine lyric, “A Kiss of -the King’s Hand,” appeared in the <i>Celtic Monthly</i> for May 1894; but I -regret that version has inadvertently been followed, for it twice -misspells <i>tae</i> for “to,” and in the third line of the third quatrain -has a misreading (“jewels” instead of “ruffles”).</p> - -<p>It may interest many readers to know that “A Kiss of the King’s Hand” -decided the descendant of Flora Macdonald to leave Mrs Robertson -Matheson the last heirloom of Scottish romance, the “ring of French -gold” given by Prince Charlie to Flora, and holding the lock of hair cut -from “the king’s head” by her and her mother.</p> - -<p class="nind2">DUGALD MOORE.<br /><a href="#page_268">PAGE 268</a></p> - -<p>“The First Ship” is so remarkable a poem that it is difficult to -understand how it has met with so little recognition, and escaped most, -if not all, of the Scottish and British anthologists. Dugald Moore was -the son of Highland parents, and was born in Glasgow in 1805. His first -book was entitled <i>The Bard of the North</i>, and consisted of a series of -poetical tales illustrative of Highland scenery and character (1833). -<i>The Hour of Retribution</i> and <i>The Devoted One</i> appeared respectively in -1835 and 1839. Moore died unmarried in the 36th year of his age (Jan. 2, -1841), and was buried in the Necropolis of Glasgow. It is a pity that -the poem could not have appeared without its fourth stanza, which is -inferior to the others.</p> - -<p class="nind2">LADY CAROLINE NAIRNE. (1766-1845.)<br /><a href="#page_269">PAGE 269</a></p> - -<p>Needless to say anything here concerning the “Flower of Strathearn.” -Baroness Nairne was mainly Celtic in blood and wholly Celtic in genius. -“The Land o’ the Leal” is now one of the most famous and most loved -lyrics in the English language. (Readers may be referred to <i>Life and -Songs of Baroness Nairne</i>, 1868.)</p> - -<p class="nind2">ALEXANDER NICOLSON.<br /><a href="#page_270">PAGE 270</a></p> - -<p>Besides this fine poem, “On Skye,” Sheriff Nicolson has translated the -“Birlinn” of Alexander Macdonald, and has<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_437" id="page_437">{437}</a></span> written many moving verses -full of Gaelic sentiment of a robust kind.</p> - -<p class="nind2">SIR NOËL PATON.<br /><a href="#page_272">PAGE 272</a></p> - -<p>Joseph Noël Paton was born at Dunfermline on the 13th of December 1821; -and while his father was also of partial Celtic origin, Sir Noël is, -through his mother, the descendant of the last of the Scoto-Celtic -kings. Of his career as a painter it is not necessary to speak here. His -two volumes of poetry are <i>Poems by a Painter</i> (1861) and <i>Spindrift</i> -(1867). The best account of the life and work of this distinguished Scot -is the monograph recently published by Mr David Croal Thomson, as the -“Art-Annual” of <i>The Art Journal</i>. The two poems by which Sir Noël is -represented in this book are not to be found in either of his volumes, -and their appearance here is due to the courtesy of the author.</p> - -<p class="nind2">WILLIAM RENTON.<br /><a href="#page_274">PAGE 274</a></p> - -<p>Mr Renton was born in Perthshire, of Scoto-Celtic parents. “Mountain -Twilight” is taken from his first volume of poems called <i>Oils and Water -Colours</i> (Hamilton, Edinburgh, 1876). Mr Renton’s only other volume of -verse is his <i>Songs</i> (Fisher Unwin, 1893).</p> - -<p class="nind2">LADY JOHN SCOTT.<br /><a href="#page_275">PAGE 275</a></p> - -<p>The author of “Durisdeer” was of mixed Highland and Lowland descent. Her -poem has a permanent place in our literature because of its haunting -passion and pain.</p> - -<p class="nind2">EARL OF SOUTHESK.<br /><a href="#page_276">PAGE 276</a></p> - -<p>Lord Southesk (James Carnegie) was bom in 1827. He first made his name -in literature by his strange and vigorous <i>Jonas Fisher</i> (1875). This -was followed by <i>Greenwood’s Farewell</i> (1876), and <i>The Meda Maiden</i> -(1877); though most of the poems contained in these two volumes, with -several others, are comprised in <i>The Burial of Isis</i> (1884).</p> - -<p class="nind2">JOHN CAMPBELL SHAIRP.<br /><a href="#page_277">PAGE 277</a></p> - -<p>This able Scottish writer was of Celtic origin through his mother. -Readers unacquainted with the poems of the late Principal Shairp, and -ex-Professor of Poetry at Oxford, will do best to turn to the posthumous -volume, edited, with a memoir, by Francis Turner Palgrave, entitled -<i>Glen Dessary</i> (Macmillan, 1888).<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_438" id="page_438">{438}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind2">UNA URQUHART.<br /><a href="#page_279">PAGE 279</a></p> - -<p>I know nothing else of Gaelic or English verse by this young writer. “An -Old Tale of Three,” as it appears here, is a rendering of the original -by Miss Fiona Macleod.</p> - -<p class="nind2">LOST LOVE.<br /><a href="#page_280">PAGE 280</a></p> - -<p>The author of this poem is unknown. The original is in the Gaelic of the -Western Isles, and is one of the several fugitive songs rescued by -Thomas Pattison. The version given here, however, is not identical with -his, the first and last quatrains having been added by another hand.</p> - -<h3>CONTEMPORARY ANGLO-CELTIC POETS (WALES)</h3> - -<p class="nind2">GEORGE MEREDITH.