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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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