<br /><a href="#page_283">PAGE 283</a></p> - -<p>Mr George Meredith, who recently has been addressed in a dedication as -“The Prince of Celtdom,” is rather the sovereign of contemporary English -literature. Although of Welsh descent and sympathies, and with a nature -pre-eminently Celtic in its distinguishing characteristics, Mr Meredith -was born in Hampshire on February 12th, 1828. Part of his early -education was received in Germany, and after his return to England it -was intended that he should pursue the legal profession: an intention -set aside on account of an irresistible bias toward literature. His -first published writings were in verse: and now this early little book, -<i>Poems</i>, published in his twenty-third year (1851) is one of the rarest -treasures for the bibliophile. It is dedicated to Thomas Love Peacock, -whose intellectual influence upon the young writer is obvious. In 1850 -the poet married the daughter of Peacock, but it was not till a year or -two later that he definitely set himself to the profession of literature -as also a means of livelihood. It is characteristic of him that his -first prose book should be one of his most individual writings; for <i>The -Shaving of Shagpat</i> might have been written at almost any period of its -author’s career. A fascinating and perplexing production it must indeed -have seemed at that time, published as it was in a year which, with the -exception of two radically distinct American works of pre-eminent note, -Longfellow’s <i>Hiawatha</i> and Walt Whitman’s <i>Leaves of Grass</i>, was a -singularly barren one. The fantasy has always remained a favourite with -staunch Meredithians. It was followed two years later by the somewhat -akin <i>Farina</i>;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_439" id="page_439">{439}</a></span> and two years passed again before that first important -work appeared which so profoundly affected the minds and imagination of -Mr Meredith’s contemporaries—the now famous <i>Ordeal of Richard -Feverel</i>, (1859). Since that date Mr Meredith has given us what many -consider the greatest literary legacy of our time; and unquestionably he -has had no compeer in brilliant delineation of life at white heat. It is -unnecessary to specify the works of an author with which all lovers of -literature must be familiar; but a word must be added as to the delight -which the reading world has known this year in the publication of <i>The -Amazing Marriage</i>, one of the most brilliant and vivid of all Mr -Meredith’s romances, and, in its display of his characteristic quality -at his best, ranking with <i>Harry Richmond</i>, <i>The Egoist</i>, and <i>Diana of -the Crossways</i>. As a poet George Meredith is less widely known, or, -rather, is less widely accepted. There are, nevertheless, many who -regard his poetic achievement as perhaps the most essential part of what -he has given us. In depth of thought, in clarity of vision, and in -remarkable expressional subtlety,—often, if not invariably, set forth -in a lyric utterance whose only fault is that of an occasional apparent -incoherence due to rapidity of thought and eagerness of rhythmic -emotion—he stands here, as in all else, alone. From that -extraordinarily powerful study of contemporary life, expressed -emotionally and rhythmically in singularly convincing verse, <i>Modern -Love</i>, to his latest volume, <i>The Empty Purse</i>, there is a range of -rhythmic and lyric beauty which may well be a challenge to posterity to -redeem the relative neglect of the mass of Mr Meredith’s contemporaries. -I am not of those who consider Mr Meredith’s least popular poems as mere -cryptic utterances in verse; for everywhere I find the lyric -spirit,—hampered, at times, it is true, by a wind-rush of images, and -by a sudden drove of unshepherded words. But who could read “Love in the -Valley,” “The Lark Ascending,” “The Woods of Westermain,” “The -South-Wester,” “The Hymn to Colour,” to mention five only, without -recognising that here indeed we have one of the great poets of our time. -The poems by which, owing to the gracious courtesy of Mr Meredith—who -has consented to forego for once his great objection to the appearance -of any of his poems in miscellaneous collections—he is here -represented, are from his later volumes. The “Dirge in Woods,” “Outer -and Inner,” and the superb “Hymn to Colour,” are<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_440" id="page_440">{440}</a></span> from <i>A Reading of -Earth</i> (1888), the volume which contains “Hard Weather,” “The -South-Wester,” “The Thrush in February,” “The Appeasement of Demeter,” -“Woodland Peace,” the noble ode “Meditation under Stars,” and that -flawless and memorable sonnet, “Winter Heavens.” The “Night of Frost in -May” is from the volume entitled <i>The Empty Purse</i> (1892). Mr Meredith’s -other volume of poetry, the favourite with most of his readers, is -<i>Poems and Lyrics of the Joy of Earth</i> (1883). This book includes “The -Woods of Westermain,” “The Day of the Daughter of Hades,” “The Lark -Ascending,” “Phœbus with Admetus,” “Melampus,” “Love in a Valley,” and -the group of sonnets beginning with “Lucifer in Starlight,” and ending -with “Time and Sentiment.” All Mr Meredith’s poetical writings are now -published by Messrs Macmillan.</p> - -<p class="nind2">SEBASTIAN EVANS.<br /><a href="#page_292">PAGE 292</a></p> - -<p>Born in 1830, the grandson of the Rev. Lewis Evans, a well-known Welsh -astronomer, and the son of the Rev. Arthur Benoni Evans, a linguist, -scholar, and author. He was not the only one of this parentage who came -to some distinction, for his brother, John Evans, F.R.S., became -President of the Society of Antiquaries, and his sister, Anne, had some -repute as a poetess and musician. Sebastian Evans won a fair measure of -fugitive fame by his <i>Brother Fabian’s Manuscript and Other Poems</i> -(Macmillan, 1865). In the early ’70’s Dr Evans published his second -volume, <i>In the Studio: a Decade of Poems</i> (Macmillan). The true note of -his strangely subtle and illusive muse is not that of either irony or -audacity as commonly supposed, but rather a living belief in the passage -of the contemporary mind and aspiration from the sureties of the ancient -faith to the assurance of a still finer faith to come. Among his short -poems perhaps the most indicative is that entitled “The Banners”—</p> - -<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"> -Lordly banners, waving to the stars,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Flap upon the night-wind, heavy with the dew,</span><br /> -Trustful youth is wending to the wars,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Strong in ancient faith to battle with the new.</span><br /> -<br /> -Lordly banners, trodden in the clay,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lie upon the mountain dank with other dew,</span><br /> -Hapless Youth hath lost the bloody day,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ancient faith is feeble, stronger is the new.</span><br /> -<br /> -Lordly banners, other than of yore,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Flap upon the night-wind, heavy with the dew:</span><br /> -Youth to battle girdeth him once more,<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_441" id="page_441">{441}</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">New and Old are feeble,—mighty is the True!</span><br /> -</div></div> - -<p class="nind2">EBENEZER JONES. (1820-1860.)<br /><a href="#page_293">PAGE 293</a></p> - -<p>Of Welsh parentage and descent, Ebenezer Jones was born in Islington, -London. Much has been written upon the famous Chartist poet, both in his -relation to the socialistic movements in which he participated, and in -literary criticism of his two at one time much discussed volumes, -<i>Studies of Sensation and Event</i> (1843), and <i>Studies of Resemblance and -Consent</i> (1849); but perhaps the best critical summary of his life-work -is that of Mr Wm. J. Linton in Miles’ <i>Poets and Poetry of the Century</i>, -Vol. V. The two poems by which Ebenezer Jones is represented here are -respectively from his second and first volumes.</p> - -<p class="nind2">EMILY DAVIS (MRS PFEIFFER). (1841-1890.)<br /><a href="#page_296">PAGE 296</a></p> - -<p>Mrs Pfeiffer, many of whose poems achieved a wide popularity, was the -daughter of a Welsh gentleman settled in Oxfordshire, and an officer in -the army. She was born in Wales. Of her several volumes of verse, the -first was <i>Gerard’s Monument</i>, etc. (1873), and the best are <i>Sonnets -and Other Songs</i>, <i>Under the Aspens</i> (1884), and <i>Sonnets</i> (1887).</p> - -<p class="nind2">ERNEST RHYS.<br /><a href="#page_297">PAGE 297</a></p> - -<p>“The House of Hendra” is not given here intact: for the whole poem, see -<i>A London Rose</i>, etc. (Elkin Mathews). Mr Rhys is the most noteworthy of -the younger generation of Welsh poets and romancists, and may well be -accepted as the leader of the Neo-Celtic movement in Wales. He has in a -more marked degree than almost any of his compatriots of his own period -the gift of style; and already his enthusiasm, knowledge, and fine and -notable work in prose and verse have brought him to the front as the -recognised representative of young Wales. Of Welsh parentage, Mr Rhys -was born in London in 1860, spent much of his boyhood in South Wales, -and his youth and early manhood in the north-country, where he intended -to follow the profession of a mining engineer. However, he came to -London in the early ’eighties and settled down to literary work. His -first publication in book form was <i>The Great Cockney Tragedy</i> (1891). -His poems first became known to the outside reading world through his -contributions to <i>The Book of the Rhymers’ Club</i> (1893). In the -following year he published his first and as yet sole volume of verse: -<i>A London Rose: and Other Rhymes</i>, whence comes the fine<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_442" id="page_442">{442}</a></span> “House of -Hendra” by which he is represented here. Besides other writings, in -prose, Mr Ernest Rhys was editor of the “Camelot Series” of popular -reprints and translations in 65 volumes (1885-1890), and now is critical -editor of <i>The Lyric Poets</i> (Dent), one of the most delightful -poets-series extant.</p> - -<h3>CONTEMPORARY ANGLO-CELTIC POETS (MANX)</h3> - -<p class="nind2">THOMAS EDWARD BROWN.<br /><a href="#page_307">PAGE 307</a></p> - -<p>Was born at Douglas, in the Isle of Man, in 1830. After a career of -exceptional distinction at Oxford, he was appointed Vice-Principal of -King William’s College in the Isle of Man (1855). Since 1863 he has been -assistant-master of Clifton College. The book by which Mr Brown is best -known is his admirable <i>Fo’c’sle Yarns</i> (Macmillan, 1881 and 1889), -though the first of his tales in verse included therein, “Betsy Lee,” -appeared in <i>Macmillan’s Magazine</i> in 1873 where it at once attracted -wide attention. He has also published <i>The Doctor</i> (1887) and <i>The Manx -Witch</i> (1889). The author of <i>Fo’c’sle Yarns</i> is by far the most -noteworthy poetic representative of the Isle of Man. In range, depth of -insight, dramatic vigour, keen sympathy, and narrative faculty, all -transformed by the alchemy of his poetic vision, he is not only the -foremost Manx poet, but one of the most notable of living writers in -verse. It is probably because most of his poems deal almost wholly with -Manx scenes and characters, and are for the most part written in the -Manx dialect, that he is so little talked of by literary critics and so -little known to the reading world at large. Than “Betsy Lee” (<i>Fo’c’sle -Yarns</i>) there is no more moving, human, and beautiful poem, of the -narrative kind, written in our time. The fragmentary lines by which the -author is represented here were selected from one of his most -characteristic Manx poems, and give a good idea of the common parlance -of the islanders of to-day. It is from <i>The Doctor: and Other Poems</i> -(Swan Sonnenschein, 1887).</p> - -<p class="nind2">HALL CAINE.<br /><a href="#page_309">PAGE 309</a></p> - -<p>This fine Manx ballad of “Graih my Chree” appeared this year in the -first number of <i>London Home</i>, to the editor and proprietor of which, as -well as to Mr Hall Caine, I am indebted for the permission to include -“Love of my Heart” here.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_443" id="page_443">{443}</a></span> Mr Caine, so celebrated as a novelist, has -published no volume of poems; but at rare intervals something of his in -verse has appeared. I think that his earliest appearance as a poet was -in <i>Sonnets of this Century</i> (1886, and later editions), where he is -represented by two fine sonnets, “Where Lies the Land to which my Soul -would go?” and “After Sunset.” Mr Caine’s own first acknowledged book -was an anthology of sonnets (<i>Sonnets of Three Centuries</i>, Stock, 1882), -published in the author’s twenty-seventh year. Of his many books, the -best known are his <i>Recollections of Dante Gabriel Rossetti</i>; and his -romances, <i>The Shadow of a Crime</i>, <i>The Deemster</i>, <i>The Bondman</i>, <i>The -Scapegoat</i>, and <i>The Manxman</i>. Mr Hall Caine is himself a Manxman, -crossed with a strong strain of Cumberland blood. Both in his strength -and weakness he is eminently Celtic, after his own kind; for he could -belong to no other Celtic people than either the Manx or the Welsh. He -has, and not without good reason, been called the Walter Scott of Man. -Certainly, <i>The Deemster</i> and <i>The Manxman</i> alone have revealed Manxland -and Manx life and character to the great mass of English readers.</p> - -<h3>CONTEMPORARY ANGLO-CELTIC POETS (CORNISH)</h3> - -<p class="nind2">ARTHUR THOMAS QUILLER COUCH.<br /><a href="#page_317">PAGE 317</a></p> - -<p>So well known as “Q,” was born at Bodwin, in Cornwall, of an old Cornish -family, in 1863. He left Trinity College, Oxford, for London; but, after -a brief experience of literary life in the metropolis, returned to the -“Duchy,” and has since resided there, mainly at Fowey. He is not only -the most noteworthy living Cornishman of letters, and the romancer <i>par -excellence</i> of contemporary Cornwall and Cornish life, but is -acknowledged as one of the best story-tellers of the day. His first book -was <i>The Splendid Spur</i> (1889), a stirring romance, which was followed -by <i>The Delectable Duchy</i>, <i>Noughts and Crosses</i>, and <i>I Saw Three -Ships</i>. He has published little poetry; and even in his slender volume, -<i>Green Bays</i> (1893), there are not more than one or two poems, the other -verses being for the most part what are called “occasional.” If, -however, he had written nothing in verse except the lyric called “The -Splendid Spur,” he would be accounted a poet for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_444" id="page_444">{444}</a></span> remembrance. “The -White Moth” is the most distinctively Celtic poem he has written. In the -main, he is more Cornish than Celtic—in this a contrast to Dr Riccardo -Stephens, who is far more distinctively Celtic than Cornish.</p> - -<p class="nind2">ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER. (1804-1875.)<br /><a href="#page_319">PAGE 319</a></p> - -<p>The celebrated vicar of Morwenstow (born at Plymouth) came of an old -Cornish family, and spent the greater part of his life in the Duchy. In -1834 he became Vicar of Morwenstow, a remote parish on the Cornish -sea-board. His best-known book is <i>Cornish Ballads</i> (1869); but the -reader who may not be acquainted with his writings should consult the -<i>Poetical Works, and Other Literary Remains, with a Memoir</i> (1879). -Hawker has much of the sombre note which is supposed to be -characteristic of Celtic Cornwall.</p> - -<p class="nind2">RICCARDO STEPHENS.<br /><a href="#page_321">PAGE 321</a></p> - -<p>Dr Stephens is a Cornishman settled in Edinburgh, where he practises as -a physician. He has not, as yet, published any of his poems in book -form; but, none the less, has won (if necessarily, as yet, a limited) -reputation by his exceedingly vigorous and individual poems. He has -written several “Castle Ballads” (of which the very striking “Hell’s -Piper” given here is one)—poems suggested by legendary episodes -connected with Edinburgh Castle, or perhaps only vaguely influenced by -that romantically picturesque and grand vicinage—for Dr Stephens is one -of the many workers, thinkers, and dreamers who congregate in the -settlement founded by Professor Patrick Geddes on the site of Allan -Ramsay’s residence—“New Edinburgh,” as University Hall is sometimes -called, an apt name in more ways than one. Dr Stephens is a poet of -marked originality, and his work has all the Celtic fire and fervour, -with much of that sombre gloom which is held to be characteristically -Cornish. “Hell’s Piper” has lines in it of Dantesque vigour, as those -which depict, among “the shackled earthquakes,” the “reeking halls of -Hell,” and the torture-wrought denizens of that Inferno. “The Phantom -Piper” will never be forgotten by any one who has once read and been -thrilled by this highly-imaginative poem.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_445" id="page_445">{445}</a></span></p> - -<h3>MODERN AND CONTEMPORARY BRETON</h3> - -<p class="nind2">THE POOR CLERK (IN BRETON, “AR C’HLOAREK PAOUR”)<br /><a href="#page_331">PAGE 331</a></p> - -<p class="nind2">is rather a mediæval than a modern folk-poem. The translation is that of -the late Tom Taylor (<i>Ballads and Lyrics</i>, Macmillan), who has the -following note upon it:—“The Klöarek is a seminarist of Tréguier, a -peasant who has a turn for books, or shows some vocation for the -priesthood. Their miserable life, hard study, and abnegation of family -life are provocative of regretful emotion, passionate and mystic -asceticism. The Klöarek is the poet and hero of most of the Breton -<i>Sônes</i>; Tréguier, therefore, is the nursery of the elegaic and -religious popular poetry of Brittany.”</p> - -<p class="nind2">THE CROSS BY THE WAY (KROAZ ANN HENT).<br /><a href="#page_332">PAGE 332</a></p> - -<p><i>Vide</i> preceding Note. This translation is from the same source as last.</p> - -<p class="nind2"> -THE SECRETS OF THE CLERK, AND LOVE SONG. <br /> <a href="#page_335">PAGES 335-337</a><br /> -</p> - -<p>See Note to “The Poor Clerk.” The first of these poems was probably -composed in the transition period—late mediæval or early modern. Both -are given in the rendering of Mr Alfred M. Williams (<i>vide</i> “Folk-Songs -of Lower Brittany” in <i>Studies in Folk-Song and Popular Poetry</i> (1895)). -“The Love Song” is modern—probably <i>circa</i> 1800, or even 1750.</p> - -<p class="nind2"> -HERVÉ NOËL LE BRETON.<br /><a href="#page_338">PAGE 338</a></p> - -<p>For all particulars concerning this poet I must refer interested readers -to Mr W. J. Robertson’s brief memoir in that most delightful of all -books of translation, <i>A Century of French Verse</i> (A. D. Innes & Co., -1895). This is without exception the ablest work of its kind we have. It -is the production of one who is unmistakably himself a poet, who has the -rare double power to translate literally, and at the same time with -subtle art and charm, so that the least possible loss in translation is -involved. In addition to these often exquisitely felicitous, and always -notably able and suggestive renderings, Mr Robertson has prefixed to -each representative selection a brief critical and biographical study of -the poet represented—short <i>études</i> of remarkable insight and critical -merit. Of Hervé Noël le Breton he gives some interesting particulars. -The poet is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_446" id="page_446">{446}</a></span> of the ancient Armorican race, and was born in Nantes in -1851. He has not yet published any volume; and it is from an unpublished -collection, <i>Rêves et Symboles</i>, that Mr Robertson has drawn. Strangely -enough, neither in Tiercelin’s Breton Anthology nor anywhere else can I -find any allusion to Hervé Noël le Breton: and his name is unknown to M. -Louis Tiercelin, M. Anatole le Braz, and M. Charles Le Goffic, -respectively the most eminent living Breton anthologist, Breton -folk-lorist, and Breton poet-romancist and critic. For several reasons I -take it that Le Breton is an assumed name; and it is even possible that -the Armorican blood is only in the brain, and not in the body of the -author of <i>Rêves et Symboles</i>. “The Burden of Lost Souls” is in three -parts, of which that given here is the first. Here is the second:</p> - -<h3>THE BURDEN OF LOST SOULS.</h3> - -<h4>II.</h4> - -<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"> -This is our doom. To walk for ever and ever<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The wilderness unblest,</span><br /> -To weary soul and sense in vain endeavour<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And find no coign of rest;</span><br /> -<br /> -To feel the pulse of speech and passion thronging<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On lips for ever dumb,</span><br /> -To gaze on parched skies relentless, longing<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For clouds that will not come;</span><br /> -<br /> -Thirsty, to drink of loathsome waters crawling<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With nameless things obscene,</span><br /> -To feel the dews from heaven like fire-drops falling,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And neither shade nor screen;</span><br /> -<br /> -To fill from springs illusive riddled vessels,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Like the Danaïdes,</span><br /> -To grapple with the wind that whirls and wrestles,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Knowing no lapse of ease;</span><br /> -<br /> -To weave fantastic webs that shrink and crumble<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Before they leave the loom,</span><br /> -To build with travail aëry towers that tumble<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And temples like the tomb;</span><br /> -<br /> -To watch the stately pomp and proud procession<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of splendid shapes and things,</span><br /> -And pine in silent solitary session<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Because we have no wings;</span><br /> -<br /> -To woo from confused sleep forlorn the dismal<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Oblivion of despair;</span><br /> -To seek in sudden glimpse of dreams abysmal<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_447" id="page_447">{447}</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sights beautiful and rare,</span><br /> -And waking, wild with terror, see the vision<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cancelled in swift eclipse,</span><br /> -Mocked by the pallid phantoms of derision,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With spectral eyes and lips;</span><br /> -<br /> -To turn in endless circles round these purlieus<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With troops of spirits pale,</span><br /> -Whose everlasting song is like the curlew’s,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">One ceaseless, changeless wail.</span><br /> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">Mr Robertson gives four poems by this poet: “<i>La Plainte des Damnés</i>,” -“<i>Vers les Etoiles</i>,” “<i>Le Tombeau du Poète</i>,” and “<i>Hymne au Sommeil</i>.” -His translation of the last-named also appears in this anthology.</p> - -<p class="nind2"> -VILLIERS DE L’ISLE-ADAM. (1838-1889.)<br /><a href="#page_342">PAGE 342</a></p> - -<p>This famous French novelist and poet was born at St Brieuc, in Brittany, -of parents who were each of old Breton stock. The full details of the -life and work of Philippe-Auguste-Mathias de Villiers de l’Isle-Adam, -son of the Marquis Joseph de Villiers de l’Isle-Adam and his wife Marie -Françoise le Nepveu de Carfort, can be read in the recently-published -<i>Life</i>, by the late Vicomte Robert du Pontavice de Heussey—an English -translation of which, by Lady Mary Lloyd, was issued last year by Mr -Heinemann. This distinguished writer lived in misfortune, and died amid -darker shadows than those he had too long been bitterly acquainted with. -His first volume of poems was published when he was little more than -twenty years old—as Mr Robertson says, “one of the most remarkable ever -written by so young a poet.” The young Breton poet came under the strong -personal influence of Baudelaire, and in the process he lost much of his -native Celtic fire and spirituality. Besides the poems given here, -“Confession” (“<i>D’aveu</i>”) and “Discouragement” (“<i>Découragement</i>”), Mr -Robertson translates, in his <i>Century of French Verse</i>, -“<i>Eblouissement</i>” and “<i>Les Présents</i>.”</p> - -<p class="nind2">LECONTE DE LISLE. (1818-1894.)<br /><a href="#page_344">PAGE 344</a></p> - -<p>“The great Creole poet, Charles Marie René Leconte, known as Leconte de -Lisle, was the child of a Breton father and a Gascon mother, and was -born at St Paul, in the isle of Bourbon (<i>Réunion</i>) in 1818. He had the -Celtic clearness of vision and love of beauty, and the vigour and -courage of the Pyrenean race. In his youth he travelled through the East -Indies, and the vivid impressions of tropical colour and warmth which -are visible<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_448" id="page_448">{448}</a></span> in his poetry derive their value from the personal -observation of Nature in those regions” (W. J. Robertson, <i>A Century of -French Verse</i>). Leconte de Lisle, one of the greatest of modern French -poets, is assured of immortality by his beautiful trilogy:—<i>Poèmes -Antiques</i> (1852), <i>Poèmes Barbares</i> (1862), and <i>Poèmes Tragiques</i> -(1884). The reader who, unfamiliar with this poet, wishes to know more -of Leconte de Lisle and his work, cannot do better than turn first to Mr -Robertson’s biographical and critical memoir in <i>A Century of French -Verse</i>. There, too, he will find five poems from <i>Poèmes Antiques</i>, -including the long “<i>Dies Iræ</i>”; two from <i>Poèmes Barbares</i>, and two -from <i>Poèmes Tragiques</i>. Of the two given here, the first (“The Black -Panther”) is from <i>Poèmes Barbares</i>, and “The Spring” (“<i>La Source</i>”) -from <i>Poèmes Antiques</i>. Leconte de Lisle strove after an ideal -perfection of form. The spirit of that almost flawless work of his, is -of intellectual emotion rather than of passion; but in colour, and -splendour of imagery, no romanticist can surpass him. He is of the great -minds who create, calm and serene. He is often classed with the two -great master-spirits of modern German and French literature; but, while -he has neither the lyric rush nor epic sweep of Victor Hugo, nor the -philosophical modernity and innate human sentiment of Gœthe, he is much -more akin to the latter than to the former. For the rest, to quote Mr -Robertson, “he gives the noblest expression to human revolt and desire, -to ideal dreams, and to the pure and sometimes pathetic love of external -nature.”</p> - -<p class="nind2">LEO-KERMORVAN.<br /><a href="#page_348">PAGE 348</a></p> - -<p>Leo-Kermorvan has been represented here as one of the most distinctively -Celtic of the contemporary Breton poets. In translating his “Taliesen,” -as well as Louis Tiercelin’s “By Menec’hi Shore,” I have endeavoured to -convey the atmosphere, as well as to be literal; and, partly to this -end, and partly because of a personal preference for unrhymed metrical -translation, have not ventured to make a rhymed paraphrase. M. Kermorvan -is a poet worthy to be named with his two most notable living -compatriots, Tristran Corbière and Charles Le Goffic.</p> - -<p class="nind2">LOUIS TIERCELIN.<br /><a href="#page_351">PAGE 351</a></p> - -<p>(See foregoing note.) M. Tiercelin is a Breton poet and critic, perhaps -best known as co-editor of the <i>Parnasse de la<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_449" id="page_449">{449}</a></span> Bretagne</i>. No more -characteristic Breton poem, apart from folk-poetry, could close <i>Lyra -Celtica</i>. It is the keynote of the poetry that is common to all the -Celtic races.</p> - -<p>THE CELTIC FRINGE</p> - -<p class="nind2">BLISS CARMAN.<br /><a href="#page_355">PAGE 355</a></p> - -<p>Mr Bliss Carman, the trans-Atlantic poet who, it seems to me, has the -most distinctive note of any American poet (and the word “American” is -used in its widest sense), is of Scoto-Celtic descent through his -father’s side, and of East-Anglian through the maternal side; but was -born of a family long settled in Canada—viz., at Fredericton, New -Brunswick, in 1861. His poetry is intensely individual, and with a lyric -note at once poignant and reserved. Work of very high quality is -expected of him, on both sides of the Atlantic; for his beautiful lyrics -and poems have appeared in the periodicals of both countries. His slight -volume, <i>Low Tide on Grand-Pré</i> (1893), is published in this country by -Mr Nutt. About half of the <i>Songs from Vagabondia</i> (written in -collaboration with Mr Richard Hovey) are of his authorship. This book, -published in 1894 by Messrs Stone & Kimball of Chicago, is to be had -here through Mr Elkin Mathews. It is from the <i>Songs</i> that the stirring -war-chant of “Gamelbar” comes.</p> - -<p class="nind2">ELLEN MACKAY HUTCHINSON.<br /><a href="#page_361">PAGE 361</a></p> - -<p>This distinguished American lady is descended from old Highland stock. I -know of no other book by her than <i>Songs and Lyrics</i> (Boston, Osgood & -Co., 1881), but that is one which all lovers of poetry should possess. -Miss Hutchinson’s name is best known in connection with that colossal -and invaluable work, the <i>Cyclopædia of American Literature</i> (eleven -vols.), in which she was the collaborator of Mr Edmund Clarence Stedman.</p> - -<p class="nind2">HUGH M‘CULLOCH.<br /><a href="#page_364">PAGE 364</a></p> - -<p>This descendant of an old Highland family is the author of <i>The Quest of -Heracles</i> (Stone & Kimball, Chicago, 1894).</p> - -<p class="nind2">DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT.<br /><a href="#page_365">PAGE 365</a></p> - -<p>Mr Scott is a member of one of the many Scoto-Celtic families settled in -Canada. He was born at Ottawa in 1862, and is the author of <i>The Magic -House</i> (1893).<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_450" id="page_450">{450}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind2">THOMAS D’ARCY M‘CGEE. (1821-1868.)<br /><a href="#page_366">PAGE 366</a></p> - -<p>This distinguished Irishman is to be accounted only an adopted American. -He emigrated to the States in 1842, edited <i>The Boston Pilot</i>, and in -1857 went to Montreal and entered the Canadian Parliament. It was when -returning from a night-session that he was assassinated in Ottawa by -Fenian malcontents.</p> - -<p class="nind2"> -MARY C. G. GILLINGTON (MRS BYRON) AND ALICE E. GILLINGTON.<br /> <a href="#page_368">PAGES 368-373</a><br /> -</p> - -<p>These two sisters, whose names have become so deservedly well-known by -their contributions to British and American periodicals, are of Celtic -blood, though born and resident in England. They are included here as -representative of the Anglo Celtic strain so potent in England itself. -The elder, Mrs Byron, was born in Cheshire in 1861. Their joint volume, -<i>Poems</i>, was published in 1892. Mr Elkin Mathews has just published a -volume entitled, <i>A Little Book of Lyrics</i>, by Mrs Byron.</p> - -<div class="footnotes"><p class="cb">FOOTNOTES:</p> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Apropos, let me quote a word or two from Dr Douglas Hyde: -“We all remember the inimitable felicity with which that great -English-speaking Gael, Sir Walter Scott, has caught,” &c. (with this -note) “Both the Buccleugh Scots, and the other four branches of the -name, were originally Gaelic-speaking Celts.”</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> “Failte do Mharcus Latharna ’s do ’Mhnaoi oig Rioghail.”</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> Published by Mr Fisher Unwin at a shilling. The reader will -have to discount Mr Brooke’s over-emphasis on the word Irish, which he -frequently uses instead of Celtic, even when alluding to Scoto-Celtic -literature and influence.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> “On the first day of the <span class="gesh">Trogan-month</span>, we, to the number of -Fianna’s three battalions, practised to repair to Arran, and there to -have our fill of hunting until such time as from the tree-tops the -cuckoo would call in Ireland. More melodious than all birds whatsoever, -it was to give ear to the voices of the birds as they rose from the -billows, and from the island’s coast line; thrice fifty separate flocks -there are that encircled her, and they clad in all brilliance of all -colours; as blue, and green, and azure, and yellow.”</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> Readers should obtain Dr Hyde’s “Three Sorrows of -Story-Telling” (1/-), wherein the beautiful old tale of Deirdrê is -re-told by one who is at once a poet and a scholar.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> Whence comes the “Prologue to Gaul,” given at p. 187 of -this book.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_7_7" id="Footnote_7_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> <span class="gesh">Dearg</span>-<span class="gesh">drúchtach</span>—i.e. “Dewy-Red”—was the name of St -Columba’s boat.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_8_8" id="Footnote_8_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></a> That is, “Back turned to Ireland.”</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_9_9" id="Footnote_9_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9_9"><span class="label">[9]</span></a> Solitary cell.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_10_10" id="Footnote_10_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_10_10"><span class="label">[10]</span></a> i.e. the sheepskin or deerskin coverings for apertures, -still used in some remote shealings and <span class="gesh">bothain</span>.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_11_11" id="Footnote_11_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_11_11"><span class="label">[11]</span></a> Shed.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_12_12" id="Footnote_12_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_12_12"><span class="label">[12]</span></a> Here probably the byre.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_13_13" id="Footnote_13_13"></a><a href="#FNanchor_13_13"><span class="label">[13]</span></a> <span class="gesh">Gracie óg mo-chridhe</span>—“Young Gracie, my heart.”</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_14_14" id="Footnote_14_14"></a><a href="#FNanchor_14_14"><span class="label">[14]</span></a> Pron. <span class="gesh">Cawn dhu dee-lish</span>—i.e. “darling black head.”</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_15_15" id="Footnote_15_15"></a><a href="#FNanchor_15_15"><span class="label">[15]</span></a> The second line to the refrain translates the first.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_16_16" id="Footnote_16_16"></a><a href="#FNanchor_16_16"><span class="label">[16]</span></a> Creek.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_17_17" id="Footnote_17_17"></a><a href="#FNanchor_17_17"><span class="label">[17]</span></a> Piglings.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_18_18" id="Footnote_18_18"></a><a href="#FNanchor_18_18"><span class="label">[18]</span></a> Potatoes.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_19_19" id="Footnote_19_19"></a><a href="#FNanchor_19_19"><span class="label">[19]</span></a> My heart’s delight.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_20_20" id="Footnote_20_20"></a><a href="#FNanchor_20_20"><span class="label">[20]</span></a> A large basket carried on the back.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_21_21" id="Footnote_21_21"></a><a href="#FNanchor_21_21"><span class="label">[21]</span></a> <span class="gesh">Maura du</span>, “Dear Mary.”</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_22_22" id="Footnote_22_22"></a><a href="#FNanchor_22_22"><span class="label">[22]</span></a> <span class="gesh">Asthore machree</span>, “The darling of my heart.”</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_23_23" id="Footnote_23_23"></a><a href="#FNanchor_23_23"><span class="label">[23]</span></a> Pron. <span class="gesh">Colleen Dhun</span>—a “brown (haired) girl.”</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_24_24" id="Footnote_24_24"></a><a href="#FNanchor_24_24"><span class="label">[24]</span></a> Low Country.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_25_25" id="Footnote_25_25"></a><a href="#FNanchor_25_25"><span class="label">[25]</span></a> Mull.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_26_26" id="Footnote_26_26"></a><a href="#FNanchor_26_26"><span class="label">[26]</span></a> <span class="gesh">Eilidh</span> is pronounced Eily (liq.).</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_27_27" id="Footnote_27_27"></a><a href="#FNanchor_27_27"><span class="label">[27]</span></a> than.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_28_28" id="Footnote_28_28"></a><a href="#FNanchor_28_28"><span class="label">[28]</span></a> of hers.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_29_29" id="Footnote_29_29"></a><a href="#FNanchor_29_29"><span class="label">[29]</span></a> frightened.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_30_30" id="Footnote_30_30"></a><a href="#FNanchor_30_30"><span class="label">[30]</span></a> Hobgoblins.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_31_31" id="Footnote_31_31"></a><a href="#FNanchor_31_31"><span class="label">[31]</span></a> The Blackrock is a bold, dark, pillared mass of schist, -which rises midway on the shore of Widemouth Bay, near Bude, and is held -to be the lair of the troubled spirit of Featherstone the wrecker, -imprisoned therein until he shall have accomplished his doom.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_32_32" id="Footnote_32_32"></a><a href="#FNanchor_32_32"><span class="label">[32]</span></a> The <span class="gesh">bazvalan</span>, the bearer of the rod of broom.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_33_33" id="Footnote_33_33"></a><a href="#FNanchor_33_33"><span class="label">[33]</span></a> Twilight.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_34_34" id="Footnote_34_34"></a><a href="#FNanchor_34_34"><span class="label">[34]</span></a> Pronounce like English “hind.”</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_35_35" id="Footnote_35_35"></a><a href="#FNanchor_35_35"><span class="label">[35]</span></a> Gaelic pronunciation of Mull.</p></div> - -</div> - -<hr class="full" /> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LYRA CELTICA ***</div> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - 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