diff options
Diffstat (limited to '78491-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 78491-0.txt | 6842 |
1 files changed, 6842 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/78491-0.txt b/78491-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..26a07d0 --- /dev/null +++ b/78491-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6842 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78491 *** + + + + + LEGENDS + + OF + + IRELAND’S HEROIC AGE + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + BY THE SAME AUTHOR. + + + Alexander the Great: a Dramatic Poem. Small crown 8vo. + cloth, price 5_s._ + The Infant Bridal, and other Poems. A New and enlarged + Edition. Fcp. 8vo. cloth, price 7_s._ 6_d._ (_A + selection from the Author’s Poems._) + The Legends of St. Patrick, and other Poems. Small crown + 8vo. cloth, price 5_s._ + St. Thomas of Canterbury: a Dramatic Poem. Large fcp. + 8vo. cloth, price 5_s._ + Legends of the Saxon Saints. Small crown 8vo. cloth, + price 6_s._ + Antar and Zara: an Eastern Romance. INISFAIL, and other + Poems Meditative and Lyrical. Fcp. 8vo. price 6_s._ + The Fall of Rora, the Search after Proserpine, and other + Poems Meditative and Lyrical. Fcp. 8vo. price 6_s._ + + KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, & CO., 1 Paternoster Square. + + May Carols. Third Edition, enlarged. + + BURNS & OATES. + + BY THE LATE SIR AUBREY DE VERE, BART. + + Mary Tudor: an Historical Drama. + Julian the Apostate, and the Duke of Mercia. + A Song of Faith, Devout Exercises and Sonnets. + + B. M. PICKERING. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + THE FORAY + + OF + + QUEEN MEAVE + + AND OTHER + + _LEGENDS OF IRELAND’S HEROIC AGE_ + + BY + + AUBREY DE VERE + + + + + LONDON + KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, & CO., 1 PATERNOSTER SQUARE + 1882 + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + (_The rights of translation and of reproduction are reserved_) + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + PREFACE. + + +The ‘Foray of Queen Meave,’ the longest of the following poems, is +founded on and in substance represents the far-famed ‘Tain bo Cuailgné,’ +a tale regarded by many Irish scholars as the great Irish epic of +ancient times, by others as a part only of some larger epic of which +numerous portions remain, but which unhappily found no Pisistratus to +combine them into a whole. The lamented Professor Eugene O’Curry has +expressed his opinion that ‘in the time of Senchan and St. Columba’ +(that is in the sixth century) ‘it was generally believed that Fergus +was the original writer of the tale.’[1] ‘On this supposition it must +have existed in a rudimental form a little before the Christian Era. It +was lost for several centuries, but recovered in the sixth, when, +according to the legend recorded by Professor O’Curry, St. Kiaran wrote +down the tale “in a book which he had made from the hide of his pet +cow--a book called the Leabhar na h-Uidré.”’[2] Elsewhere that great +authority states that a large portion of this work is preserved in a +copy ‘written at the same Clonmacnoise by a famous scribe named +Maelmire, who was killed there in 1106.’[3] That copy of St. Kiaran’s +version is still extant in the Royal Irish Academy, as well as a copy of +a later version included in the ‘Book of Leinster,’ a collection +compiled about 1150. Translations of both these versions have been made +by Professor O’Looney, and to both I have had access through his +kindness. These two versions differ much from each other, the earlier +being the simpler and stronger, while the later is the richer in detail. +To the sixth century belong not a few Irish works of unquestioned +authenticity, such as the elegy written by Dallan Forgaill on the death +of St. Columba, A.D. 592, found also in the Leabhar na h-Uidré. To an +earlier period, the fifth century, belongs the tract entitled the +‘Battle of Magh Tuireadh,’ or Moytura. Several poems are confidently +referred to Dubthach, chief Bard of King Laeghaire, St. Patrick’s +earliest convert at the Royal Court; and to the same century belongs the +Senchas Mor, or Compilation of Laws. The ‘Tripartite Life of St. +Patrick’ is attributed by Colgan and others to the sixth century, +because it mentions as still living many persons known to have died +before the close of that age. Books are recorded as having been in the +hands of the Druids before St. Patrick’s time, or soon after, such as +the ‘Cuilmenn,’ the ‘Sailtair of Tara,’ attributed to the third century, +the ‘Book of St. Mochta,’ one of St. Patrick’s early disciples, the +‘Book of Cuana,’ &c. There is consequently nothing to surprise us in the +circumstance that the ‘Tain bo Cuailgné’ belongs to a period so early. +The following poem, written of course in the character of an old Irish +bard, is not a translation except as regards some passages which occur +chiefly in Fragment III. It is not in the form of translation that an +ancient Irish tale of any considerable length admits of being rendered +in poetry. What is needed is to select from the original such portions +as are at once the most essential to the story, and the most +characteristic, reproducing them in a condensed form, and taking care +that the necessary additions bring out the idea, and contain nothing +that is not in the spirit, of the original. + +An attempt to introduce to modern readers a work so ancient, and +connected with allusions so unfamiliar, seems to call for some remarks +on the character of that work, and on the age which produced it. The +‘Tain bo Cuailgné’ is especially valued, not only for its poetic merits, +but for the light which it throws upon early Irish customs, such as the +use of the war-chariot, abandoned, apparently, as early as the second +century. It marks strikingly the mutual relations of Ireland’s different +kingdoms, classes, and races. It is the amplest voice from Ireland’s +‘Heroic Age,’ thus belonging to the first, as the so-called ‘Ossianic’ +poems belong to the second cycle of ancient Irish song. The latter cycle +derives its name from the circumstance that, though little of it can be +traced back to Ossian, it records the warriors of the Fianna Eireann who +were his contemporaries, and flourished in the second century. Yet even +they, scarcely excepting Diarmid, Oscar, and Fionn himself, though the +terror of Ireland’s provincial kings till their power, rendered too +exacting by long success, was extinguished by a single fatal reverse, +were never counted equal to the mighty ones of her earlier time. + +The Heroic Age had reached its highest greatness shortly before the +Christian Era. It was then that Fergus Mac Roy reigned over Uladh, now +Ulster; but he renounced his throne, incensed at seeing his wily stepson +preferred to him, and was exiled because he had revenged the murder of +Usnach’s sons. Among the ancient Irish heroes he was the popular +favourite, princely in all his ways, magnanimous, truthful, just, and +not the less majestic because a man of mirth. His supplanter, Conor +Conchobar, was his opposite in all things, a man more sagacious, but +perfidious and implacable. At that time lived also Conal Carnach, and +his foster-son Cuchullain immeasurably the greatest of all Ireland’s +legendary warriors. His character is one so consistent and so original +that it suffices by itself to stamp the age which conceived it as high +among the most poetic of the world. Cuchullain has been called the +Achilles of early Erin; yet with the swiftness, the fierce impulse, and +indomitable might that belonged to the Greek, he blends in perfect +harmony qualities that remind us more of Hector. Like him, he is the +defender of the city, more inspired by patriotic zeal than even by his +love of glory: like him, he is generous, modest, forbearing to the weak. +It is to the strong only among his country’s foes that he is unpitying; +and even in his dealings with them there is no ferocity. They have to +die, and he slays them. He is reverent to both his parents--fiercely as +they were at variance with each other--to age, to woman; and about him, +even in his sterner moods, there plays often the joyous spirit of the +child. His devotion to Ferdīa is tenderer than that of Achilles to +Patroclus; but on him there has fallen a sterner duty. He has not to +avenge that friend, but to encounter and lay him low when the invader of +Uladh. The one blemish in Cuchullain’s life, his desertion of Aifné, his +boyhood’s love in Scatha’s Island, for a rival whose chief attraction +was perhaps that she could only be won by force of arms, is an episode +not included within the scope of the Tain. His lifelong aspiration was +fulfilled. A few years after the repulse of Meave, while the other +warriors of Ulster were engaged on an invasion of Alba (Scotland), +Cuchullain alone remained behind for the protection of his country. +Suddenly the forces of all the other kingdoms fell again upon the +northern land, stirred up by ancient hatred, and led on by a remnant of +Cailitin’s ‘Magic Clan.’ Cuchullain again held them at bay till the +return of the Ulster army: but it returned only in time to avenge his +death, still in the prime of youth, and to complete his work. + +It has been remarked that in the characters of Homer--so absolutely true +are they to nature--the qualities which bear the same name are yet +essentially different qualities; as, for example, courage as illustrated +in Achilles and Ajax, in Diomed and in Hector. This mark of truthfulness +strikes us at once in the Tain. The kingly valour of Fergus, thoughtful +and serene, has nothing in common with the animal fearlessness of Lok +Mac Favesh, or the blind patriotic fury of Ketherne, and but little with +that of Ferdīa. In Cuchullain, courage is an inspiration descending from +above upon a being essentially emotional, and though always brave, yet +sensitive and capable of awe. We smile at the boundless admiration +lavished on strength by all early races; nor shall we understand it +aright while we suppose that it was, indeed, directed to mere physical +qualities. This was not so. Body and soul were not then thus carefully +discriminated; the heroic deed was attributed, not to the hand alone, +but to the warrior himself, his heart and his brain; and not to the man +only, but to some divine aid, his because deserved by him. Cuchullain is +the chief example of heroism thus conceived. He is slender as a maid; +but in the crisis of battle, when his spirit kindles, his stature +becomes gigantic. This close connection between the material and the +spiritual explains the rapidity with which the wounds of these legendary +heroes heal. Should there ever come a time when the spiritual is the +chief object of man’s reverence, the present adulation of mere intellect +will be looked on as we regard the enthusiasm bestowed on martial might +in days gone by. + +The imaginative literature of early races wears a rough exterior; but as +we are told of a ‘latent heat,’ so there exists a latent thoughtfulness; +and it is often found unexpectedly in the depths of a tale which on its +surface reveals no disposition to deal with hard problems. The reader of +the Tain will be reminded of this truth in proportion as he understands +the relative position of the Irish kingdoms at the time it describes. +Connaught was the most barbaric as well as the poorest of them all; +while Ulster had even then reached that superiority in strength and +wealth, and in civilisation both civil and military, which for so many +centuries she retained. Her king was the subtlest and most powerful of +the Irish kings; and her celebrated ‘Red Branch Knights’ were the most +gallant order of Irish chivalry. The more astonishing, consequently, was +the utter prostration, a defeat without a battle, into which she so +suddenly fell. Without any apparent cause her strength changed to +weakness, and her wisdom to folly. It was the rebuke of her pride. At +the critical moment of her fortunes her great ones began to babble and +talk nonsense. All that their country had been they forgot; and the near +future they looked on through what the Tain calls ‘a mist of +imbecility,’ and attributes to witchcraft. Equally striking is the +change which takes place when the spell is reversed. The inferior nation +can neither use nor retain the advantages accidentally and dishonestly +gained, and defeat succeeds to triumph. I know of nothing else in poetry +which resembles this. Possibly it might be easier to find a parallel in +history. + +The Tain, a work which, while abounding in passion, distinctly includes +an element of humour and irony, suffers nothing from a revulsion so +strange. It ends with a great event, a battle and an overthrow; and if +that catastrophe is but a ‘conclusion inconclusive,’ and no results +remain behind, in this very circumstance lies a special significance of +the work. To this issue the whole leads up, and the reader is not taken +by surprise. Throughout the tale he finds the same strange mixture of +ardent affections with causeless hatreds; of quick sympathies with +injustice and ferocity; of high daring with a blundering the consequence +not of incapacity, but of tortuous acuteness. Everywhere he finds the +contrast between the emotional in excess and an all but complete absence +of discipline, whether moral or mental. Such characteristics may last +for centuries, but the end is ever the same--exertions that amaze, and +abortive results. The only cause for surprise is that a moral so grave +should have been unconsciously bequeathed by an ancient work, written to +amuse, not instruct. The explanation is that a poem true to the time and +to the characters it commemorates, teaches by necessity what they teach. + +The relation in which St. Kiaran stood to the Tain illustrates that of +the Christian priesthood to the imaginative traditions of Ireland. The +living bards and the clergy could not but be rivals, but it was often a +friendly rivalship; and as regards the bards of past centuries, there +was no room for jealousy. By degrees the clergy took an interest in the +ancient tales, and became attached to what they befriended. Amid many +extravagances they detected doubtless a significance which escapes the +half-closed eye of a cynic shrewdness. Occasionally they added to old +legends an interpolation which might have surprised those who had first +sung them. Thus we read that Cuchullain, when going forth to his last +battle, heard a choir of angels singing above that hill on which the +cathedral of Armagh was destined one day to stand; that he was pleased +by the anthem, and that his pleasure in it was accepted as a homage of +good-will. Elsewhere he is represented as fleeting in his war-car, after +death, above his beloved Emania. He sings,-- + + I played on breaths + Above the horses’ steam: + There used to be broken before me + Great battles on every side: + +yet he ends with a warning to the race of man, and announces the day of +judgment. + +The teachers of those days doubtless believed that religion could afford +to be indulgent towards minstrels who had been true to such lesser +lights as they possessed. Paganism in those days was too little +insidious to be dangerous. There is a paganism in literature much more +formidable than theirs; but it had not then manifested itself. It +belongs to that corrupted civilisation which uses against Christianity +those intellectual and imaginative gifts, as well as that social and +scientific progress, which it owes to Christianity alone. It belongs +also to that merely conventional civilisation which has scanty dealings +either with nature or with the supernatural. Nature, even in periods +branded as ‘barbaric,’ has qualities that indicate a sympathy with the +divine; for it has ardent affections, a simple refinement, singleness of +aim, a marvellous self-sacrifice, and those unblunted sensibilities, +both of love and reverence, without which the loftiest revealed truths +cease to have a meaning. The heroic at its highest stretches forth its +hands to the spiritual; and its very deficiencies are a confession that +it needs to be supplemented by a something higher than itself. We must +not confound the ‘savage’ state which has fallen beneath the dominion of +blind sense, with the ‘barbaric’ which has not yet ascended into the +clearer day, but which in its twilight has a gleam of coming morn. If +Ireland, once converted to the faith, filled the world with her +missions, there must have existed in her previously a thoughtfulness as +well as a fearlessness each of which found its way at last into the +nobler fields of enterprise. It is not unlikely that the apostle from +Clonmacnoise and Iona often cheered his way over the Northumbrian moors +or through the Teuton forest with a ballad about Cuchullain as well as +with a Latin hymn of Sedulius. + +The mode in which the pagan legend sometimes put on a Christian +interpretation is especially illustrated in the ‘Children of Lir.’ Even +in its later form that tale is said to be anterior to the year 1000; but +as an oral tradition it probably existed, like the social and political +conditions it records, centuries before the Christian Era. A narrative, +at first but the record of some dreadful crime in a heathen household, +changed by degrees into a mystic hymn on the sanctity of childhood, its +capacity for the heavenly hope, its obedience, endurance, and fidelity, +its power through entire simplicity to find, in the strangest +affliction, purification only and a whiter innocence. Under the trials +of nine centuries those sufferers alone retain a perpetual childhood; +their father’s house, and the still lake before it, stand ever before +their imagination; and the burden of the years but falls on them for a +moment, to be flung aside for ever. Their ‘songs in the night season,’ +the swan-song of a long dying, wafted over unstable waters for the +solace of the strong ones dwelling on the land, imply that the martial +bards of old knew in part the higher and serener function of poetry. It +is significant that while the sentenced belong to the earlier Tuatha de +Dannan race, the witch, while imprecating upon them the curse, addresses +them thus:--‘Ye of the white faces, of the stammering _Gael_.’ +Apparently some bard of a later day resolved that these children of an +unblessed stock should be a prophetic anticipation of the Gael whose +boast was his faith. There was to be again a Ruth out of Moab, one not +gleaning amid the fields of promise, but scattering their earliest seed; +a Gentile with a faith not found in Israel, yet an Israelite indeed. A +prose translation of this tale, among the earliest at once and the most +signally modified of the Irish legends, was made by my early friend, +Gerald Griffin,[4] a man who, when certain to attain the first place +among Irish popular writers, passed it by for a humble one among the +‘Christian Brothers.’ + +The ‘Children of Lir’ is perhaps the chief memorial of that Tuatha de +Dannan race, which had held sway for two centuries before the invasion +of the Gael, and yet were themselves regarded as intruders by the +Firbolgs. Lir and Bove, Tuathan kings, were separated by seven centuries +from ‘Conn of the Hundred Fights.’ The great names of Tyr-Owen and +Tyr-Conel had not risen; and 1,800 years had to pass before the +foundations were laid of those abbeys and castles now in ruins. Yet +then, too, there were monuments. The Tuathan might have pointed out to +his Gaelic conqueror a cairn which still remains on the coast of Sligo, +that of Eochy, King of the Firbolgs. On the banks of the Boyne he might +have made boast of a huge sepulchral mound still shown to the traveller, +the tomb of Lewy, in whose veins the blood of the Tuatha was blended +with that of the earlier Fomorian pirates. We know not whether the +Dun-Aengus had yet lifted its ponderous masses on Aran Island; but two +centuries were to go by before Queen Macha traced the foundations of +Emania, and five before Queen Meave built the palace of Cruachan. It is +remarkable that while numerous Firbolg monuments, and in some places the +race itself, survive, the mediæval genealogies include no descent from +the Tuatha de Dannan. They are described as an unwarlike race that +worked in mines, and practised magical arts--arts through which, when +dispossessed by a stronger foe, they had ‘retired into invisibility,’ +living an immortal life among hills and under lakes. + +The ‘Children of Lir,’ and the ‘Sons of Usnach’[5] are two of those +tales which in Ireland were always known as ‘the Three Sorrows of Song.’ +Critics who regard the ‘Tain bo Cuailgné’ but as a single fragment of a +great Irish epic, include the second among the remaining fragments. To +me it seems that each work is structurally complete in itself; but that, +in spirit, the two are strikingly unlike, the ‘Tain’ being essentially +epic, while the ‘Sons of Usnach’ is a tragedy cast in a narrative form. +The idea of fate enters into it as strongly as into any Greek play, its +heroine, the ‘Babe of Destiny,’ being, of all those who have a part in +the tale, the one least subdued by that destiny which she strives in +vain to avert. Those who charge the Irish race with a fatalism supposed +to be a mark of its Eastern origin, may point to this tale as a proof +that the characteristic is at least an ancient one. + +It is natural to compare the Irish legends with those of other races. An +eminent Irish scholar asserts that the ‘Tain bo Cuailgné is to Irish +history what the Argonautic expedition, and the Seven against Thebes, +are to the Grecian.’ Landor’s ‘Hellenics’ represent many of the least +known Greek legends, and his ‘Gebir’ might be taken for a recovered +Greek ‘lesser epic;’ but with such poems the Irish legends can boast +little affinity. The best of the Roman have perished, except those which +Livy preserved by appropriating, and which, notwithstanding their large +element of fiction, constitute perhaps the most true, because the most +characteristic portion of the earlier Roman history. Between the Irish +and such Scandinavian legends as the celebrated ‘Story of the Volsungs +and Niblings’ there is one striking resemblance. In each case the +earliest existing prose version obviously represents a metrical work +earlier still, large fragments of which survive, cropping up in it like +sea rocks that indicate the hills submerged. In the ‘Tain’ many +passages, besides those which can be called poetical, thus hold their +own, apparently but because the trouble of altering them was thus +evaded. That Scandinavian tale has a keen-edged, concentrated might +about it, together with, at least in Mr. Morris’s translation, a +corresponding force and an exquisite beauty of style; and in these +respects I think it superior to the ‘Tain:’ but the latter will probably +be deemed by impartial readers to have the advantage in imagination, +varied conception of character, and pathos. As regards comparative +antiquity the ‘Tain’ must have preceded the Northern work by at least +six centuries. The latter includes a chapter, the fourteenth, entitled +‘The Welding together of the Shards of the Sword Grana,’ taken, as might +seem, from ‘The Knighting of Cuchullain,’ so close is the +resemblance--as close as that between the Spanish story of the ‘Monk and +the Bird,’ known to the English reader through Archbishop Trench’s +charming poem, and the Irish tale regarded as its original. The best +characteristics of Irish legends, a certain swiftness and daring, a +wildness of invention, a power that in its fiercest moods is often +subtly combined with grace, and a tenderness as often alternated with +humour, are found chiefly in the earlier. The highest inspiration of the +Bards seems to have passed away not long after Ireland became Christian. +‘Great Pan was dead,’--slain by the shaft of a mightier light. The +further back we go the higher is the imagination, the energy, and even +the art; the legends of the Heroic Age surpassing the mediæval in +refinement as much as in force, and the mediæval escaping the +extravagancies and vulgarities sometimes found in those of later days. +In ancient Ireland history and poetry had but a single Muse, and the +bard who professed to be ‘a maker’ would have found no listener. Through +all its changes the traditional legend claimed a foundation of truth, +and pointed ever to some unmeasured antiquity. In that early springtide +the hard and rugged March buds of Song were scarcely distinguishable +from the rough rind of fact out of which they had pushed. + +The present work concludes a series of poems intended to illustrate +Irish history at its chief periods. The ‘Legends of St. Patrick’ deal +with Ireland’s ‘saintly time,’ and ‘Inisfail’ with those six centuries +between the Norman invasion and the repeal of the penal laws in the +latter half of the eighteenth century--a period calamitously +misrepresented by partisan historians; one in which the wild passions +and wilder political theories which, since the first French Revolution, +have in so many countries directed high aspirations to mean or fatal +ends, had no existence; a period of which ‘all the struggles were +characterised by the spirit of liberty, nor less by that of loyalty, +whether directed to Gaelic princes, to Norman chiefs who had become +Irish, to Charles, or James.’[6] Another period remained, that of +Ireland’s ‘Heroic Age.’ This volume is a contribution to its +illustration. I trust that the poets of a later day will illustrate it +more worthily, and do for Irish history what the lofty and stainless +poetry of Scott did for that of his country. The theme is large; and the +quarry, so rich in materials, is as yet scarcely opened. Notwithstanding +the destruction of numberless Irish books which certainly existed as +late as 1631, and the yet larger number known to have been extant in the +eleventh century, besides the vast collections which perished during the +Danish invasions, we are informed that the Irish books still preserved +in Trinity College, Dublin, and the Royal Irish Academy would alone fill +30,000 quarto pages. These volumes exist, almost all of them, in MS. +only; while a few, which, without State aid or any public encouragement, +have been translated, remain unprinted--a circumstance not honourable +either to Ireland’s patriotism, or to that love of learning once her +boast. A mere fragment of the remaining surplus from the Irish Church +property would restore to light all the best specimens of ancient Irish +genius for the benefit not of Ireland’s sons only, but of learning in +all lands; and she has still scholars competent to the task. Those who +cannot study the originals may wish to know where they may find some +valuable translations. Several have appeared in the ‘Atlantis,’ a +periodical established in connection with the Catholic University of +Ireland when Cardinal Newman was its rector, in the publications of the +‘Ossianic Society,’ of the ‘Irish Archæological and Celtic Society,’ and +of the ‘Kilkenny Archæological Society.’ The English reader is more +likely to be already acquainted with Dr. O’Donovan’s great translation +of the ‘Annals of the Four Masters;’ with the works of Dr. Petrie, of +Dr. Todd, and Dr. Reeves; with the ‘Tripartite Life of St. Patrick,’ +translated, as well as many ancient tales, by Mr. W. M. Hessessy; with +Dr. Joyce’s ‘Old Celtic Romances;’ and with Mr. Standish O’Grady’s +brilliant bardic ‘History of Ireland.’ How entirely early Irish legends +are susceptible of a high poetic rendering in our own day can be doubted +by no one who has read the poems founded on them which we owe to the +genius of Sir Samuel Ferguson.[7] + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + CONTENTS. + + + PAGE + THE SONS OF USNACH 1 + + THE CHILDREN OF LIR 71 + + THE FORAY OF QUEEN MEAVE: + Prologue 117 + 1. The Cause of the Great War 119 + 2. The Deeds of Cuchullain 143 + 3. The Combat at the Ford 160 + 4. The Invasion of Uladh 183 + 5. Queen Meave’s Retreat 201 + + NOTES 231 + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + THE SONS OF USNACH + + + + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + TO THE MEMORY + + OF + + EUGENE O’CURRY, + + FIRST PROFESSOR OF IRISH HISTORY IN THE + CATHOLIC UNIVERSITY OF IRELAND, + + THIS POEM + + IS DEDICATED. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + _THE SONS OF USNACH._ + + + + + CANTO THE FIRST. + + + In Felim’s house they kept the royal feast, + And all the echoing hall with tumult rang, + Tumult that still from morn to eve increased; + And now the tale they told, and now they sang. + Chief minstrel he to Conor, Uladh’s[8] lord, + Who graced that day, as oft, his favourite’s board. + + Sudden to Felim’s seat a woman rushed, + An ancient nurse with wrinkled face and worn + Clamouring, her hands upheld and forehead flushed, + ‘Felim, rejoice! for lo, thy babe is born! + And proud be thou, for goodlier is this child + Than e’er till now on proudest parent smiled!’ + + These tidings heard, yet higher swelled the acclaim; + The Red Branch Knights oft pledged that infant’s health, + And prayed that all high gifts of wealth and fame, + Great lordship, and great valour, and great wealth + Might grace its life, and in the far-off days + Compass its head with everlasting praise. + + But when an hour had passed, and somewhat more, + The feasters heard far off a dulcet strain, + And soon to them there entered damsels four; + With measured step advanced they twain by twain, + Bearing a cradle. On a low-raised throne + They reared it, bowered in silk, and blossom-strewn. + + Therein a little maiden-wonder lay + Unlike all babes besides in mien and hue, + Bright as a lily-bud at break of day + That flashes through the night’s unlifted dew: + Beaming her eyes; like planets glad and fair: + And o’er her forehead curved a fringe of hair. + + The tender fairy hand, whose substance fine + Glimmered as of compacted moonbeams made + With such a stealthy smoothness did it shine, + Above the coverlet unquiet strayed; + And some one said, ‘It knows the things to be, + And seeks its wand of destined empery!’ + + From bannered stalls the Red Branch Knights drew nigh + Circling that cradle. ’Neath the raftered roof + A far-sunk window opened to the sky, + While purple twilight wove with warp and woof + O’er deepening heavens its dewy mantle dark, + And dusking woods, that hour unseen; when, hark + + Outside that casement rang a piercing wail; + Then, past it slow, a dread and shrouded Form + On demon wings was seen of all to sail: + Shriek after shriek out-swelled into a storm: + And o’er that flower new-born of infancy + All heard the Banshee’s death-denouncing cry. + + Then, from his seat in that high hall remote + Whereon all day in silence he had sate + Advanced, unguided, to that Infant’s cot + Cathbad, the Druid old, and man of Fate, + And o’er that infant held his arms out-spread, + And raised to heaven his grey and sightless head + + At last he spake, ‘This day a woe to man, + And yet the crown of woman’s kind, is born: + This day is sent a blessing and a ban; + She shall be black as night, and white as morn; + And lo, upon her cheek I see such red + As stains great warriors on the war-field dead. + + ‘A death to mighty hosts that face shall be: + Through her a king shall pass to banishment: + Through her shall perish Usnach’s peerless Three; + Through her from sacred Eman’s[9] roofs fire-rent + Even now I see the reddening smoke-cloud leap: + Deirdré her name. Through her shall widows weep.’ + + King Conor heard, and in his angry mood + Had risen to speak her doom; ‘That child shall die!’ + Save that the Uladh nobles where they stood + The king forestalling, hurled abroad their cry; + ‘She must not live!’ Of all those knights but two + Will’d not that deed--the bravest Erin knew. + + For at that hour upon the cradle’s right + Stood Conal Carnach; at its left, though young, + Swifter in chase, and stronger yet in fight, + Cuchullain. Neither swelled that shout of wrong. + Once more it rose: but Conor ne’er was known + To walk in any counsel save his own. + + He spake: ‘She shall not die: this babe I take, + My ward, until her destinies be known: + An isle tower-girt is mine in yonder lake: + There shall she live; and there shall live alone: + By none that fatal beauty shall be seen: + Full-grown the maid perchance may be my queen.’ + + Wondering they heard, but no man made reply, + For Conor’s will was lord to all and each, + A man of counsel deep, and purpose high, + In action sudden, sparing of his speech: + Early he won the people to his will: + Ere long they feared him: but they loved him still. + + While yet a child, the stepson of that king + Who reigned in Uladh, Fergus son of Roy, + Conor had shared his home. That prince would bring + Oft to his judgment court Queen Nessa’s boy + Whose forward wit unravelled every suit, + Delighting in the wrangling clan’s dispute. + + Fergus was loftier-minded: ever more + He loathed the sordid plea, the varnished wrong, + And inly scorned the Ollamb’s learnèd lore: + More dear to him the chase, the feast, the song: + Wearied one day, he cried with laughing face, + ‘Conor! speak thou the judgment in my place!’ + + The boy made answer none; but instant bowed, + And judgment gave so full, so just, so clear, + A shout rang upward from the astonished crowd, + ‘Worthy of kingship thou!’ His crowned compeer, + Fergus arose; incensed he made reply; + ‘Throne him your king, if worthier he than I!’ + + Conor since then had ruled the Ulidian race, + And ever waxed in subtlety and power, + Though better loved was Fergus’ honest face, + And princely port, forth issuing from his tower + At times with horse and hound to chase the boar, + Crowning at times the topmost ridge of war. + + Conor was loved and feared: one clan alone + Nor feared, nor loved him, Usnach’s: and the king + In Usnach’s house a rival to his throne + Or noting, or belike imagining, + Still watched that house to crush it, had he dared; + But Uladh loved it, and her monarch spared. + + Meantime to that green island in the lake + The years came softly: softly went they by + As like as snowy flake to snowy flake, + As like as smile to smile, as sigh to sigh; + And as some flower that feeds on beams and dew + Its inmate rose in beauty ever new, + + Deirdré. With her abode an ancient dame, + The tale-recounter of the royal court + In years departed; Levarcam her name: + None other to that island made resort + Save now and then treading the downward rocks + Some shepherd with the firstling of his flocks. + + Beauteous as heaven that gladsome captive was; + With every month more fair, more gladsome grew; + Her pastime, counting jewels in the grass, + Emerald and amethyst, and sapphire blue, + Or chasing--never part had she in sloth-- + From bloom to bloom the evening-gilded moth. + + Impassioned friendships hers with every kind: + To her the Robin came; to her the Hare; + And still with insight flashed from heart to mind, + She guessed their lives in tree or bosky lair, + Sharing their vernal joys, and, when the snows + Besieged their haunts, condoling with their woes. + + Inquisitive the creature was, and brave: + From rock to rock alone she roamed; untaught + She knew to climb the tree and swim the wave; + Soaring and swift, for knowledge still she sought, + Nor sought in vain, far wiser than she wist; + Infantine minstrel, and mythologist. + + For when she heard the wintry tempests raving, + Fables she told of immemorial feuds, + And warring Gods that still, for vengeance craving, + Devastated some rival’s peaceful woods; + And when the morning shone, serene and mild, + She laughed and said, ‘These Gods are reconciled!’ + + Betwixt that island and the forest green + A causeway stretched. Scorning King Conor’s law, + O’er it in summer maidens tripped unseen, + And told her tales of all they heard and saw, + And flowers in May, and fruits in summer brought her, + Or with her danced beside the moonlit water. + + Two men alone she saw; at times the king: + His grizzled beard and searching eye she fled, + And wept to think that in some far-off spring + She must be his. That thought alone with dread + Touched her keen instinct. In that face august + Something unblest she saw, and ill to trust. + + Yet oft he came, watching that flower of beauty + That still from crude, reluctant bud emerged; + And citing still past vow, and future duty + Impledged thereby; and still with presents urged; + And ever reaped for such more scoffs than gain-- + Officious is his zeal whose hope is vain! + + The other visitor she better loved, + A Druid, silver-headed: to her isle + Daily he came, a teacher well-approved; + And much he taught her, with his grave calm smile + Advancing still into his pupil’s heart: + To elicit thence, he knew, was to impart. + + He taught her all a monarch’s bride had need + In those old days to learn. Devout and grave, + He taught her all the Ogham signs to read,[10] + Inscribed on mossy stone or mystic stave; + And how to trace green Erin’s Kings, each one + To Heber or Heremon, Ir, or Donn. + + One morn as on their glories he descanted, + ‘Where are they now?’ his wondering listener said; + Then silent stood, like shape to stone enchanted: + But when he answered sadly, ‘They are dead,’ + She bounded t’ward the on-wavering butterfly, + And cried, ‘At least he lives; and so do I!’ + + Once too she caught that Druid by the sleeve, + And spake; ‘Great Master, this I ask of thee! + Who was it made the sun, the morn and eve, + The stars, the flying clouds, the boundless sea?’ + Her great wide eyes, clasped hands, and lips compressed, + Better than words enforced the unending quest. + + The Druid answered, dubious, still refining + With stress and strain of profluent words that left + The problem’s jet-black surface smooth and shining + But ne’er the mystery’s heart of marble cleft, + And ended; ‘God is God:--but ah, the woe! + That which God is, not even the Druids know!’ + + ‘Then God must be a God who hides Himself + In sport, or else for cause we know not of! + And doubtless,’ thus ran on the careless elf, + ‘Who hides in sport will show His face in love; + Much seeking will not find Him. He will come + Then when He wills; and take His children home. + + ‘For I remember once in yonder wood + My nurse, to mock me, hid her in an oak, + Whilst idly I a dragon-fly pursued: + I missed her soon: I wept: then forth she broke! + Thus likewise God, hearing His creatures moan, + Will flash on them, and cry, “Mine own, mine own!” + + ‘That day the wise will serve Him; but the fool + Will sport with Ogham stave, or dragon-fly + That lights his spark--lo there--on dusky pool! + Of those that sport at once, and serve am I! + Therefore, come quickly, God! And thou, good stave, + Fly hence!’ And forth she flung it on the wave! + + But when she found within the Master’s face, + Not wrath--for that she looked--but awe-struck woe, + A change there passed, too swift for eye to trace, + Athwart her rain-dark eyes, and front of snow; + And straight the child, by love’s remorse possessed, + Kissed with her whole bright face that Druid’s breast. + + The years passed by; and, onward as they sped, + That child from beauty still to beauty grew; + In her, full many a fair one came and fled + Like sunny gleams that each the last pursue; + And yet that glad succession brought no change; + Each child in turn was wilful, sweet, and strange. + + Older, beyond her island bounds she strayed + Despite the king; for, ever since her birth, + Of nought that tender heart had been afraid: + Banshee, or ghost, she heard of, now with mirth, + And now with awe, but never with affright; + And gladly would have faced them if she might. + + Not so old Levarcam! a spasm of dread + Oft blanched her cheek remembering Conor’s word, + ‘Keep safe the child, or forfeit is thy head!’ + In Deirdré’s absence, if a leaf but stirred + She shook; and endless tales, and legends told + To keep her young lamb safe within the fold. + + She told how first, from regions of the morn + With black-sailed ships stemming the ocean tide + To Erin’s forest, yet of men forlorn, + Came Partholan, the Grecian Parricide: + And how the ill race had perished. Deirdré cried + With reddening cheek; ‘Glad am I that they died!’ + + Then, with a brightening in her old, pale face, + Her nurse resumed: ‘But we--the Gael--but we, + The offspring are we of a lordlier race, + The heirs of some diviner destiny! + King Miledh was our sire! From far Espán + His dauntless sons led forth the Gaedil clan.’ + + Of Scota next she told, the widowed Queen; + And how that sad one left her lonely throne + Girt by eight sons; and how, with eye serene, + She marked above the wine-black ocean prone + The monsters rise; nor feared to watch the wave + Heaven-high, anon descending to its grave. + + Time on her brow had graved no characters; + Sorrow no splendour stol’n from that wide eye + That ever, as the legend old avers, + Reposed on some far seat of sovereignty + By others hoped;--to her alone revealed + Beyond sea-cloud, and ocean’s heaving field. + + She saw the waves engulf the drowning decks; + Yet nought could scare that eye, or blanch that cheek: + Four sons she saw upon their mastless wrecks + High driven on Erin’s rocks and headlands bleak + From Inver Scena to the house of Donn: + She said; ‘The price is paid; the Isle is won!’ + + She saw the victory’s prelude and no more; + Half-way ’twixt ocean marge and mountain crest + Where sleep the Great Ones of the days of yore + Early she made her venerable rest, + And holds, well-pleased, an ever-spreading fame, + Sealing a mighty people with her name.[11] + + Not all the themes were war: the fabler told + Of Feale, the dusk-eyed beauty of the South, + By Lewy won mid olive forests old: + Such minstrelsies went freshening from his mouth + That in his hand her own the princess placed, + Nor feared, his wife, to dare the wan sea-waste. + + She told how, later, by that northern tide + A blush of causeless shame her cheek had stained; + And how, heart-grieved at fancied wrong, she died, + Where wrong was none; and how her husband plained + Year after year, while she, at Scota’s feet, + Rested revered where earth and ocean meet. + + Next told she how for Tara’s King they found + No consort worthy of the royal bed + From east to west through Erin’s utmost bound; + And how, dream-warned, the youth had northward sped: + And how, from fountain-bower by Fairy Brugh, + A white maid looked on him with eyes of blue. + + And how that beauteous phantom, Eadane, + Had laid a hand like light upon his hair; + And next, lest he should die of yearnings vain, + Assumed a woman’s form, though woven of air; + And borne him pretty babes within their bower; + Yet ofttimes bade him ’ware the destined hour. + + And how at Tara, while the nobles sate + Gracing his feast, that queen sent forth a cry: + And how the Fairy-King through guards and gate + Passed swiftly, mailed in dew-like jewelry, + And like a whirlwind bore in sight of all, + The Fairy Princess to her father’s hall! + + While thus the tales ran on, the years ran by, + Tales, some of sadness, some of mirth and jest, + Till now the child to maiden prime was nigh: + The tales of war and wonder pleased her best: + The love-tales well began, no doubt: yet all + Ended, she thought, in something slight and small. + + And still whate’er she heard of good and pure + Within the virgin’s memory held its place + Like names on tree-stems graved that aye endure: + Of questionable things survived no trace: + They passed, like letters written in a rill + That upward laughs to heaven, re-virgined still. + + One day it chanced that, while the March wind’s breath + Was softening round the daffodil’s first bud, + Their shepherd old had saved a lamb from death, + And slain the wolf, and in their gateway stood; + And, as the wounded creature bled, below + A crimson blood-pool stained the last night’s snow. + + Sudden there swooped to earth a raven black, + And feasted on that blood. As in a dream + The maiden watched it long: at last she spake, + Whilst o’er her grave face ran a laughing gleam, + ‘These be Love’s colours, black and red, and white;-- + Yet love we know, is nought, when judged aright! + + ‘These be Love’s colours, white and black, and red:-- + Some little foolish maid, to love inclined, + Might say: “Though all should love me none shall wed + Until in one dear face those three I find; + Not raven locks alone, or front of snow, + But on the heroic cheek the battle’s glow!”’ + + Beside the girl stood Levarcam; she smiled, + And spake; ‘Good sooth, your shaft hath hit its mark; + Yea doubtless, you were born a prophet’s child! + For Naisi’s front is white, his tresses dark; + And still of him men say; “On Naisi’s cheek + Not roses, but red dawns of battles break!”’ + + Then to the flash from Deirdré’s peerless eyes + Her nurse made answer; ‘Naisi! who is he? + Warrior there treads not under Erin’s skies + But knows the man! the swiftest of those Three! + No hounds they need! alone they chase, each morn, + The stag, and downward drag him head and horn! + + ‘Ever at Uladh’s feasts the clansmen say + “Set ye the sons of Usnach side by side, + A rock behind them, or some cromlech grey, + Then blow a trump o’er Erin, far and wide; + And range her hosts against them, face to face, + Those Three shall hew them down, and homeward chase!” + + ‘Their singing is the best all Uladh boasts; + Of all her sons most courteous they and kind; + To heaven devoutest of her countless hosts: + Softly along his path they lead the blind; + Submission made, no more remember ill; + Nor ever kissed a maid against her will. + + ‘To these the clans send embassies from far + Laden with gifts, and suing, “Grant us aid! + Rule us in battle’s hour, and head our war!” + But women say, “How well their mother prayed + For sons both mild and valiant!” Lo, a ray + Of her sweet countenance lives in theirs this day!’ + + Here Levarcam a moment stopped for breath; + Then Deirdré rose and sought the neighbouring strand: + Ice-bound it was, and cold that hour as death: + To her ’twas warm as mead by May breeze fanned: + She paced along its pebbly beach for hours; + And to her feet its shingles felt like flowers. + + Returned, more lofty looked she than at morn; + With more of inward gladness, yet less gay; + More confident, though lost her girlish scorn + In some half womanhood’s benigner ray: + Smiling, she met her nurse’s smile, and then + ‘Naisi,’ she said, ‘will love me! Who cares when?’ + + The maiden paused; she mused; again she spake, + Fixing on Levarcam those marvellous eyes; + ‘Three be Love’s colours--white, and red, and black: + White, for the sake of Love’s white sanctities; + And red, for Love must war on many a foe; + And black, since Love, though crowned, must end in woe.’ + + Again she mused:--‘Yes, Love must war! Who fears? + Though Love must fight, he fights in love, not hate! + Some glorious conflict rages through the years; + Great Love must take therein his part, elate. + And woe comes last. On raven pinions borne + Night comes not less:--but after night comes morn!’ + + From that time Naisi’s name she named no more; + Nothing she seemed to lack; nothing to crave: + Her heart through spiritual realms was strong to soar, + Self-lifted as from windless seas the wave; + A spirit of strength from earthly bonds escaped + She trod; her body’s self but spirit draped; + + A Spirit of strength and swiftness onward borne + Through luminous realms, all resonant and free, + Happier because unwinged, like endless morn + With silver feet circling the spherèd sea: + And still her lonely thought with song was blent; + And bird-like still she warbled as she went. + + For music then, like warfare, not from art + Grew up laborious:--born of frank good-will, + ’Twas Joy’s loud clarion in the generous heart; + Through pains more perfect grew the harper’s skill; + Yet still from purest soul, and noblest breast + The minstrelsy perforce became the best. + + Deirdré besides, on Naisi’s music musing-- + That strain far-famed she once had heard in dream-- + Through some strange craft of Nature’s sweet infusing + Unconscious copied it. A lily’s gleam + Shines thus, reflected in the lake below, + More softly, green for green, and snow for snow. + + Once too she marked two mated eagles flying + Far from their cliff, her little lake above, + Sunward in strength, and clapped her hands loud crying, + ‘On, wedded Spirits, on! for this is Love! + No woodland murmurs yours, and thraldom none! + Sail on till buried in the ascending sun!’ + + That vision shaped her life. Through wild and wood + Long hours that morn had Naisi chased the stag: + It took the wave and vanished. Silent stood + At noon the hunter on a jutting crag: + His eye upon a tower-crowned island fell; + Thereon it fastened, bound as by a spell. + + ‘There lies,’ he mused, ‘that wondrous-countenanced child, + Like some poor bird a captive from its birth, + In that lone island year by year exiled: + How little she suspects her grace and worth! + Our household foe ere long will clutch that hand-- + Is yon a causeway leading to the land?’ + + An hour had fled, and lo! that bridge he paced; + Ere long, no child, but, sparkling like a flower, + The imprisoned maid, nor startled nor shame-faced, + Passed by the youth, advancing from her bower + With breeze-like step, yet down-dropp’d lids of snow: + ‘Ah foot,’ he cried, ‘more light than foot of doe!’ + + An instant back she flashed her magic eyes + And from her laughing lip the answer leaped, + ‘Where stags are none, the doe must monarchise!’ + Some ballad old it was, but never steeped + Till then with such strange sweetness to his ear: + Was it reproof or challenge, vague yet dear? + + Naisi rejoined; ‘A monarch rules this land; + For you he destines Erin’s proudest throne! + Ah, but for that how many a warrior’s brand’-- + ‘His realm,’ she said, ‘is his: my heart mine own: + A maiden I have lived: maiden would die:’ + The warrior fixed on hers his strong grey eye. + + That eye, though young and sweet with such clear light, + Had marshalled many a death-strewn battle-field; + Had watched the meeting tides of many a fight; + Taught many a proud, inviolate fort to yield. + With gaze as frank and clear thus answered she, + ‘I know you well! the eldest of those Three! + + ‘Where are your brothers? She whom nurse I call + Has told me all the Three are kind and brave: + Fain would I sister be to each and all: + Fain too my life from love tyrannic save!’ + ‘Their sister you shall be,’ the youth replied; + ‘Mine if you will; but none the less my bride!’ + + He spake; then, for the maiden’s safety fearing, + With passion changed continued; ‘Spurn my suit! + The king will slay thee!’ She, the warrior nearing, + Held forth both hands, and gazed upon him mute; + And last, in love’s high truth--and truth is best-- + Made answer; ‘Thine!’ He snatched her to his breast. + + Thence lifting soon a countenance glad yet tearful, + She spake; ‘Your knighthood stands consummate now! + Since a true maid, of Conor’s wrath not fearful, + Has heard, and with her own has crowned your vow. + Forth, on your task decreed! Fly hence, and prove + Ten years in battle-fields what might hath Love! + + ‘In ten years bring me back your trophied spoils + From every land and clime; for mine they are! + I that inspired, can well requite your toils: + Ever till then, my spirit like a star, + Shall o’er you hang! Farewell! yet, ere you go, + Sing! for how great your songs long since I know.’ + + So, hand in hand, upon that causeway standing, + Those youthful lovers measure after measure + Poured forth, their bosoms more and more expanding + At once with music’s zeal, and love’s pure pleasure; + For Deirdré still her voice with Naisi’s twined, + All-perfect harmony though undesigned. + + And though till then no war-song she had sung + That hour her song grew warlike as his own! + And, o’er her heaven-like beauty as he hung, + His war-songs tender grew, and sweet of tone: + And still they sang, till now through woods loud ringing + The men of Erin, east and west, came winging, + + And found those lovers in that lonely haunt, + That sunset round them glowing and above; + And saw the forests flash, the blue waves pant; + And heard that mingled praise of war and love:-- + Then ceased that pair, and softly smiled, and said, + ‘What makes us glad is this; we two are wed!’ + + But when, to many a questioner replying, + They found that they had only met that noon, + The lovers laughed a sweet-voiced laughter, crying, + ‘We thought we had been wedded many a moon! + Great love, it seems, lives long in little time; + Yet shall great love be ever in his prime! + + ‘Perchance of us some future bard shall say, + Their bright, swift life went o’er them like a breath + Of stormy southwind in the merry May; + And brief their unfeared, undivided death: + For unto those who love, and love aright, + Life is Love’s day; and Death his long, sweet night.’ + + But straight the men of Erin cried aloud, + ‘The king, the king!’ and Naisi’s brothers twain, + Ainli and Ardan, though to help him vowed + At need, not less to break that troth were fain: + ‘Beware,’ they cried; ‘since Cathbad long ago + Foretold that Babe was born for Uladh’s woe!’ + + Yet, when within those lovers’ eyes they saw + Wild mirth alone, and blank astonishment, + They deemed the thing divine; and, though with awe, + Their spirits on the high adventure bent, + And council took, and with one mind decreed + That self-same night o’er Uladh’s bound to speed. + + This therefore was the order of their going: + A hundred warriors marching in the van; + A hundred maidens next with veils loose flowing; + A hundred clansmen next of Usnach’s clan, + And each a greyhound leading in a cord; + Swiftly with these they trod the moonlit sward. + + So well were Usnach’s sons both loved and feared + King Conor could but rail against the wrong: + All round the isle they marched with banner reared, + And trumpet blown, and many a tale and song, + Welcomed in court and camp both near and far, + From Esro’s[12] Falls to sea-beat Binedar.[13] + + Nathless through Conor’s craft such toils were woven + ’Twixt them and Erin’s Kings, to spare that wrong + Felt at low hearths when royal pacts are cloven, + They built by northern Moyle a fleet ere long, + And spread their sails from Kermnah Dûn, and o’er + The grey-green billows sailed to Alba’s shore. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + CANTO THE SECOND. + + + O noble Alba, Scotia later named, + Then when the race of Scota and her Lord + O’er all thy holy isles and highlands famed + Had raised the Gaelic harp, the Gaelic sword, + And Kenneth, Pictish rule extinguished, reared + That throne of kings for centuries revered! + + Great land of Alba! in that hour supreme + Conqueror, not conquered, wert thou! Thy great heart, + Flinging from off it, like a nightmare dream, + A sway ignobler, chose the better part, + Throning the lofty spirit in lofty place: + It brought thee bliss and bale, but nothing base! + + When, centuries earlier, stood on Alba’s coast + Usnach’s brave sons, her king received them well: + Treaty they made: they joined to his their host, + And taught him soon the insurgent tribes to quell, + Yet still they loved him not: ‘His soul is mean,’ + They said; ‘by him shall Deirdré ne’er be seen.’ + + Yet near his court they dwelt; and once it chanced + A palace churl while o’er the forest boughs + New leaved, the earliest beam of morning glanced, + Made way, with missives sent, to Naisi’s house, + And on by dusky doors, though timorous, crept, + And found at last that room where Naisi slept. + + Before its stony threshold slumbering lay + Ainli and Ardan, clasping, each, a sword, + For ever wont were these by night and day + Their brother and their sister thus to ward: + The intruder o’er them stepp’d and entrance made + To where in sleep that princely pair were laid. + + Between them stretched from pillow on to pillow + The massive trail of Deirdré’s luminous hair, + Like gold-touched tendrils of a budded willow + Breeze-blown against the dawn. Already there + The greedy, youngling sunrise made his feast, + Though still in cloud half muffled was the east. + + Longer that churl had stood save that in sleep + Growled the great wolf-hound couched beside the bed: + The traitor turned; and, skilled to crawl and creep, + Reached the half open gates, and homeward fled, + And found the king new-risen, and nodding spake, + ‘Rejoice, great monarch, for thy kingdom’s sake! + + ‘Till now thou hast not found a woman meet + In all thy land the royal throne to share; + Behold, the loveliest lady and most sweet + Of all the earth is near, and thou not ’ware! + Compared with her the rest are sheep and kine-- + Bid Naisi die! his consort crown as thine!’ + + Then told the man his tale from first to last + With added circumstance. The Pict replied + Well pleased, albeit at Naisi’s name aghast, + ‘To slay that chief were hard; to snare his bride + Were sweet. In secret traffic with her! Say, + She must be first my love; my queen one day!’ + + Forth sped the accursed one on his mission foul, + And came on Deirdré singing all alone, + And took his stand, ill visaged as a Ghoul, + And named the terms, base love and future throne: + And she with darkening eyes no word replied + Save this alone; ‘Till I return, abide!’ + + Swiftly she walked: she came where stood the Three; + Then from her white lips rushed her wrong like flame; + ‘Dishonoured wife!’ she cried, ‘with me, with me, + Though not the treason, lives for aye the shame! + Ah, surely never wife such scorn has known + Unless the fault was first in part her own!’ + + But Naisi smiled, forth issuing with his brand, + And said but this; ‘Abide till I return;’ + And soon, that head ill-omened in his hand, + Came back with countenance bright, at once and stern: + Then Deirdré spake, ‘My hand had borne that freight + If thine had spared it! At the bad king’s gate + + ‘Lay first that head, and march we hence this night!’ + The Brothers answered; ‘No! nor yet three days!’ + Three days in pride they paced a neighbouring height: + Three days the Pict, thus challenged, stood at gaze, + And ofttimes grimly turned from lord to lord: + They answered nought; nor any raised his sword. + + But when the fourth dawn o’er the forest soaring + Sent through the heavens divergent beams of splendour, + Upon the earth glory and gladness pouring, + That host arose; nor took they farewell tender: + Three stones the clansman, each, above his head + Flung backward far in scorn: then forth they sped. + + And, lest the sun should dazzle Deirdré’s eyes, + Westward that morn their pilgrimage began: + First, under standards bright with myriad dyes, + A hundred Usnach warriors led the van: + Maids next: then clansmen, holding, each, a hound + That strained against the leash with bark and bound. + + Ere long their march was through the misty highlands: + They tracked Glenorchy’s immemorial woods; + Loch Lomond’s bosky mountain-skirts and islands; + Birch-braided Katrine’s sylvan solitudes; + And where on shores of Fyne, now low now higher, + With punctual tide the salt sea floods respire. + + Meantime the natives of those lonely regions + Came fiercely forth from many a distant shore + Though worsted oft, in ever thickening legions, + Till now the foray swelled into the war; + And still there flocked from Uladh’s coast in swarms + Her noblest youth, their great one’s mates in arms. + + For still, beside the spring her pitcher watching, + The maid would sing of Naisi’s strength and fleetness, + Ofttimes in turn on breeze of evening catching + Some shepherd’s song of Deirdré’s truth and sweetness: + And still they ended, each; ‘Ill deed, King Conor, + That banished such! Alas, the land’s dishonour!’ + + With varying fortune long time raged the feud: + Clan Usnach triumphed now: anon the foe: + And oft, a swordless warrior mild of mood, + Amid those Three was Deirdré seen: and lo! + Still, as the radiance bickers round the gem, + So flashed the battle’s flame round her and them. + + Thus lived they prosperous mid that storm of war, + In victory glad, not downcast in defeat: + Three winter months when fortune pressed them sore + Within a western isle they made retreat, + The nearest of those rock-bound Hebrides + Set mid the crystal splendour of the seas. + + With Spring-tide back returned they. Victory’s sun + Full-orbed that April on their banners played: + A third part of the realm their valour won: + Last, with the Picts alliance firm they made, + And making kept. All things thenceforth went well; + And gladsome were their sports on field and fell. + + It was that season when the spirit of joy + Runs million-footed forth through earth and air; + When the hale shepherd grows once more the boy; + The girl-like youth is prompt to do and dare; + When womanhood looks softer than its wont; + The star shines whiter on the infant’s front. + + It was that season when the maiden’s heart, + Though guarded, faster beats against its bound; + When Love’s long hidden fount, by happier art + Divined, is nearer to the surface found: + When to the faded cheek returns its bloom; + And tears less bitter stain the flower-decked tomb. + + It was that season when on fields late dreary + Thickest at dawn the awakened daisy throngeth; + When in the dim sweet gloaming, never weary, + Latest her song the darkling thrush prolongeth; + And pillow-spurning children fret for morn, + Fresh flowers, new leaves, and ecstacies re-born. + + Ah then to Naisi, and to Deirdré then + Like fire the gladness of the spring-tide came: + That causeway old they seemed to tread again, + Sang the same song! Love’s wild, yet vestal flame + Caught them once more as on that first of May; + And three glad wedded years became a day. + + Then, dawn by dawn, ere yet the low-tongued wind + From unreluctant buds their sweets was wooing, + While earliest shafts through ragged fissures blind + Of cloud forth flashed, the flying night pursuing, + Those brothers and that sister clomb the crag + And blew the horn, and roused the antlered stag. + + O joy his course through woodland gulfs to follow, + Deirdré and they, to Etive’s salt sea lake! + To hear from shadowy cliff and cavern hollow + Through glistening air the clarion’s echo break, + And mark, o’er wide green plain, and purple mere, + The mountain-wall its glooming bastion rear + + More high when seen through mist: to watch it quivering; + From rock to cloud to track the eagle’s flight; + And then, close by, on spray shining and shivering, + To mark the tender-footed bird alight, + Or flower down-bending ’neath the silenced bee, + Or gleam from rill remote on-winding noiselessly! + + And O, to hear in woods the loud hounds baying, + Or plunge of floods adown some hoarse ravine! + Or watch, from far, the waves o’er sea-ledge swaying; + Thence refluent dragged in trails of grassy green; + Or, farther yet, that surge forever hoary + Seething round lone tormented promontory! + + Three tents they planted where the forest’s skirt + Sheltered the lowland from the increasing heat; + In one, with hand assiduous and expert, + Deirdré prepared that food by toil made sweet; + In one they held their banquet; and in one + Sang their glad songs till half the night was done. + + And many a night on Etive’s flowery margin + She moved, while moonbeams glazed the purple wave, + Happiest of wives; light-footed as a virgin; + Or at the entrance of some ivied cave + Sang note prolonged that ended oft in laughter-- + Sweet were the days, pledging some sweet hereafter! + + One night, when Naisi to his rest had passed, + Deirdré, long lingering at the bridal door, + Her eyes on Ainli and on Ardan cast, + Great eyes with tears unused all misted o’er, + And took their hands, and spake, in low, soft tone, + ‘To you my Naisi’s weal is as your own! + + ‘But you, like Naisi, must have, each, your bride, + Unhumbled maids not willing to be wed, + To walk in glorying gladness at your side: + Find such, and I round each a silver thread + Will twine; and bring the creatures to you bound: + Discrowned the proud must be; and Love be crowned!’ + + The heroic song hath sorrows, but not sighs; + The heroic legend tender is, yet hard; + With grief alike, and joy, can sympathise, + Yet keeps the heroic heart from weakness barred. + Love’s ‘stormy southwind’ three glad years had blown: + Then Fate, that rules the nations, claimed her own. + + Thus it befell; once more at Conor’s call + The Red-Branch Knights partook their monarch’s feast, + Ranged ’neath their standards round Emania’s hall; + And when at last the hunger rage had ceased, + And many an echo of loud songs had died, + King Conor rose, thus speaking in his pride; + + ‘What say ye, Lords? Deem ye that kinglier cheer, + Or palace more majestic under sun, + Gladdens mankind than those that greet us here?’ + They answered, ‘Feast or house like thine is none!’ + Through the great hall the acclaim unmeasured brake: + It sank; and once again King Conor spake; + + ‘How say ye, Lords, for leave ye have to speak; + That which ye think, reveal: all doubts repel; + Find ye in Uladh aught decayed or weak, + Amiss, or lacking? Or are all things well?’ + And they made answer; ‘All things right we find, + Nor aught deficient. King, we speak our mind!’ + + Yet once again, King Conor rose and said, + ‘My mind is other-minded, Lords, than yours; + For I, though ne’er by random counsel swayed, + Far less by murmurs low of kernes and boors, + Find this amiss--that Usnach’s sons this day + For one bad woman’s sake are far away; + + ‘A loss to Uladh, and to me the most, + Lacking our bravest.’ Then the vast acclaim + Burst louder thrice from that exulting host; + And thus they cried; ‘We feared the royal blame, + And therefore hid our counsel; but that morn + Those Three return, old Uladh stands re-born.’ + + Again the plot-deviser rose and spake: + ‘Men of great stomachs, Lords, we count those Three: + “Exiles,” they sware, “we go: but ne’er come back + Till sureties strong are ours, and guarantee + By Conor sent, firm pledge of endless troth:” + Thus Naisi sware: and sacred is an oath. + + ‘Likewise thus vowed he, ne’er to tread again + Green Erin’s soil, his glory and his joy, + Till Conal Carnach fetched him o’er the main, + Or else Cuchullain, or the son of Roy, + Fergus, my dearest. I these three will test, + And learn by proof which loves King Conor best.’ + + Then Conor unto Conal signed; and these + Stood speaking in a casement far apart: + ‘Conal, if I should send thee o’er the seas, + And lo! on Uladh’s soil, through Naisi’s heart + The Fates sent darkness, what would happen then?’ + And Conal answered; ‘Deaths of many men! + + ‘King! if he fell, of Uladh’s sons one half + For Naisi’s sake should lie ere three days dead, + And for my surety broken.’ With a laugh + King Conor fillip’d Conal’s cheek, and said, + ‘Fool! that canst never understand a jest! + Go hence! It is not thou that lov’st me best!’ + + Next, to Cuchullain Conor signed; then spake; + ‘Cuchullain! if I sent thee o’er the sea, + With Usnach’s exiled sons a pact to make, + And then, despite thy surety given, those Three + Vanished, late-landed; what would happen then?’ + Cuchullain answered; ‘Deaths of many men! + + ‘For, not alone who wrought that deed accursed, + Slaying those Three, should perish by this hand, + But they the impious deed who counselled, first; + And, next the man who issued that command!’ + Then Conor frowned:--‘What night-mare loads thy breast? + Hence, for thou know’st me not; nor lov’st me best!’ + + To Fergus last the royal plotter signed, + And made, yet softlier tuned, the self-same quest; + But he the questioner’s meaning nought divined, + A Prince whose heart, uncovered as his crest, + Contemned disguise; suspecting treachery none + Thus answered Fergus, Roy’s once sceptred son: + + ‘King, thou, and I, and Usnach’s sons must die-- + What matters when, if spotless our good name? + The hand that strikes in daylight I defy; + If traitor’s knife attempts them, for that shame + All Uladh’s race shall perish, save alone + The stained, yet guiltless king on Uladh’s throne!’ + + Then Conor caught his hand: ‘Thou, sole of all + Lov’st me! The rest but fear:--they never loved! + Cautious are they: thou swift at honour’s call! + Now therefore be thy love and fealty proved: + To Alba speed: bring home that exiled Three, + Thyself their surety, pledge, and guarantee. + + ‘But with them plight this covenant beside, + That instant when they tread my kingdom’s strand + To me they speed; with no man else abide; + Favour or feast accept at no man’s hand: + My bread must be the first those exiles break; + All griefs thenceforth forgotten for its sake. + + ‘I charge thee too from Alba’s coast returned + To land at Barach’s castle in the north;-- + There shall thy monarch’s further will be learned:’ + Then Fergus pledged his word, and issued forth: + But Conor beckoned Barach from the feast; + Then long time stood a-gazing north and east. + + Low-toned he spake; ‘Barach! a keep thou hast + There where the grey cliffs break the northern brine: + When Fergus comes from Alba, hold him fast: + Heap high thy banquet; make that proud one thine! + If from thy board he turns he stands forsworn, + By Geisa bound[14] no good man’s feast to scorn. + + ‘But thou, the sons of Usnach send to me: + What cause I have to trust that race thou knowest: + Be sure thy feast hold out two days or three: + My love thenceforth thou hast where’er thou goest.’ + The courtier smiled, and bowed, ‘I hear, and heed:’ + And Conor thus; ‘True friend is friend at need!’ + + Next morning Fergus o’er the waters sped + At earliest dawn; with him his sons alone, + Illan the Fair; Buini the Ruthless Red, + His shield-bearer, the third. By swift winds blown + They rushed above the waves a day and night; + At dawn Loch Etive’s mountains loomed in sight. + + Ere noon he landed on the Alban coast: + Wild from the woods a stag there issued bounding; + The prince his mission grave forgat, and tossed + Through the green-caverned forest loud-resounding, + As he was ever wont, his hunting cry; + And lo! the tents where Naisi dwelt were nigh. + + Deirdré and he were playing chess together:[15] + Their bent heads well nigh met above the board; + While sunny gleams of that unclouded weather + Glancing through boughs the chequered ivory scored. + Her brow was bright with thought; her hand, raised high, + Above its destined prize hung hoveringly. + + The cry of Fergus reached them. Naisi spake; + ‘Erin! A son of Erin breathed that shout!’ + Deirdré replied; ‘Not so! On Etive’s lake + Some fisher boasts a spoil, or chieftain’s scout + Welcomes his fellows far away. Play on!’ + She laughed; but from her cheek the rose was gone. + + Once more abroad the cry of Fergus pealed; + And Naisi cried: ‘Our Erin nursed that voice!’ + Then Deirdré: ‘Nay, but from some rock-girt field + Loud-voiced the shepherd bids his mates rejoice: + Some boar is slain, or wolf that vexed the land; + Play on!’ And on her heart she pressed her hand. + + But when a third time rang that shout, now nearer, + The three brave brothers recognised the sound, + And, listening, larger grew their eyes, and clearer, + And from their seats they leaped, and gazed around, + And smote their palms, and clamoured, ‘O the joy! + Fergus is come! Our Fergus! Fergus Roy!’ + + Then Naisi sent the twain abroad to meet him; + But Deirdré said, ‘I knew that earliest cry! + Woe to the man, and them this hour who greet him! + This day the bolt is launched from yonder sky: + This day the Destiny foretold beginneth: + Woe to the Three! Worst woe to him who sinneth! + + ‘All night I saw three birds from Erin’s peaks + To Alba strain through tempest and eclipse: + Three honey-drops they wafted on their beaks:-- + O Love! they dropped that sweetness on thy lips; + Ere long each death-black beak, and crownèd head + With life-blood from thy heart, O Love, was red!’ + + She rose: on visions dread she seemed to stare! + She stood: she pressed her hands upon her eyes: + From the wan brows the horror-stricken hair + Bickering like meteors rose, or seemed to rise; + She towered aloft a prophetess; till, near, + The step well known of Fergus smote their ear. + + She whispered low: ‘Trample the honeyed lure! + Make not with Conor! He would have thy blood!’ + A moment more, and, entering from the moor, + Fergus, that royal presence, by them stood: + The cloud fell from her! Basking like blue sky + She met her husband’s guest full lovingly. + + There stood they, Fergus loftiest by the head, + His sons beside him, stalwart men, and tall, + Illan the Fair, Buini the Ruthless Red: + Reverent and sweet she kissed them, each and all, + She and the Brothers: next they made demand + Of news the latest from their native land. + + Swift came the answer; ‘Friends, the news is this; + The king repents him of the ignoble deed + That cost his realm her bravest; zealous is + To quench that deed, and cancel; hath decreed + That you and yours, henceforth and evermore + Shall live secure on Erin’s sacred shore: + + ‘Likewise of this, a kingdom’s oath and pledge, + I stand myself, surety and guarantee: + Conor in turn, to dull past injury’s edge + Demands, implores a single vow from thee, + That till beside his board thou breakest bread + No meaner house than his shall roof thy head.’ + + Then Naisi and the brethren rose in joy; + But Deirdré came before them speaking thus, + ‘King--for, except the race and stock of Roy, + O’er Uladh kings may reign, but not o’er us-- + The eagle lives not save in large domain: + My husband won this land, and here must reign! + + ‘King Conor caught and caged me, yet a child; + King Conor into exile drave these Three; + The growing greatness of that race exiled + This day he fears; and calls them back: but we + Desire a healthier breeze than makes resort + Within the perfumed precinct of a court.’ + + ‘Lady, you doubt the safety of your Lord!-- + “Must reign!” I reign no more; not less my name + Would move in might before him like a sword + Though all the hosts of Erin ’gainst him came!’ + A red spot stood on Fergus’ crownless brow; + The Three looked up; and spake: ‘We go, and now!’ + + Then Deirdré inly said; ‘We go to die:’ + Death-pale she stood, yet spake no further word; + Their promise pledged, albeit unwittingly, + The worst that might befall them she preferred + To treason’s semblance and a vow forsworn: + She spread the feast; westward they sailed ere morn. + + And ever as the wine-dark seas they clave + The sons of Usnach stood upon the prow + And spread their arms to Erin o’er the wave; + And each to each exclaimed; ‘To guide the plough + Or break the clod, still breathing Erin’s air, + Were better than to rule and reign elsewhere!’ + + But Deirdré stood upon the vessel’s stern, + Alone, with eyes on Alba’s headlands bent, + Dreaming the hills she could no more discern, + And as they faded thus she made lament, + ‘O Land, our home no more, to me and mine + Gentle thou wert; therefore my heart is thine! + + ‘O beauteous Land, oft on thy heathery bed, + Wearied with chase, upon my sleepless heart + My Naisi laid at noon his sleeping head; + And therefore thine I am; and dear thou art. + I came to thee with Naisi hand in hand, + But now no more I see thee, beauteous Land! + + ‘O Coona! mid thy maiden buds the thrush + Sang well in spring! In thee the autumnal berry + Sent forth its flash from reddening brake and bush + Like scoff from hard old lip of beldam merry! + We laughed to mark it, while far off we heard + Ainli with Ardan sing as bird with bird. + + ‘Glenorchy, O Glenorchy! sweet in thee + To hear the cuckoo’s note, that glad new-comer; + And sweet o’er Masan’s sands to watch the sea + Sleep on unwakened half the long, blue summer! + Thou gav’st us, O thou Erin of the East! + The song, the chase, the battle, and the feast! + + ‘Loch Etive, O Loch Etive! near thy shore, + Lulled by thy waters pure, and airs heart-healing, + Latest we lived, who live there now no more; + Earliest in thee we raised our little shieling:-- + Good things the sons of Usnach gat from thee, + And I, the ill-omened sister of the Three!’ + + Thus in her song honouring the land she loved + Sad Deirdré stood while back the waters hoar + Streamed from the ship; and singing never moved: + From her chilled lip the wind its music bore, + Till plainly Erin’s cliffs at last shone forth, + And Barach’s castle facing to the North. + + Then Barach, as that fated bark drew near, + With courteous seeming but a purpose fell + Sailed forth to meet it, making goodly cheer + With bannered boat and tossing coracle + So densely clustered that the billow green + Betwixt them scarcely showed its sparkling sheen. + + Ere long the exiles leaped on Erin’s strand: + The courtier followed fast: with loud-voiced glee + He bade them welcome to their native land, + And kissed the hands of each full reverently, + Deirdré’s the last; and said; ‘Your home is here! + Abide a week, and after that a year!’ + + But when the Brothers told him of their oath + In no man’s house to eat, or rest their head, + Howe’er to slight a friendly welcome loth, + Until with Conor they had broken bread, + He turned to Fergus;--‘Oath thou too hast sworn + Long since, to pass no friendly feast in scorn. + + ‘Behold, for thee this day my board is decked; + My dish is garnished; and my fatlings slain: + Likewise to greet thee many a chief elect + Hath sped this day from distant vale and plain: + If vain their zeal, and all that loyal haste + To greet my guest, I stand henceforth disgraced.’ + + Him Fergus heard, and stood in anguish mute, + His giant bulk bowed by his spirit’s pain + That ever downward worked from scalp to foot: + Like stag whom serpent folds begin to strain + He stood--that strives in vain that coil to break-- + And flame was on his face while thus he spake; + + ‘Ill done, ill done, O Barach, is thy deed! + Ill-timed, ill-omened, and unblest thy feast’-- + Then Barach; ‘Let those Three to Conor speed; + The king is greatest here, and I the least: + But thou--thine oath that later pledge foreran: + If broke, it lays thine honour under ban.’ + + Still Fergus mused;--‘’Tis true: that oath I made; + Made ere an upstart’s craft had filched my crown: + To break it were my greatness to degrade, + To blot a princely birth, a life’s renown: + Uladh would cry; “He shames the blood of Roy + To ’scape the frown of Nessa’s ill-crowned boy!”’ + + Doubt bred new doubt:--away the False One strode; + But Fergus still mused on, and never stirred, + His royal head depressed and neck embowed; + At last he turned to Naisi with this word, + ‘What must I do?’ But ere her lord replied, + Deirdré spake first, with queenly port and pride: + + ‘The choice is thine, not his; and this that choice; + For a feast’s sake to cast from thee thy charge, + Subject and servile to a courtier’s voice; + Or spurn that feast, and walk, a soul at large.’ + And Fergus said; ‘My sons with thine and thee + Might ride. I bind on them my guarantee.’ + + Low-toned he spake; but Naisi heard, and thus + Made answer, reddening like a rising moon, + ‘We scorn their aid! Our swords suffice for us! + All help beside we count a worthless boon!’ + Then Fergus frowned: At once from doubt released + With them he sent his sons, and joined the feast. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + CANTO THE THIRD. + + + So forth the Brothers rode, while high o’erhead + Through that primeval forest’s woven screen + Now in long lanes the sky its radiance shed, + And now in purple stars of splendour keen; + Nor far behind them marched the Usnach clan, + Loud singing and on trampling like one man. + + But Deirdré slowly lifting eyes divine, + Dewed with dark tears, upon the Brothers, spake; + ‘True counsel, lo! I give you, brothers mine; + And yet that counsel true ye will not take; + There shine the rocks of Rathlin! On its shore + Abide till this disastrous feast is o’er!’ + + Then spake to Illan, Fergus’ kindlier son, + The Ruthless Red; ‘Small faith in us they place!’ + Whom Naisi hearing, made reply, ‘Ride on:’ + And Deirdré raised to heaven her heaven-sweet face, + And made this song; for, as in girlhood, all + Her musings, dark or bright, grew musical. + + ‘O would my Love were safe in some far isle, + And I were like some shadow passed away; + Yea, though some other liegeful wife, the while, + Partook his board at eve, his chase by day: + For I am that doomed Babe of long ago; + And I on those fair Three have brought this woe! + + ‘One time by far Loch Etive--’twas in jest-- + My Naisi kissed a sweet-eyed Alban maid: + I sought my death! my bark from crest to crest + I dashed, too deeply wounded to upbraid! + The Brothers saw, and followed fast--and I-- + Ah, that for me those peerless Three should die!’ + + Meanwhile all day in light discourse or deep + The sons of Usnach and of Fergus rode, + And came at eve to Fuad’s mountain-steep; + But Deirdré, bent for once by sorrow’s load + Though strong, behind them dropped, and on a bank + Moon-lit sat down; and slumber on her sank. + + There Naisi found her ’neath a yew-tree old, + Shivering; and she his steps approaching knew + Though sleeping still; and through the moonlight cold + T’wards him stretched forth her hand so kind and true; + And, ‘What, O what is this,’ he said, ‘My Queen?’ + Wak’ning she answered, anguished yet serene: + + ‘A dream it was that kept me from thy side: + Wakeful all day that dream I saw, and see: + I saw great Fergus’ sons beside us ride, + Brothers in blood; disjoined in destiny: + Illan a bleeding bulk without a head, + I saw: yet true he proved when traitors fled. + + ‘Buini I saw, the Ruthless Red; full strong + He towered, and stately as a summer tree: + But, when that strife dishonest did us wrong, + No help he proved, O Love, to thine and thee! + So one was faithful, yet of greatness shorn: + And one was greatness perjured and forsworn. + + ‘Now ride we on!’ they rode for many an hour, + Till, through an oak-glade in that glimmering wood, + They saw Emania, veiled in cloud and shower: + Above the edge of that black cloud there stood + A moon nigh setting in a sanguine shroud; + And many thunders heard they, far, not loud. + + Upon that sanguine shroud as on a sign + Deirdré gazed long; then turned her eyes, and spake; + ‘True counsel, lo! I give you, brothers mine, + And yet that counsel true ye will not take; + No further t’wards Emania ride this hour; + Seek we, not far it stands, Cuchullain’s tower! + + ‘Or house with Conal Carnach, leal and true: + He to the court ere noon with us will ride-- + Naisi! when on that causeway I and you + That evening sang, what prayer hadst thou denied?’ + Yet, though she chid him, nearer him she crept: + The one sole time that in his arms she wept! + + Buini drew near! At once the Three replied, + ‘Because we never feared and cannot fear + To Eman on we will whate’er betide!’ + Unseen by him she wiped away her tear; + While from the black boughs fell a poison-dew; + And Fate her net more closely round them drew. + + Thenceforth was Deirdré changed. To Eman’s gate + They rode, and thrice beneath it blew their horn: + Indifferent, yea, as one with either fate + Alike content, she spake in careless scorn; + ‘Omens the Druids find in bird and beast: + A Druid I; a laughing one at least! + + ‘I doubted Conor’s faith: if mine the fault + Harbouring distrust, King Conor thus will speak: + “Abide with me three months: partake my salt; + Drink of my cup; my bread securely break!” + If under alien roof he bids us lie + Then know his pit is dug; and we shall die.’ + + She spake! around her lip a smile there curled; + Her kindling eye was fixed as eye of one + Who sees, beyond the limits of the world, + Beyond the thresholds of our moon and sun, + Beyond the abysmal night, a gleam of day, + And can abide the issue come what may. + + As thus they stood the gates were opened wide; + Anon forth stepped a herald with this word, + ‘Great Sirs, the King, himself by sickness tried, + Within the Red-Branch House hath decked your board + With Uladh’s best, from mead and river brought:’ + They on each other gazed, yet answered nought. + + ‘He bids you there with blessing.’ At that speech + Silent they sought that House. In stately throng + The knights received them: yet on brows of each + Devoid of guile, a dubious sadness clung: + Not less the seats were set; the tables spread: + Nor ceased that revel till the day was sped. + + Not all partook it. Silent and apart + In a huge window caverned from the wall + By some high builder’s long-forgotten art, + Sat Deirdré, and the Brothers three. No thrall + To royal craft the warriors now. What meant + The king, they knew, and waited the event. + + Scorning to make complaint, they scorned not less + To share a traitor’s feast, and ate of nought, + Waving each dish away in haughtiness, + Save little loaves that with them they had brought. + Their chess-board next they ranged with pawn and queen; + And Deirdré laughed or frowned the moves between. + + Meantime with Levarcam King Conor spake; + ‘Forth, since I spared thy life when Deirdré fled, + And tidings bring me whether, for love’s sake, + Yet lives her beauty on that False One’s head: + The girl hath known rough skies and scanty board:’ + Then Levarcam went forth, with wiles well stored. + + Drawing a thousand thoughts into one noose + Of woman-craft she sped, in silks arrayed; + And came with speed, such speed as age may use, + To where at chess the sentenced princes played + In that high window; next one finger raised + High as her brow; then round her peering gazed. + + Naisi she loved from childhood; loved scarce less + His brothers; felt for Deirdré love and spleen:-- + ‘Through grace of yours, all-bashful Forwardness, + Save for my craft this trunk had headless been! + I wiled the sword from Conor’s hand! Well, well! + My Wanton’s face retains its childish spell! + + ‘I come to you at peril of my life-- + Hush, hush! place hand on lip! They must not hear! + With rumours dark Emania’s streets are rife: + The king has vowed your death:--draws any near? + Then when the Babe was born, the seer foretold-- + What? Must men die because a maid was bold?’ + + In tears awhile the faded fine one stood; + And next, mechanic-wise oracular, + Kept nodding of her head. Then changed her mood + To fires of youth. ‘Close gate, and casement bar! + Fight well, ye sons of Fergus! If your sire + Makes speed, he’ll trample down this flame in mire!’ + + Last, like that bird which fan-like spreads her plumes + For pride, to Conor’s palace she returned, + And found him seated in presageful glooms; + And cried as though some reptile shape she spurned, + ‘Woe, woe; for Deirdré’s brightness is gone by;-- + Brown moth is she that once was butterfly!’ + + King Conor heard, ill-pleased, and yet well-pleased, + And stood, before him dangling still this thought + At least then Naisi of his love is eased; + And that proud minx has lost my realm for nought: + Perhaps ’twere best to let old rancours pass: + Kingdoms live on; but beauty fades like grass. + + Thus mused the king: but while he sat at meat + And, later, when the wine had fired his blood, + The thought of Deirdré’s face, tender and sweet, + Too bright to fade, star-like before him stood: + And loud he cried: ‘Sits any brave man here + Who dreads not death, and holds King Conor dear? + + ‘Forth to the Red-Branch Mansion let him speed, + And there with Deirdré secret converse hold, + And learn if yet upon her lives indeed + The glory of that beauty hers of old.’ + Then Trendorn went, a sordid churl, ill-starred, + And found that mansion’s gateways closed and barred: + + Yet clomb he darkling, to that casement high; + And Deirdré turned her face:--in awe and fear + Of that great splendour o’er it shed, the spy + Slid from his place, and, racing like a deer, + To Conor cried; ‘As shines in heaven the sun, + So she on earth: and like her there is none!’ + + That instant Conor saw the maid again! + That instant rage of love his heart possessed + Venomed by past repulse, and jealous pain: + And thus he cried, hoarse-voiced with stifling breast, + ‘Storm ye the Red-Branch House! Die, he that will! + Mine was that maid: and mine I deem her still.’ + + In silence sat the chiefs, mindful at once + Of duty sworn to Uladh’s king, their Lord, + And of his counter-pledge to Usnach’s sons; + But all the Bonachts ranged adown the board + Rushed forth to boast their zeal, and clutch their prey, + Aliens base-born that fought not save for pay. + + To these were joined the vile ones of the street; + For in their breasts Conor this seed had sown, + Imposture sordid, and obscene conceit, + ‘Traitors, in Alba late to princes grown, + Would make their Pictish tyrant Uladh’s king!’ + They girt the Red-Branch House, thus clamouring. + + Long time in silence stood, and sore amazed, + Those brave but simple knights o’er Erin feared: + For Usnach’s sons as kings they prized and praised; + But like a God King Conor they revered: + At last they spake, and after that changed not, + ‘We in this war will bear nor part, nor lot.’ + + And when the stony storm blackened the heaven, + And gate rolled in, and casement burst and brake, + And all that House was as a ship rock-riven, + In midnight storm, they sat, and never spake; + For two contrarient thoughts their minds had cleft-- + Astonied men of manhood’s might bereft. + + Naisi, meantime, and Deirdré, fixed, attent, + Their eyes in stillness on the ivory board, + And silent o’er their game the brothers bent; + But Fergus’ sons stood up with hand on sword, + Forth from the casement gazing; and the red + Burned on their brows: then Deirdré, careless, said, + + ‘Long time, methinks, at feast doth Fergus tarry-- + Good speed for that crowned hawk which hangs on high + With beak turned downward t’ward his skiey quarry!’ + Buini broke in; ‘My sire is false; not I!’ + And gat him down; and shouted Fergus’ name: + And straight a host around him flocking came. + + But Conor sent for Buini, and at door + Whispered him low; ‘I yield thee Fo-äd-Fell!’ + Yet Buini spurned the bribe, and said; ‘What more?’ + And Conor thus; ‘Henceforth mine oracle + At council board be thou, and only thou!’ + Then Buini pledged with Conor hand and vow. + + Thenceforth around the Red-Branch Mansion higher + The madness of the people surged, and roar + As though of tempest when great woods catch fire, + Or winter waves raking some northern shore; + And on the portals seven they dashed; and lo! + Their mighty hinges groaned ’neath blow on blow. + + Meantime the Red-Branch Knights, like men in sleep + Trod the vast courts; or like some shepherd boor + Who feels his way on cliffs that crest the deep + When mist invests the mountain and the moor; + Or stood and gazed from far on Deirdré’s brow-- + Strong knights of old; men ineffectual now. + + Then Deirdré, as the battle raged below, + Spake lightly thus, while on she pushed a pawn, + ‘Buini has gone like Fergus--let him go!’ + But Illan, grieved at heart, with sword half drawn, + Replied, ‘While lives this sword, whoe’er may fly, + Faithful and true to Usnach’s Sons am I!’ + + And gat him down, and drew a host, and drave + Southward that seething mass a mile and more, + As when the wind before it drives the wave; + And shouted, ‘traitors’ still; and slew six score. + Then--sped from heaven--above the heads of all + Ran Fear; and reached King Conor’s council-hall. + + There, girt by chiefs sat Conor on his throne + With cloudy brows, and pale lips ridged in scorn, + Who thus addressed Fiacre, his first-born son; + ‘Son, thou and he the self-same hour were born, + Illan--the man that from this head even now + Sweeps Uladh’s crown! Go forth and meet him, thou! + + ‘And, since the arms he weareth of his sire, + Fergus, once king, wear thou mine arms this day, + “Ocean,” my shield, that sea-like roars in ire + Echoed on Erin’s farthest coasts, men say; + And “Victory’s wing,” and “Flying Fate,” my spears + And “Death,” my sword, annealed in widows’ tears.’ + + Then strode Fiacre to battle, iron-mailed: + But straight the king to Conal Carnach sent, + ‘My kingdom reels by rebel hosts assailed: + My son goes forth to meet them. Sickness-bent + I wait the close. My bravest knight, my best! + Strike for thy king! What care I for the rest?’ + + Next to Cuchullain sent he: but that knight + Frowned on the herald in his perilous mood, + And said; ‘What part have I in civil fight?’ + Soon, face to face Fiacre and Illan stood: + At last the royal youth, ’neath Illan’s sword + Sank to one knee: at once in fury roared-- + + Thus much and more the legends old avouch-- + ‘Ocean,’ King Conor’s shield; for wroth was he + A prince’s head beneath his shade should crouch, + And wroth Emania’s coming doom to see: + Three times the shield sent forth that sea-like roar; + And thrice the three chief waves on Erin’s shore + + Responded, from the blue deeps landward rolling; + The wave of Toth on Erin’s northern coast; + Green Clidna’s wave like funeral bells far tolling; + And Rory’s wave, the loudest. Through the host + Rushed Conal Carnach at the third wave’s cry, + And, shouting thus, ‘King Conor’s son will die!’ + + In dashed while Illan o’er Fiacre was bending-- + Illan his friend--and drave through Illan’s side, + Knowing him not, the sword, his heart-strings rending: + But Illan rose, and spake before he died: + ‘Thy deeds were great, O friend! This last--this one-- + Was not like Conal! I am Fergus’ son! + + ‘I die to guard his name and Conor’s pledge.’ + Then Conal cried in storm of rage and woe, + ‘Since Conor lied to me this faulchion’s edge + Shall pay the debt he owes, and that I owe, + A death to honour and to vengeance due;’ + And down he dragged Fiacre, and, trampling, slew. + + That hour the royal host pierced through by grief, + Clamoured, yet quailed at glance of Conal’s eye; + While shouted Illan’s band, ‘Be thou our chief! + Illan is dead.’ Vouchsafing no reply + Silent from both he turned; and, like a God + Spurning some death-doomed city, homeward strode. + + But when the tidings came, ‘Fiacre is dead,’ + King Conor dropped in swoon; and if that hour + Illan had lived, and not the Ruthless Red, + All Eman’s chiefs had joined to his their power; + For Illan, like his sire, had Eman’s love:-- + Thus Fate round Usnach’s Sons her net enwove. + + Around the Red-Branch House that Bonacht host + Gathered once more: but on the left the might + Of Ardan backward hurled them and their boast; + And Ainli’s strength rebuked them on the right: + Till came to Conor’s heart a wingèd thought; + And ‘Fire!’ he cried; and branch and beam were brought, + + Circling the walls: up rushed the red flames roaring; + And one by one, the seven great gates fell down; + Then rushed from court to court, still onward pouring, + Native with alien, man-at-arms with clown: + Yet still the assailed fought on from stair to stair, + Long time in rage, and later in despair. + + Meanwhile along the loftier cloister floors + As though with fettered feet moved knight with knight, + Or, idiot-like, stood peering by the doors, + Divided purpose making null their might; + Or stood in groups, and watched where, undismayed, + That haughty pair at chess in silence played. + + But Naisi, glancing up, on Deirdré’s hair + Saw the fierce reflex from a roof far off, + And on her marble cheek the fiery glare, + And heard from her fine lip the careless scoff, + ‘At Conor’s fireside welcome sits the guest!’-- + He rose, and sudden clasped her to his breast; + + Then held her from him, on her countenance bright + Gazing. In neither face that hour was fear: + She saw in his a sadness infinite: + He saw, in hers, content, and princely cheer. + At last she spake; ‘Self-questioning thoughts repel, + Nor grieve at trust misplaced; for all is well! + + ‘O Love, not thus upon that causeway old + We stood that day, chaunting our nuptials high! + Yet nothing is that was not then foretold-- + Hast thou not happy been? More happy I, + That hour thy love; for three glad years thy bride; + That ran, and slept, and wakened at thy side! + + ‘The good must still the auspice be of good; + They never loved who dream that Love can die! + In lordlier strength, in happier sanctitude + Be sure he waits us in some realm more high. + All thanks, thou Power Unknown!’ She spake and kissed + With all her young bright face her husband’s breast. + + Then rushed to them the Brothers shouting, ‘Forth!’ + And forth they sped through courts foot deep in blood, + And reached the gate that issued to the north + Where fierceliest raged the fight: and Deirdré trod + Midmost between the twain, and Naisi first; + And on the battle lion-like they burst. + + And still the Three above their sister raised + Their mighty shields that, like three glittering spheres + Glared through the gloom, and friend and foeman dazed; + And fierce as living creatures worked their spears + Dealing the death around, till all the plain + Lay like a death-vault, strewn by warriors slain. + + And, foot by foot, the hostile hosts fell back; + And, more and more, true friends, till then dismayed, + Fought by their side, or followed in their track: + Due northward t’ward the sea their march they made; + And, marching, eyed full oft that fortress fired-- + Therein full many a Red-Branch Knight expired. + + Then, as a poplar near a river whitens + By gusts o’er-blown, and as some snowy vale + Grows grimly dark when sudden o’er it brightens + The mountain’s moonlit flank, thus dark, thus pale, + Grew Conor with far eyes their course pursuing; + ‘They ’scape,’ he cried, ‘and that is my undoing! + + ‘Cathbad! give ear!’--for by him stood that hour + The blind old Druid with the silver hair-- + ‘To Alba make they; thence ere long with power + Return in vengeance! Think you they will spare? + And Conal and Cuchullain by their side + Will march; and Fergus! Would that I had died! + + ‘Help, Cathbad! last of friends! If e’er from thee + Or child or stripling, help or love I gat; + My craft has futile proved: my legions flee; + Yet magic power, we know, can level flat + All power of man in one brief moment’s space: + Slay me, or spare my kingdom this disgrace!’ + + To whom replied the old man tremulously, + ‘Would God that ne’er had come that night of old + When shriek on shriek confused the revelry, + And I that new-born Infant’s fate foretold; + For ne’er in ninety years deceived was I + Or by man’s art, or wiles of Destiny! + + ‘Not less, great king, this deed I dare not do, + For Justice keeps an axe, and keen its edge, + In worlds unseen; and they their sin shall rue + Who spill the righteous blood, or break the pledge. + Here Wrong holds court; but Justice reigneth there:-- + King! In those unseen regions I have share!’ + + Him Conor answered: ‘Cathbad! oath I make + By all those regions sacred and unseen, + By all the Powers that in them sleep or wake, + The Gods that are, or shall be, or have been, + This hand on Usnach’s sons shall work no wrong; + Captive, not dead, I wish them--nor for long.’ + + He spake, and softly to the Druid stept + And pressed that Druid’s hand to lips and eyes; + Then o’er the old man’s heart compassion crept, + With flatter’d pride, which oft to good and wise + Makes way, thus veiled, in weak, unwary hour; + And o’er the North he waved his wand of power. + + Three times with muttered spell he waved that wand, + Filling the air with visions of dismay: + That hour through Conor’s host, and far beyond, + Usnach’s brave clan had carved its desperate way; + Yet, galled and broken, hung upon their rear + That Bonacht swarm. It raged, but came not near. + + On Usnach’s clan the Druid’s spells took hold, + Feigning what was not: and the wide green plain + Seemed to their eyes a great flood slowly rolled + From phantom hills. Through it they pushed with pain: + And on their eyes a phantom mist was driven: + And o’er them leaned, low-hung, a phantom heaven. + + But, forward as they toiled, that flood ere long + Deepened, so seemed it, to a billowy sea; + And they, with arms in swimmer’s act forth flung, + Clave that imagined deep. Alone the Three + And Deirdré, spite of spells, illusion-proof, + Saw still green field, and heaven’s unclouded roof. + + Ah God! How oft in agony that hour + Caught they this man and that, and cried, ‘Arise! + But now triumphant, will ye crouch and cower + In death the coward’s jest, the traitor’s prize?’ + ’Twas vain! Those dreamers still swam on till brand + And shield down dropt from every helpless hand. + + The Bonachts stood in marvel; then dashed on, + Their terror past; and Conor sent decree, + ‘Except the woman, see ye spare not one! + Smite first the sons of Usnach, smite the Three!’ + And lo! like sheep that old and far-famed clan + Lay on the war-field, slaughtered to a man. + + Alone, girt round by hostile rank on rank, + Usnach’s great sons, unvanquished, still fought on; + And ever when their arms exhausted sank, + And for a moment strength was all but gone, + Deirdré, amidst them, like a prophet poured + Her war-songs forth, and still their strength restored. + + ’Twas vain! At noon the direful battle ceased: + That glorious Three who late the world o’er-strode + Lay facing to the South, and West, and East; + A frozen spectre Deirdré o’er them stood: + The Bonachts gat their hire:--kneeling drew near + Uladh’s sad sons, with many a moan and tear. + + Remembering days gone by, the victors there + Wept for the dead: and when the king sent word + To leave those Three unburied, stark and bare + For beasts to rend, his mandate they abhorred, + And dug the grave where those brave Brothers died; + And, reverent, therein laid them, side by side. + + Upon the right of that dim burial pit + Was Conal Carnach standing; on its left + Cuchullain; each with brows in sorrow knit, + Each with a heart by one sharp memory cleft: + For true to Usnach’s sons in word and deed + These twain had lived; yet failed them at their need. + + But Deirdré at the grave-head stood alone, + The surging crowd held back by holy dread; + Her face was white as monumental stone; + Her hands, her garb, from throat to foot were red + With blood--their blood. Standing on life’s dark verge + She scorned to die till she had sung their dirge. + + ‘Dead are the eagles three of Culan’s peaks; + The lions three of Uladh’s forest glades; + The wonders three of Alba’s lakes and creeks; + The loved ones three of Etive’s fair young maids: + The crownless sons of Erin’s Throne are sped: + The glories of the Red Branch Order dead. + + ‘Is there who dreams that, now my Naisi’s breath + Is stilled, his wife will tarry from his side? + Thou man that mak’st far down yon cave of death, + Be sure thou dig it deep, and dig it wide! + There lie the Brothers Three! ’Tis just, ’tis meet + Their Sister take her place before their feet. + + ‘Ofttimes for me they piled their shields and spears + In Alba’s woods, roofing my winter bed: + Thou man that build’st, this day, far down their biers, + Be sure the spear and shield are nigh the head! + They had great joy in these of old: below + Lack them they shall not, though they meet no foe. + + ‘Ofttimes I heard in Etive’s hunting grounds + Their deep-toned voices rolling like the sea-- + My Naisi led me from our native bounds: + Ainli and Ardan followed. Woe is me! + That hour when I was born I should have died: + The ill-omened Infant was the ill-omened Bride!’ + + Thus Deirdré sang, and silent stood a space; + Then spake once more: ‘I come, my Love, my Lord!’ + And forward fell into that loved embrace, + In happy death to him she loved restored: + When Conal and Cuchullain raised her head: + There lay she smiling, dead among the dead. + + The men of Erin reared the funeral stone, + And piled the cairn, in Ogham characters + Cyphering the sorrows of the Four thereon: + And, age by age, that legend grey avers, + Sad voices issuing from that grave foretold + The fates of lovers young and kingdoms old. + + But Cathbad laid a curse upon the king, + Likewise his race: and Eman, and the land, + Because they hated not that evil thing, + And hindered not, with dreadful rites he banned; + And lastly, ‘Woe to me not less,’ he cried, + Three times; and gat him to his place; and died. + + With speed came up at earliest gleam of morn + Fergus to Eman. Dreadful his array; + For many a chief, though Conor’s liegeman sworn, + In wrath had joined the old king on his way: + And Fergus cursed the Ruthless Red, and said, + ‘A woman’s hand one day shall strike him dead!’ + + The battle ceased not till that day was done: + With his own hand, at noontide, Fergus slew + Maini, King Conor’s last surviving son: + Old Eman’s walls and towers to earth he threw; + And burned the city. Half the men therein + Perished, and many an infant, for its sin. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + THE CHILDREN OF LIR + + _AN ANCIENT IRISH ROMANCE_ + + + ‘Deus dedit carmina in nocte’--JOB, cap. xxxv. v. 10 + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + TO THE MEMORY OF + + DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CARTHY, + + TO WHOM ENGLISH AND IRISH READERS OWE, + + BESIDE MANY A GAELIC LEGEND, + + THE BEST WORKS OF CALDERON, + + THIS POEM + + IS DEDICATED. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + _THE CHILDREN OF LIR._ + + + + + CANTO THE FIRST. + + + Ere yet great Miledh’s sons to Erin came, + Lords of the Gael, Milesian styled more late, + An earlier tribe, Tuatha was their name, + Likewise Dedannan, ruled the Isle of Fate, + A tribe that knew nor clan, nor priest, nor bard, + Wild as the waves, and as the sea-cliffs hard. + + Some say that race of old from Greece exiled + Long time had sojourned in the frozen North + Roaming Norwegian wood and Danish wild: + To Erin thence more late they issued forth, + And thither brought two gifts both loved and feared, + The ‘Lia Fail,’ and Ogham lore revered.[16] + + Fiercer they were, not manlier, than the Gael, + Large-handed, swift of foot, dark-haired, dark-eyed, + With sudden gleams athwart their faces pale, + Transits of fancies swift, or angry pride: + Strange lore they boasted, imped by insight keen; + Blackened at times by gusts of causeless spleen. + + These, when the white fleet of the Gael drew nigh + Green Erin’s shore, their heritage decreed, + O’er-meshed, through rites unholy, earth and sky + With sudden gloom. The invaders took no heed, + But dashed through dark their galleys on the strand; + Then clapped their hands, and laughing leaped to land. + + Around them flocked Tuatha’s race in guile, + Unarmed, with mocking voice and furtive mien, + And scoffed: ‘Not thus your fathers fought erewhile! + Say, call ye warriors knaves that creep unseen, + While true men sleep, up inlet dim, and fiord, + Filching the land they proved not with their sword?’ + + Then to the Gael their bard, Amergin, spake: + ‘Sail forth, my sons, nine waves across the deep, + And when this island-race are armed, come back; + Take then their realm by force; and, taking, keep!’ + The Gael sailed forth, nine waves; then turned, and gazed-- + Night wrapt the isle, and storm by magic raised! + + Round Erin’s shores like leaves their ships were blown: + Strewn on her reefs lay bard and warrior drowned: + Not less the Gael upreared ere long that throne + Two thousand years through all the West renowned. + O’er Taillten’s field God held the scales of Fate: + That last dread battle closed the dire debate. + + There fell those three Tuatha queens who gave + The land their names--they fell by death discrowned:[17] + There many a Gaelic chieftain found his grave: + Thenceforth the races twain adjusted bound + And right, at times by league, at times by war; + Nor any reigned as yet from shore to shore. + + Still here and there Tuatha princes ruled + Now in green vale, and now on pale blue coast, + A warrior one, and one in magic schooled; + The graver made Druidic lore their boast, + And knew the secret might of star and leaf: + Grey-haired King Bove stood up of these the chief. + + Southward by broad Lough Derg his palace stood: + Northward, beside Emania’s lonely mere, + In Finnahá, embowered mid lawn and wood, + King Lir abode, a warrior, not a seer; + Well loved was he, plain man with great, true heart, + Who loathed, despite his race, the sorcerer’s art. + + Five centuries lived he ere that better light + Gladdened the earth from Bethlehem: ne’ertheless + He judged his land with justice and with might, + Tempering the same at times with gentleness; + And gave the poor their due; and made proclaim, + ‘Let no man smite the old; the virgin shame.’ + + His prime was spent in wars: in middle life + He bade a youthful princess share his throne: + Nor e’er had monarch yet a truer wife + With tenderer palm or voice of sweeter tone: + The one sole lady of that race was she + Sun-haired, with large eyes azure as the sea. + + She moved amid the crafty as a child; + Amid the lawless, chaste as unsunned maid; + Amid the unsparing, as a turtle mild; + Wondering at wrong; too gentle to upbraid: + Yet many a fell resolve, as she rode by, + Died at its birth--the ill-thinker knew not why! + + Sadness before her fled: in years long past + As on a cliff the warriors sang their songs + A harper maid, with eyes that stared aghast, + Had chaunted, ‘Not to us this isle belongs! + The Fates reserve it for a race more true, + Ye children of Dedannan’s stock, than you!’ + + And since she scorned her music to abate, + Nor ceased to freeze their triumph with her dirge, + The princes and the people rose in hate + And hurled her harp and her into the surge: + Yet still, halfway ’twixt midnight and the morn, + That dirge swelled up, by tempest onward borne! + + Remembering oft this spectre of his youth + King Lir would sit, a frown upon his brow: + Then came the queen with words of peace and truth; + ‘Mourn they that sinned! A child that hour wert thou! + Thou rul’st this land to-day: in years to be + Who best deserves shall wield her sovereignty.’ + + Then would the monarch doff his sullen mood + With kingly joy, and, bright as May-day’s morn, + Ride forth amid his hounds through wild and wood, + Thrilling far glens with echoes of his horn; + Or meet the land’s invaders face to face + Well pleased, and homeward hew them with disgrace. + + Thus happy lived the pair, and happier far + When four fair children graced the royal house, + Fairer than flowers, more bright than moon or star + Shining through vista long of forest boughs. + Finola was the eldest, eight years old: + The yearling, Conn, best loved of all that fold. + + These beauteous creatures with their mother shared + Alike her blissful nature and sweet looks, + Like her swan-soft, swan-white, blue-eyed, bright-haired, + With voices musical as birds or brooks: + Beings they seemed reserved for some great fate, + Mysterious, high, elect, and separate. + + At times they gambolled in the sunny sheen; + At times, Fiacre and Aodh at her side, + Finola paced the high-arched alleys green, + At once their youthful playmate and their guide: + A mother-hearted child she walked, and pressed + That infant, daily heavier, to her breast. + + Great power of Love that, wide as heaven, dost brood + O’er all the earth, and doest all things well! + Light of the wise, and safeguard of the good! + Nowhere, methinks, thou better lov’st to dwell + Than in the hearts of innocents that still, + By dangerous love untempted, work Love’s will! + + Thou shalt be with them when the sleet-wind blows + Not less than in the violet-braided bower: + Through thee the desert sands shall bud the rose, + The wild wave anthems sing! In grief’s worst hour + A germ of thine shall breed that quenchless Faith + Amaranth of life, and asphodel of death. + + Ah lot of man! Ah world whose life is change! + Ah sheer descent from topmost height of good + To deepest gulf of anguish sudden and strange! + A nation round their monarch’s gateway stood: + All day there stood they, whispering in great dread: + The herald came at last--‘The Queen is dead!’ + + In silence still they stood an hour and more, + Till through the West had sunk the great red sun, + And from the castle wall and turrets hoar + The latest crimson utterly had gone: + At last the truth had reached them! then on high + An orphaned People hurled its funeral cry. + + They hurled it forth again and yet again, + The dreadful wont of that barbaric time; + Cry after cry that reached the far off main, + And, echoing, seemed from cloud to cloud to climb; + Then lifted hands like creatures broken-hearted, + Or sentenced men; and homeward, mute, departed. + + Fast-speeding Time, albeit the wounded wing + He may not bind, brings us at least the crutch;-- + Winter was over, and the on-flying Spring + Grazed the sad monarch’s brow with heavenly touch, + And raised the head, now whitening, from the ground, + And stanched, not healed, the heart’s eternal wound. + + King Bove, chief sovereign of the dark-haired race, + Sent to him saying, ‘Quit thee like a man! + The Gaels, our scourge, and Erin’s sore disgrace, + Advance, each day, their armies, clan on clan; + Against them march thy host with mine, and take + To wife my daughter, for thy children’s sake.’ + + Lir sadly mused; but answered: ‘Let it be!’ + And drave with fifty chariots in array + To where the land’s chief river like a sea, + There named Lough Derg, spreads out in gulf and bay + And many a woody mountain sees its face + Imaged in that clear flood with softened grace. + + There with King Bove the widowed man abode + Two days amid great feastings. On the third + The king led forth his daughter--o’er her glowed + A dim veil jewel-tissued--with this word: + ‘Behold thy wife! The world proclaims her fair: + I know her strong to love, and strong to dare.’ + + And Lir made answer: ‘Fair she is as when + A mist-veiled yew, red-berried, stands in state: + Can love, you say! Love she my babes! and then + With her my love shall bide; if not--my hate.’ + And she, a crimson on her dusky brow, + Replied, ‘If so it be, then be it so!’ + + King Lir, a fortnight more in revels spent, + Made journey to his castle in the North + With her, his youthful consort, well content. + Arrived, in rapture of their loving mirth + Forth rushed into his arms his children four + Bright as those wavelets on their blue lake’s shore;-- + + On whom the new queen cast a glance oblique + One moment’s space; then, flinging wide her arms, + With instinct changed, and impulse lightning-like, + Clasped them in turn and wondered at their charms, + And cried, ‘If e’er a stepmother could love + I of that tribe renowned will tenderest prove.’ + + And so by her great loving of those four + Still from her husband won she praises sweet + And plaudits from his people more and more; + Her own she called them: nor was this deceit: + She loved them with a fitful love--a will + To make them or to mar, for good or ill. + + She wooed them still with shows, with flowers, with fruit; + Daily for them new sports she sought and found: + Yet, if their father praised them, she was mute, + And, when he placed them on his knee, she frowned, + Murmuring, ‘How blue their eyes! their cheek how pale! + Their voices too are voices of the Gael!’ + + Meantime, as month by month in grace they grew, + Their father loved them better than before; + And so, one eve, their slender cots he drew + Each from its place remote, and lightly bore, + And laid them ranged before his royal bed; + And o’er the four a veil gold-woven spread; + + Their mother’s bridal-veil: and still as dawn + Was in its glittering tissue caged and caught + He left his couch, and, that light veil withdrawn, + Before his children stood in silent thought; + And, if they slept, he kissed them in their sleep, + Then watched them with clasped hands in musings deep. + + And, if they slept not, from their balmy nest + With under-sliding arms he raised them high, + And clasped them each, successive, to his breast, + Or on them flashed the first light from the sky: + Then laid him by his mute, sleep-feigning bride, + And slept once more: and oft in sleep he sighed. + + Which things abhorring, she her face averse + Turned all day steadfast from the astonished throng: + And next, as one that broods upon a curse, + She sat in her sick-chamber three weeks long, + And never raised her eyes, nor made complaint, + Dark as a fiend and silent as a saint. + + Lastly to Lir she spake: ‘Daily I sink + Downward to death. I wither in my prime: + Home to my father I would speed, and drink + Once more the breezes of my native clime. + All night in sleep along Lough Derg I strayed, + And wings of strength about my shoulders played. + + ‘These four--thy children--with me I will take + To please my father’s eye; he loves them well: + Thou too, whene’er thy leisure serves, shalt make + Thither thy journey.’ All the powers of Hell + Thrilled at that speech in penal vaults below: + But Lir, no fraud suspecting, answered, ‘Go!’ + + Therefore next morn when earliest sunrise smote + Green mead to golden near the full-fed stream, + They caught four steeds that grazed thereby remote, + And yoked abreast beside the chariot beam; + And when the sun was sinking toward the West + By Darvra’s lake drew rein, and made their rest. + + Then the bad queen, descending, round her cast + A baleful look of mingled hate and woe, + And with those babes into a thicket passed, + And drew a dagger from her breast; and lo! + She struck them not, but only wailed and wailed-- + In her so strongly womanhood prevailed. + + The mood was changed. She smiled that smile which none + How wise soe’er, beholding, could resist, + And drew those children to her, one by one; + Then wailed once more, and last their foreheads kissed, + And cried with finger pointing to the lake, + ‘Hence! and in that clear bath your pastime take!’ + + She spoke, and from their silken garb forth-sliding, + Ere long those babes were sporting in the bay: + And, as it chanced, the eddy past them gliding + Wafted a swan’s plume: ’twas less white than they: + Frowning, the queen beheld them, and on high + Waved thrice her Druid wand athwart the sky: + + Then, standing on the marge wan-cheeked, wide-eyed, + As near they drew, awe-struck and wondering, + Therewith she smote their golden heads, and cried, + ‘Fly hence, ye pale-faced children of the king! + Cleave the blue mere, or on through ether sail; + No more his loved ones, but a dolorous tale!’ + + Straightway to snow-white swans those children turned: + And, sideway as they swerved the creatures four + Fixed on her looks with human grief that yearned; + Then slowly drifted backward from the shore; + While loud with voice unchanged, Finola cried, + ‘Bad deed is thine, false queen and bitter bride! + + ‘Bad deed afflicting babes that harmed thee not; + Bad deed, and to thyself an evil dower: + Disastrous more than ours shall be thy lot! + Thou too shalt feel the weight of Druid power: + From age to age thy penance ne’er shall cease: + Our doom, though long it lasts, shall end in peace.’ + + Then rang a wild shriek from that dreadful shape: + ‘Long, long, aye long shall last those years of woe! + Here on this lake from misty cape to cape + Three centuries ye shall wander to and fro; + Three centuries more shall stem with heavier toil + Far Alba’s waves, the black sea-strait[18] of Moyle. + + ‘Lastly three centuries where the Eagle-Crest[19] + O’er-looks the western deep, and Inisglaire, + Upon the mountain waves that know not rest + Shall be your rolling palace, foul or fair, + Till comes the Tailkenn,[20] sent to sound the knell + Of darkness, and ye hear his Christian bell.’ + + Lo, as a band of lilies, white and tall + Beneath a breeze of morning bend their head + High held in virgin state majestical, + So meekly cowered those swans in holy dread + Hearing that promised Tailkenn’s blissful name: + For they long since had heard in dream the same. + + Then fell a dew of meekness on the proud + Noting their humble heart; and drooped her front; + And sorrow closed around her like a cloud; + And thus with other voice than was her wont + To those soft victims of her wrath she cried: + ‘Woe, woe! Yet Fate must rule, whate’er betide! + + ‘The deed is done; yet thus much I concede: + In you the human heart shall never fail, + Changed though ye be, and masked in feathery weed: + Your voice shall sweet remain as voice of Gael; + And all who hear your songs shall sink in trance + And, sleeping, dream some great deliverance.’ + + She spake, and smote her hands; and at her word + Once more the attendants caught the royal steeds + Grazing in peace beside the hornèd herd + Amid the meadow flowers, and yellow weeds: + And fiercely through the night that dark one drave, + And reached Lough Derg what time above its wave + + The sun was rising; and at set of sun + Entered once more her father’s palace gate: + Seated thereby, his nobles, every one, + Arose and welcomed her with loving state: + She answered naught, but sternly past them strode + And found her girlhood’s bower, and there abode. + + But when of Lir King Bove had made demand, + She answered thus: ‘Enough! My Lord is naught; + Nor will he trust his children to thy hand, + Lest thou should’st slay them.’ Long in silent thought + The old man stood, then murmured in low tone, + ‘I loved those children better than mine own!’ + + That night in dream King Lir had anguish sore, + And southward, ere the dawn, rode far away + With many a chief to see his babes once more + Beside Lough Derg; and lo, at close of day + Nighing to Darvra’s lake, the westering sun + In splendour on the advancing horsemen shone. + + Straightway from that broad water’s central stream + Was heard a clang of pinions and swift feet-- + Unchanged at heart those babes had caught that gleam; + Instant from far had rushed, their sire to greet + Spangling the flood with silver spray; and ere + That sire had reached the margin they were there. + + Then, each and all, clamorous they made lament + Recounting all their wrong, and all the woe; + And Lir, their tale complete, his garment rent, + Till then transfixed like marble shape; and lo! + Three times, heart-grieved, that concourse raised their cry + Piercing the centre of the low-hung sky. + + But Lir knelt down upon the shining sand, + And cried, ‘Though great the might of Druid charms, + Return and feel once more your native land, + And find once more and fill your father’s arms!’ + And they made answer: ‘Till the Tailkenn come + We tread not land! The waters are our home.’ + + But when Finola saw her father’s grief + She added thus: ‘Albeit our days are sad, + The twilight brings our pain in part relief: + And songs are ours by night that make us glad: + Yea, each that hears our music, though he grieve, + Rejoices more. Abide, for it is eve.’ + + So Lir, and his, couched on the wave-lipped sod + All night; and ever as those songs up swelled + A mist of sleep upon them fell from God, + And healing Spirits converse with them held. + And Lir was glad all night: but with the morn + Anguish returned; and thus he cried, forlorn: + + ‘Farewell! The morn is come; and I depart: + Farewell! Not wholly evil are things ill! + Farewell, Finola! Yea, but in my heart + With thee I bide: there liv’st thou changeless still: + O Aodh! O Fiacre! the night is gone:-- + Farewell to both! Farewell, my little Conn!’ + + Southward the childless father rode once more, + And saw at last beyond the forests tall + The great lake and the palace on its shore; + And, entering, onward passed from hall to hall + To where King Bove majestic sat and crowned, + High on a terrace, with his magnates round; + + A stately terrace clustered round with towers, + And jubilant with music’s merry din, + Beaten by resonant waves, and bright with flowers: + There--but apart--she stood that wrought the sin, + Like one that broods on one black thought alone + Seen o’er a world of happy hopes o’erthrown. + + The throng made way: onward the wronged one strode + To Bove, sole-throned, and lifting in his hand + For royal sceptre that Druidic rod + Which gave him o’er the Spirit-world command; + Then, pointing to that traitress, false as fair, + That wronged one spake: ‘There stands the murderess!--there!’ + + Straight on the King Druidic insight fell; + And mirrored in his mind as cloud in lake + His daughter’s crime, distinct and visible, + Before him stood. He turned to her and spake: + ‘Thou hear’st the charge: how makest thou reply?’ + And she: ‘The deed is mine! I wrought it! I!’ + + Then spake King Bove with countenance like night: + ‘Of all dread shapes that traverse earth or sea, + Or pierce the soil, or urge through heaven their flight, + Say, which abhorrest thou most?’ And answered she: + ‘The shape of Spirits Accursed that ride the storm:’ + And he: ‘Be thine henceforth that demon form!’ + + He spake, and lifted high his Druid Wand:-- + T’ward him perforce she drew: she bowed her head: + Down on that head he dropp’d it; and beyond + The glooming lake, with bat-like wings outspread + O’er earth’s black verge the shrieking Fury passed; + Thenceforth to circle earth while earth shall last. + + As when, on autumn eve from hill or cape + That slants into gray wastes of western sea, + The sun long set, some shepherd stares agape + At cloud that seems through endless space to flee + On raven pinions down the moaning wind, + Thus on that Fury stared they, well-nigh blind. + + Then spake the king with hoary head that shook, + ‘I loved thy babes: now therefore let us go + Northward, and on their blameless beauty look, + Though changed, and hear their songs: for this I know + By Druid art, they sing the whole night long, + And heaven and earth are solaced by their song. + + Northward ere dawn they rode with a great host; + And loosed their steeds by Darvra’s mirror clear + What time purpureal evening like a ghost + Stepped from the blue glen on the glimmering mere: + And camped where stood the ruminating herds + With heads forth leaning t’ward those human birds. + + And, ever o’er the wave those swans would come + To hear man’s voice, and tell their tale to each, + Swift as the wind, and whiter than the foam; + Yet never mounted they the bowery beach, + And still swerved backward from the beckoning hand, + Revering thus their stepmother’s command. + + And ever, when the sacred night descended, + While with those ripples on the sandy bars + The sighing woods and winds low murmurs blended, + Their music fell upon them from the stars, + And they gave utterance to that gift divine + In silver song or anthem crystalline. + + Who heard that strain no more his woes lamented: + The exiled chief forgat his place of pride: + The prince ill-crowned his ruthless deed repented: + The childless mother and the widowed bride + Amid their locks tear-wet and loosely straying + Felt once again remembered touches playing. + + The words of that high music no one knew; + Yet all men felt there lived a meaning there + Immortal, marvellous, searching, strengthening, true, + The pledge of some great future, strange and fair, + When sin shall lose her might, and cleansing woe + Shall on the Just some starry crown bestow. + + Lulled by that strain the prophet king let drop + In death his Druid-Staff by Darvra’s side; + And there in later years with happy hope + King Lir, that mystic requiem listening, died: + And there those blissful sufferers bore their wrong + All day in weeping, and all night in song. + + Not once ’tis whispered in that ancient story + They raised their voice God’s justice to arraign: + All patient suffering is expiatory: + Their doom was linked with hope of Erin’s gain; + And, like the Holy Elders famed of old, + Those babes on that high promise kept their hold. + + And they saw great towers built, and saw them fall; + And saw the little seedling tempest-sown; + And generations under torch and pall + Borne forth to narrow graves ere long grass-grown; + And all these things to them were as a dream, + Or shade that sleeps on some fast hurrying stream. + + More numerous daily flocked to that still shore + Peace-loving spirits: yea, the Gaelic clans + And tribes Dedannan, foemen there no more, + From the same fountains brimmed their flowing cans, + And washed their kirtles in the same pure rills, + And brought their corn-sheaves to the self-same mills. + + Thus, though elsewhere the sons of Erin strove + From Aileach’s coast, and Uladh’s marble cliffs, + To where by banks of Lee, and Beara’s cove, + The fishers spread their nets and launched their skiffs, + Round Darvra’s shores remained inviolate peace; + There too the flocks and fields had best increase. + + In that long strife the Gael the victory won: + Tuatha’s race, Dedannan, disappeared; + Yet still the conqueror whispered, sire to son, + ‘Their progeny survives, half scorned, half feared, + The Fairy Host; and mansions bright they hold + On moonlight hills, and under waters cold. + + ‘To snare the Gael, perpetual spells they weave: + O’er the wet waste they bid the meteor glide: + They raise illusive cliffs at morn and eve + On wintry coasts: sea-mantled rocks they hide: + And shipwrecked sailors eye them o’er the waves, + Dark shapes pygmean couchant in sea-caves. + + ‘Some say that, mid the mountains’ sunless walls, + They throng beneath their stony firmament, + An iron-handed race. At intervals + Through chasm stream-cloven, and through rocky rent, + The shepherd hears their multitudinous hum + As of far hosts approaching swift yet dumb. + + ‘In those dread vaults, Magian and Alchemist, + Supreme in every craft of brain and hand, + The mountains’ mineral veins they beat and twist; + And on red anvils forge them spear and brand + For some predestined battle. Yea, men say + The island shall be theirs that last great day!’ + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + CANTO THE SECOND. + + + What time, forth sliding from the Eternal Gates, + The centuries three on earth had lived and died, + Thus spake Finola to her snowy mates, + ‘No more in this soft haven may we bide: + The second Woe succeeds; that heavier toil + On Alba’s waves, the black sea-strait of Moyle.’ + + Then wept to her in turn the younger three; + ‘Alas the sharp rocks and the salt sea-foam! + Thou therefore make the lay, ere yet we flee + From this our exile’s cradle, sweet as home!’ + And thus Finola sang, while, far and near, + The men of Erin wept that strain to hear: + + ‘Farewell, Lough Darvra, with thine isles of bloom! + Farewell, familiar tribes that grace her shore! + The penance deepens on us, and the doom: + Farewell! The voice of man we list no more + Till he, the Tailkenn, comes to sound the knell + Of darkness, and rings out his gladsome bell.’ + + Thus singing, mid their dirge the sentenced soared + Heaven-high; then hanging mute on plumes outspread, + With downcast eye long time that lake explored; + And lastly with a great cry northward sped: + Then was it Erin’s sons, listening that cry, + Decreed: ‘The man who slays a swan shall die.’ + + Three days against the northern blast on-flying + To Fate obedient and the Will Divine, + They reached, what time the crimson eve was lying + On Alba’s isles, and ocean’s utmost line, + That huge sea-strait whose racing eddies boil + ’Twixt Erin and the cloud-girt headland Moyle.[21] + + There anguish fell on them: they heard the booming + Of league-long breakers white, and gazed on waves + Wreck-strewn, themselves entombed, and all-entombing, + Rolling to labyrinths dim of red-roofed caves; + And streaming waters broad, as with one will + In cataracts from gray shelves descending still. + + There, day by day, the sun more early set; + And through the hollows of the high-ridged sea + Which foamed around their rocky cabinet + The whirlwinds beat them more remorselessly: + And winter followed soon: and ofttimes storms + Shrouded for weeks the mountains’ frowning forms. + + In time all ocean omens they had learned; + And once, as o’er the darkening deep they roved, + Finola, who the advancing woe discerned, + Addressed them: ‘Little brothers, well beloved, + Though many a storm hath tried us, yet the worst + Comes up this night: now therefore, ere it burst + + ‘Devise we swiftly if, through God’s high Will, + Billow or blast divides us each from each, + Some refuge-house wherein, when winds are still, + To meet once more--low rock or sandy beach:’ + And answer thus they made: ‘One spot alone + This night can yield us refuge, Carickrone.’ + + They spake, and sudden thunder shook the world, + And blackness wrapped the seas, and lightnings rent; + And each from each abroad those swans were hurled + By solid water-scud. Outworn and spent + At last, that direful tempest over-blown, + Finola scaled their trysting-rock--alone. + + But when she found no gentle brother near, + And heard the great storm roaring far away, + Anguish of anguish pierced her heart, and fear, + And thus she made her moan and sang her lay: + ‘Death-cold they lie along the far sea-tide: + Would that as cold I drifted at their side!’ + + Thus as she sang, behold, the sun uprose, + And smote a swan that on a wave’s smooth crest + Exhausted lay, like one by pitiless foes + Trampled, and looking but to death for rest: + He also clomb that rock, though weak and worn, + With bleeding feet and pinions tempest-torn. + + Aodh was he! He couched him by her side; + Straight, her right wing, Finola o’er him spread: + Ere long beneath the rock Fiacre she spied, + Wounded yet more; yet soon he hid his head + ’Neath her left wing, her nestling’s wonted place, + And slept content in that beloved embrace. + + But still Finola mused with many a tear, + ‘Alas for us, of little Conn bereft!’ + Then Conn came floating by, full blithe of cheer, + For he, secure within a craggy cleft, + Had slept all night; and now once more his nest + He made beneath his snowy sister’s breast. + + And as they slept she sang: ‘Among the flowers + Of old we played where princes quaffed their wine; + But now for flowery fields sea-floods are ours; + And now our wine-cup is the bitter brine: + Yet, brothers, fear no ill; for God will send + At last his Tailkenn, and our woes find end.’ + + And God, Who of least things has tenderest thought, + Looked down on them benignly from on high, + And bade that bitter brine to enter not + Their scars, unhealed as yet, lest they should die; + And nearer sent their choicest food full oft, + And clothed their wings with plumage fine and soft. + + And ever as the spring advanced, the sea + Put on a kindlier aspect. Cliffs deep-scarred + To milder airs gave welcome festively + Upon their iron breasts and foreheads hard, + And, while about their feet the ripples played, + Cast o’er the glaring deep a friendlier shade. + + And when at last the full midsummer panted + Upon the austere main, and high-peaked isles, + And hills that, like some elfin land enchanted, + Now charmed, now mocked the eye with phantom smiles, + More far round Alba’s shores the swans made way + To Islay’s beach, and cloud-loved Colonsay. + + The growths beside their native lake oft noted + In that sublimer clime no more they missed; + Jewels, not flowers they found where’er they floated, + Emerald and sapphire, opal, amethyst, + Far-kenned through watery depths or magic air, + Or trails of broken rainbows, here and there. + + Round Erin’s northern coasts they drifted on + From Rathlin isle to Fanad’s beetling crest, + And where, in frowning sunset steeped, forth shone + The ‘Bloody Foreland,’ gazing t’ward the west; + Yet still with duteous hearts to Moyle returned-- + To love their place of penance they had learned. + + One time it chanced that, onward as they drifted + Where Banna’s current joins that stormy sea, + A princely company with banners lifted + Rode past on snow-white steeds and sang for glee: + At once they knew those horsemen, form and face, + Their native stock--Tuatha’s ancient race! + + T’ward them they sped: their sorrows they recounted: + The warriors could not aid them, and rode by: + Then higher than of old their anguish mounted; + And farther rang through heaven their piteous cry; + And when it ceased, this lay Finola sang + While all the echoing rocks and caverns rang: + + ‘Whilome in purple clad we sat elate: + The warriors watched us at their nut-brown mead: + But now we roam the waters desolate, + Or breast the languid beds of waving weed: + Our food was then fine bread; our drink was wine: + This day on sea-plants sour we peak and pine. + + ‘Whilome our four small cots of pearl and gold + Lay, side by side, before our father’s bed, + And silken foldings kept us from the cold: + But now on restless waves our couch is spread; + And now our bed-clothes are the white sea-foam: + And now by night the sea-rock is our home.’ + + Not less from them such sorrows swiftly passed + Since evermore one thought their bosoms filled-- + That father’s home. That haunt, in memory glassed, + Childhood perpetual o’er their lives distilled: + And, coast what shore they might, green vale and plain + Bred whiter flocks, men said, more golden grain. + + The years ran on: the centuries three went by: + Finola sang: ‘The second Woe is ended!’ + Obedient then, once more they soared on high; + Next morn on Erin’s western coast descended, + While sunrise flashed from misty isles far seen, + Now gold, now flecked with streaks of luminous green. + + And there for many a winter they abode, + Harbouring in precincts of the setting sun; + And mourned by day, yet sang at night their ode + As though in praise of some great victory won: + Some conqueror more than man; some heavenly crown + Slowly o’er all creation settling down. + + There once--what time a great sun in decline + Had changed to gold the green back of a wave + That showered a pasture fair with diamond brine, + Then sank, anon uprising from its grave + Went shouldering onward, higher and more high, + And hid far lands, and half eclipsed the sky-- + + There once a shepherd, Aibhric, high of race, + Marked them far off, and marking them so loved + That to the ocean’s verge he rushed apace + With hands outspread. Shoreward the creatures moved; + And when he heard them speak with human tongue + That love he felt grew tenderer and more strong. + + Day after day they told that youth their tale: + Wide-eyed he stood, and inly drank their words; + And later, harping still in wood and vale, + He fitted oft their sorrow to his chords; + And thus to him in part men owe the lore[22] + Of all those patient sufferers bare of yore. + + For bard he was; and still the bard-like nature + Hath reverence, as for virtue, so for woe, + And ever finds in trials of the creature + The great Creator’s purpose here below + To lift by lowering, and through anguish strange + To fit for thrones exempt from chance or change. + + There first the Four had met that sympathy + Yearned for so long: and yet, that treasure found, + So much the more ere long calamity + Tasked them, thus strengthened; tasked and closed them round, + And higher yet fierce winds and watery shocks + Dashed them thenceforth upon the pitiless rocks. + + At last from heaven’s dark vault a night there fell + The direst they had known. The high-heaped seas + Vanquished by frost, beneath her iron spell + Abased their haughty crests by slow degrees: + The swans were frozen upon that ice-plain frore; + Yet still Finola sang, as oft before, + + ‘Beneath my right wing, Aodh, make thy rest! + Beneath my left, Fiacre! My little Conn, + Find thou a warmer shelter ’neath my breast, + As thou art wont: thou art my little son! + Thou God that all things mad’st, and lovest all, + Subdue things great! Protect the weak, the small!’ + + But evermore the younger three made moan; + And still their moans more loud and louder grew; + And still Finola o’er that sea of stone + For their sake fragments of wild wailings threw; + And ever as she sang, the on-driving snow + Choked the sweet strain; yet still she warbled low. + + Then, louder when she heard those others grieve, + And found that song might now no more avail, + She said: ‘Believe, O brothers young, believe + In that great God, whose help can never fail! + Have faith in God, since God can ne’er deceive!’ + And lo, those weepers answered: ‘We believe!’ + + So thus those babes, in God’s predestined hour, + Through help of Him, the Lord of Life and Death, + Inly fulfilled with light and prophet power, + Believed; and perfect made their Act of Faith; + And thenceforth all things, both in shade and shine, + To them came softly and with touch benign. + + First, from the southern stars there came a breeze + On-wafting happy mist of moonlit rain; + And when the sun ascended o’er the seas + The ice was vanquished; and the watery plain + And every cloud with rapture thrilled and stirred: + And lo, at noon the cuckoo’s voice was heard! + + And since with that rough ice their feet were sore + God for their sake a breeze from Eden sent + That gently raised them from the ocean’s floor + And in its bosom, as an ambient tent, + Held them, suspense: and with a dew of balm + God, while they slept, made air and ocean calm. + + Likewise a beam auroral forth he sped + That flushed that tent aerial like a rose + Each morn, and roseate odours o’er it shed + The long day through. And still, at evening’s close, + They dreamed of those rich bowers and alleys green + Wherein with Lir their childish sports had been. + + And thrice they dreamed that in the morning gray + They gathered there red roses drenched with dew: + But lo! a serpent ’neath the roses lay: + Then came the Tailkenn, and that serpent slew; + And round the Tailkenn’s tonsured head was light + That made that morning more than noonday bright. + + Thus wrapt, thus kindled, in sublimer mood + Heaven-high they soared, and flung abroad their strain + O’er-sailing huge Croagh-Patrick swathed in wood, + Or Acaill,[23] warder of the western main, + Or Arran Isle, that time heroic haunt, + Since Enda’s day Religion’s saintlier vaunt. + + And many a time they floated farther south + Where milder airs endear sea-margins bleak, + To that dim Head far seen o’er Shenan’s mouth, + Or Smerwick’s ill-famed cliff and winding creek, + Or where on Brandon sleeps Milesius’ son + With all his shipwrecked warriors round him--Donn. + + The centuries passed: her loud, exultant lay + Finola sang, their time of penance done, + And ended: ‘Lo, to us it seems a day; + Not less the dread nine hundred years are run! + Now, brothers, homeward be our flight!’ And they + Chanted triumphant: ‘Home, to Finnahá!’ + + Up from the sea they rose in widening gyre, + And hung suspended mid the ethereal blue, + And saw, far-flashing in the sunset’s fire, + A wood-girt lake whose splendour well they knew; + And flew all night; and reached at dawn its shore-- + Ah, then rang out that wail ne’er heard before! + + There where the towers of Lir of old had stood + Lay now the stony heap and rain-washed rath; + And through the ruin-mantling alder-wood + The forest beast had stamped in mire his path; + And desolate were their mother’s happy bowers, + So fair of old with fountains and with flowers! + + More closely drew the orphans, each to each:-- + ’Twas then Finola raised her dirge on high, + As nearer yet they drifted to the beach + In hope one fragment of past days to spy; + ‘Upon our father’s house hath fallen a change; + And as a dead man’s face this place is strange! + + ‘No more the hound and horse; no more the horn! + No more the warriors winding down the glen! + Behold, the place of pleasaunce is forlorn, + And emptied of fair women and brave men; + The wine-cup now is dry; the music fled: + Now know we that our father, Lir, is dead!’ + + She sang, and ceased, though long the feathered throat + Panted with passion of the unuttered song: + At last she spake with voice that seemed remote + Like echoed voice of one the tombs among: + ‘Depart we hence! Better the exile’s pain!’ + And they: ‘Return we to rough waves again!’ + + Yet still along that silver mere they lingered + Oaring their weeping way by lawn and cape, + Till evening, purple-stoled and dewy-fingered, + O’er heaven’s sweet face had woven its veil of crape; + And tenderer came from darkening wood and wild + The voice far off of woman or of child. + + And when, far travelling through the fields of ether, + The stars successive filled their thrones of light, + Still to that heaven the glimmering lake beneath her + Gave meet response, with music answering light; + For still, wherever sailed that mystic four, + With minstrelsy divine that lake ran o’er. + + But when the rising sun made visible + The night-mist hovering long o’er banks of reed + They cast their broad wings on a gathering swell + Of wind that, late from eastern sea-caves freed, + Waved all the island’s oakwoods t’ward the West; + And seaward swooped at eve, and there found rest. + + And since they knew their penance now was over, + Penance that tasks true hearts to purify, + Happier were they than e’er was mortal lover, + Happy as Spirits cleansed that, near the sky, + Feel, mid that shadowy realm expiatory, + Warm on their lids the unseen yet nearing glory. + + Thenceforth they roamed no more, at Inisglaire + Their change awaiting. In its blissful prime + That island was, men say, as Eden fair, + The swan-soft nurseling of a changeful clime, + With amaranth-lighted glades, and tremulous sheen + Of trees full-flowered on earth no longer seen. + + Not then the waves with that still site contended; + On its warm sandhills pansies always bloomed; + And ever with the inspiring sea-wind blended + The breath of gardens violet-perfumed; + And daisies whitened lawn and dell, and spread + At sunset o’er green hills their under-red, + + Faint as that blush which lights some matron’s cheek + Tenderly pleased by gentle praise deserved-- + That island’s winding coast from creek to creek + Like curves of shells with dream-like beauty swerved: + And midmost spread a lake; from mortal eyes + Vanished this day like man’s lost paradise. + + Around that lake with oldest oakwoods shaded + Were all things that to eye are witching most, + Green slopes, dew drenched, and gray rocks ivy-braided; + Yet speechless was the region as a ghost: + No whisper shook those woods; no tendril stirred; + Nor e’er beside the cave was ripple heard. + + A home for Spirits, not home for man, it seemed; + Or Limbo meet for body-waiting Souls-- + Of such in Pagan times the poets dreamed-- + That stillness which invests the unmoving poles + Above it brooded. In its circuit wide + A second Darvra lived--but glorified. + + Upon its breast perpetual light there lay, + Undazzling beam, and uncreated light; + For lake and wood the sunshine drank all day, + And breathed it softly forth to cheer the night, + A silver twilight, pure from cloud or taint, + Like aureole round the forehead of a saint. + + There dwelt those Swans; there louder anthems chanted; + There first they sang by day--rapt song and hymn, + Till all those birds the western coasts that haunted + Came flying far o’er ocean’s purple rim, + Scorning thenceforth wild cliff and beds of foam; + And made, then first, that sacred isle their home. + + So passed three years. When dawned the third May morn + The Four, while slowly rose the kindling mist + Showing the first white on the earliest thorn, + Heard music o’er the waters. List, O list! + ’Twas sweet as theirs--more sweet--yet terrible + At first; and sudden trembling on them fell. + + A second time it sounded. Terror died, + And rapture came instead, and mystic mirth + They knew not whence: and thus Finola cried: + ‘Brothers! the Tailkenn treads our Erin’s earth!’ + And as the lifted mist gave view more large + They saw a blue bay with a fair green marge. + + On that green marge there rose an Altar-stone: + Before it, robed in white, with tonsured head, + Stood up the kingly Tailkenn all alone: + Not far behind, in reverence, not in dread, + With low bent brows a princely senate knelt, + Girding that altar as with golden belt. + + Marvelling, as on they sailed that Rite they saw: + But, when a third time pealed that Tailkenn’s bell, + They too their halleluias, though with awe, + Blended with his. The Ill Spirits heard their knell, + And shrieking fled to penal dungeons drear; + And straight, since now those blissful Four drew near, + + Saint Patrick stretched above the wave his hand + And thus he spake--and wind and wave were stilled-- + ‘Children of Lir, re-tread your native land, + For now your long sea-penance is fulfilled!’ + Then lo! Finola raised the funeral cry: + ‘We tread our native land that we may die!’ + + And thus she made the lay, and thus she sang: + ‘Baptize us, priest, while living yet we be!’ + And louder soon her dirge-like anthem rang: + ‘Lo, thus the Children’s burial I decree: + Make fair our grave where land and ocean meet; + And t’ward thy holy Altar place our feet. + + ‘Upon my left, Fiacre; upon my right + Let Aodh sleep; for such their place of rest, + Secured to each by usage and by right: + And lay my little Conn upon my breast: + Then on a low sand pillow raise my head, + That I may see his face though I be dead.’ + + She spake; and on the sands they stept--the Four-- + Then lo, from heaven there came a miracle: + Soon as they left the wave, and trod the shore + The weight of bygone centuries on them fell: + To human forms they changed, yet human none;-- + Dread, shapeless weights of wrinkles and of bone. + + A moment prone the wildered creatures lay; + Then slowly up that breadth of tawny sand, + Like wounded beast that can but crawl, made way + With knee convulsed, and closed and clutching hand, + Nine-centuried forms, still breathing mortal breath, + Though shrouded in the cerements pale of death. + + That concourse on them gazed with many a tear; + Yet no man uttered speech or motion made, + Till now the Four had reached that altar-bier, + Their ghastly pilgrimage’s goal, and laid + Before its base their bodies, one by one, + And faces glistening in the rising sun. + + There lying, loud they raised the self-same cry, + As Patrick o’er them signed the conquering Sign, + ‘Baptize us, holy Tailkenn, for we die!’ + The saint baptized them in the Name Divine, + And, swift as thought, their happy spirits at last + To God’s high feast and singing angels passed. + + Now hear the latest wonder. While, low-bowed, + That concourse gazed upon the reverend dead + Behold, like changeful shapes in evening cloud, + Vanished those time-worn bodies; and, instead, + Inwoven lay four children, white and young + With silver-lidded eyes and lashes long. + + Finola lay, once more an eight years’ child: + Upon her right hand Aodh took his rest, + Upon her left Fiacre;--in death he smiled: + Her little Conn was cradled on her breast: + And all their saintly raiment shone as bright + As sea-foam sparkling on a moonlit night; + + Or as their snowy night-clothes shone of old + When now the night was past, and Lir, their sire, + Upraised them from the warm cot’s silken fold, + And bade them watch the sun’s ascending fire, + And watched himself its beam, now here now there, + Flashed from white foot, blue eyes, or golden hair. + + The men who saw that deathbed did not weep, + But gazed till sunset upon each fair face; + And then with funeral psalm, and anthems deep, + Interred them at that sacred altar’s base, + And graved their names in Ogham characters + On one white tomb; and, close beneath them, Lir’s. + + Those Babes were Erin’s Holy Innocents, + And first-fruits of the land to Christ their Lord, + Though born within the unbelievers’ tents: + Figured in them the Gael his God adored, + That later-coming, holier Gael, who won + Through Faith the birthright, though the younger son. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + THE + + FORAY OF QUEEN MEAVE + + OR + + ‘THE TAIN BO CUAILGNÉ’ + + + _FIVE FRAGMENTS OF AN ANCIENT IRISH EPIC_ + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + TO + + SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON + + THIS POEM IS DEDICATED, + + IN TOKEN OF GRATITUDE + + FOR ‘CONGAL,’ AND FOR MANY POEMS BESIDE, + + THAT ILLUSTRATE ARIGHT + + THE LEGENDS OF ANCIENT IRELAND. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + PROLOGUE. + + + Senchan, the king of bards, when centuries six + Had flowered and faded since the Birth Divine, + Summoned in synod all the island bards, + Demanding; ‘Is there who can yet recite + That first of Erin’s songs, “The Tain”?’ Not one + Could sing it, save in fragments. Then arose + Marbhan, and spake; ‘Send prayer to Erin’s Saints + That, bowed o’er Fergus’ grave, they lift their hands + For Erin at her need.’ Five Saints obeyed + And o’er that venerable spot three days + Fasting made prayer while knelt the bards around. + Then on the third day as the sun uprose + Behold! a purple mist engirt that grave; + And from it, fair as rainbow backed by cloud, + Shone out a kingly Phantom robed in green, + With red-brown locks, close clustered, drenched in dew, + And golden crown, and golden-hilted sword;-- + His hand was on it. They who saw that Shape + Well knew him, Fergus Roy, the Exile-King. + Gracious as in the old days, that king rehearsed + The Tale so long desired, though many an age, + And that grey empire of departed Souls, + Had quelled at last the strong ones of that strain, + Record half jest, half earnest. Marbhan spoke + Once more; ‘Lest Erin lose again this Tale + Through fraud of demons or all-wasting time, + Amid yon Saints elect some scribe, their best, + And pray that scribe to write it.’ Straight, with help + It may be, of the bards, Saint Kiaran wrote + The Heroic Song on parchment fine, the skin + Of one he loved, his ‘little heifer grey’ + That gave the book its name. Six centuries passed; + Then in Saint Kiaran’s House at Clonmacnoise + That book was found, and on it; ‘Reader, here + Are histories old with later fables blent, + Fancies full fair with idle Pagan vaunts: + Now therefore, since old things have in them worth + And teach by what they hold and what they lack + Whoso shall read this book, and know to choose + ’Twixt Good and Ill, my blessing on him rest!’ + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + FRAGMENT I. + + _THE CAUSE OF THE GREAT WAR._ + + + ARGUMENT. + +Meave, Queen of Connacht,[24] and Ailill her husband, waking one morning +fall into a disputation, each claiming to be the worthier of the two, +and the wealthier. Their lords decide that the king and queen are great +and happy alike in all things save one only, namely, that Ailill +possesses the far-famed white Bull, Fionbannah. Meave hearing that Conor +Conchobar, King of Uladh,[25] boasts a black Bull mightier yet, is fain +to purchase it, but cannot prevail so far. She therefore declares war +against Uladh. There meets her Faythleen the Witch, who prophesies +calamity, but promises that in aid of Meave she will breathe over the +realm of Uladh a spirit of imbecility. This she does; yet Cuchullain, +unaided, afflicts the whole army of Meave by exploits which to him are +but sports. Fergus, the exiled King of Uladh, narrates to Meave the high +deeds of Cuchullain wrought in his childhood. + + + In Cruachan, old Connacht’s palace pile, + Dwelt Meave, the queen, haughtiest of woman’s kind, + A warrioress untamed that made her will + The measure of the world. The all-conquering years + Conquered not her: the strength of endless prime + Lived in her royal tread and breast and eye + A life immortal. Queenly was her brow; + Fulgent her eye; her countenance beauteous, save + When wrath o’er-flamed its beauty. With her dwelt + Ailill her husband, trivial man and quaint, + And early old. He had not chosen her: + She chose a consort who should rule her not, + And tossed him to her throne. In youth her lord + Was Conor Conchobar, great Uladh’s King: + She had not found him docile to her will, + And to her sire returned. The August morn + Had trailed already on the stony floor + Its fiery beam when, laughing, Ailill woke: + He woke, awakened by a sound that shook + The forest dews to earth, Fionbannah’s roar, + That snow-white Bull, the wonder of the age, + Who, born amid the lowlands of the queen, + Yet, grown to strength, o’er-leaped her bound and roamed + Thenceforth the leaner pastures of the king, + For this cause, that his spirit scorned to live + In female vassalage. + That tale recalling + King Ailill laughed: his laughter roused the queen: + She woke in wrath: to assuage her Ailill spake; + ‘Happy and blest that dame whose lord is sage! + Thy fortunes, wife of mine, began that day + I called thee spouse!’ To him the queen, ‘My sire + Was Erin’s Ard-Righ![26] Daughters six had he: + I, Meave, of these was fairest and most famed! + This Cruachan was mine before we met; + And all the Island’s princes sued my hand. + I spurned their offers! three things I required-- + A warrior proved, since great at arms am I; + A liberal hand, since lavish I of gifts; + A man not jealous, since, in love as war, + There where I willed I ever cast mine eyes. + These merits three were yours: I beckoned to you: + Dowered you with ingots thicker than your wrist; + Made you a king, or kingling. What of that? + I might have chosen a better! Yea, I count + My greatness more than yours!’ + With treble shrill + Ailill replied; ‘What words are these, my queen? + My father was a king; my brothers kings! + My hoards are higher heaped than yours; my meads + More deep, more rich!’ + Then loudly stormed the queen:-- + In rushed her lords, and stood, a senate grave, + Circling the couch: and while, each answering each, + Ailill and Meave set forth in order due + The treasures either boasted, kine, or sheep, + Rich cornfield, jewel’d robe, or gem-wrought car, + Careful they weighed the lists in equal scale + And ’twixt them found in value difference none. + Doubtful they stood. Anon rolled forth once more + Fionbannah’s roar; and, leaping from his bed + King Ailill shouted; ‘Mine, not thine, that Bull! + Through him my treasure passes thine, my queen! + My worth exceeds thy worth!’ At once forth stepped + Mac Roth, old Connacht’s herald, with this word: + ‘Great queen, the King of Uladh boasts a Bull + Lordlier than ours, a broader bulk, and black, + Black as the raven’s wing! In Daré’s charge + That marvel bides, the Donn Cuailgné named + Because his lowings shake Cuailgné’s shore, + The southern bound of Uladh. Privilege + He hath that neither witch nor demon tempt + That precinct where he harbours.’ Meave exclaimed, + ‘Fly hence, Mac Roth! Take with thee golden store, + Rich garments, chariots gemmed: bid Daré choose; + But bring me back that Bull!’ + Three days had passed: + Then by the tower of Daré stood Mac Roth + And blew his horn; and Daré’s sons with speed + Flung the gate wide. The herald entered in + And spake his message. Proudly Daré mused, + ‘Great Meave my friendship sues;’ and made a feast, + And, when the wine had warmed him spake; ‘Mac Roth! + Cuailgné’s Donn is Conor’s Bull, not mine: + Yet, though the king should hurl me outcast forth, + To Meave that Bull shall go and bide a year. + Tell her the Donn is manlike in his mind, + And not like Bulls. Long summer eves he stands, + Or paces stately up the mead and down + Eyeing the racing youths, or glad at heart + Listening the music.’ Thus he pledged his faith. + But Daré’s sons at midnight, each to each, + Whispered; ‘the king will chase us from the realm! + He hates Queen Meave, and well he loves the Donn;’ + And stood next morn beside their sire, and spake, + ‘Mac Roth is gone a hunting: ere he went + He sware that you had yielded him the Donn + Fearing his sword.’ Then Daré’s heart was changed, + And loud by all his swearing Gods he sware + ‘Cuailgné’s Donn shall ne’er consort with Meave, + Nor with her kine:’ and on his gate he set + The castle’s Fool waiting Mac Roth’s return, + And charged him with this greeting; ‘Back to Meave! + Thy queen she is, not Uladh’s! Bid her know + Our Donn and we revere Fionbannah’s choice, + Her Bull, that leaped her gate and swam her flood, + Spurning the female rule!’ + Then turned Mac Roth + His car; and sideway shook one hand irate; + And lashed the steeds, and reached great Cruachan, + And, instant upon all who heard his tale + Like lightning fell the battle rage. The queen, + Sent forth her heralds, east, and west, and south, + Summoning her great allies. Erin, that day + Save Uladh only, stood conjoined with Meave, + Great kings, and warriors named from chiefs of old + Sons of Milesius; for King Conor’s craft + And that proud onset of the Red-Branch Knights + Year after year had galled their hearts. ’Twas come! + The day of vengeance! In their might they rose + From Eyrus’ vales to utmost Cahirnane, + From Oileen Arda on to Borda Lu, + And where the loud wave breaks on Beara’s isle; + And by the hallowed banks of Darvra’s lake + Where, changed to swans, the Children Four of Lir, + Dowerless on earth, their home the homeless waves, + Darkling yet gladdening gloomier hearts with light, + And sad yet solaced through one conquering hope, + By song had vanquished sorrow. From the West, + Came Inachall, and Adarc. Eiderkool + Marched, ever shrilling songs and shaking spears: + And, mightier far, with never slumbering hearts + And eyes that stared through long desire of home + Uladh’s three thousand exiles, driven far forth + When Conor Conchobar, trampling his pledge, + Slaughtered the sons of Usnach. At their head + Rode Fergus, Uladh’s King ere traitor yet + Had filched its royal crown; and by his side, + Faithful in exile, Cormac Conlinglas, + King Conor’s bravest son. That host the queen + To Ai led, where Ai’s four great plains + Shine in the rising and the setting sun, + Gold-green, with all their flag-flowers, meres, and streams: + There planted she her camp; thence ever rang + Neighing of horse, and tempest song of bard, + And graver voice of prophet and of seer + Who ceased not, day or night, for fifteen days + From warnings to the people, ‘Be ye one;’-- + Yet one the people were not. + Meave the while, + Resting upon those great and growing hosts + Her widening eyes, rejoiced within, and clutched + The sceptre-staff with closer grasp, and heaved + Higher her solid, broad, imperial breast, + Amorous of battle nigh at hand. Yet oft, + Listening those bickerings in her camp she frowned: + For still the chieftains strove; and one, a king + Briarind, had tongue so sharp, where’er he moved + A guard was round him set lest spleen of his + Should set the monarchs ravening each on each. + ‘The hand of Fergus,’ mused she, ‘that alone + Might solder yonder mass. Men note in him + His front, his voice, his stature, and his step, + The one time King of Uladh. Held he rule-- + He shall not for my will endures it not! + He props my war because, long years our guest, + His honour needs not less; with us he marches + Athirst for vengeance and his native land, + Yet scoffs our cause, and sent, spurning surprise, + To Uladh challenge loud.’ Again she mused, + ‘A man love-worthy if he loved again!-- + At best ’twould be to him a moment’s sport! + The battle and the stag-hunt, these alone, + He counts a prince’s pastimes!’ Sudden from heaven + Eclipse there fell on Ai’s spacious plains, + And shadow black; these noting, Meave revolved + That dread Red Branch in act and counsel one; + And, brooding thus, with inner eye she saw + No longer men but skeletons of men + Innumerable in intertangled mass + Burthening the fields far spread. Aloud she cried, + ‘On to Moytura where the prophet dwells;’ + And straight her charioteer the horses smote + And tamed them with the reins: and lo! what time + The noontide sun with keenest splendour blazed, + Right opposite upon the chariot’s beam + There sat a wondrous woman phantom-faced + Singing and weaving. Shapely was that head + Bent o’er her web, while back the sun-like hair + Streamed on the wind. One hand upreared a sword: + Seven chains fell from it. Sea-blue were her eyes, + And berry-red her scornful lip; her cheek + White as the snow-drift of a single night; + Her voice like harp-strings when the harper’s hand + Half drowns their pathos. Close as bark to tree + The azure robe clung to that virgin form + Sinewy and long, and reached the shining feet. + Then spake the queen; ‘What see’st thou in that web?’ + And she, ‘I see a kingdom’s destinies; + And they are like a countenance dashed with blood: + Faythleen am I, the Witch.’ To her the queen; + ‘I bid thee say what see’st thou in my host, + Faythleen, the Witch!’ And Faythleen answered slow, + ‘The hue of blood: sunset on sunset charged.’ + Then fixed that Wild One on the North her eyes, + And Meave made answer; ‘In those eyes I see + The fates they see; great Uladh’s realm full-armed, + And all that Red Branch Order as one man.’ + Faythleen replied; ‘One man alone I see; + One man, yet mightier than a realm in arms! + That Watch-Hound watching still by Uladh’s gate + Is mightier thrice than Uladh: on his brow + Spring-tide sits throned; yet ruin loads his hand. + If e’er Cuchullain rides in Uladh’s van + Flee to thy hills and isles!’ Meave bit her lip: + But wildly sang the Witch; ‘Faythleen am I, + Thy People’s patron mid the Powers unseen: + Beware that youth invisible for speed, + Who hears that whisper none beside can hear, + Sees what none other sees; before whose eye + The wild beast cowers, subdued! Beware that youth + Slender as maid, whose stature in the fight + Rises gigantic. Gamesome he and mild; + To woman reverent and the hoary hair; + Nor alms he stints nor incense to the Gods; + But when from heaven the anger on him breaks + Pity he knows for none. No pact with him! + Return with speed and march to-morrow morn: + The clan of Cailitin shall yield thee aid, + That magic clan which fights with poisoned darts. + To Uladh I, above her realm to spread + Mantle of darkness, and a mind that errs, + And powerlessness, and shame.’ + Due north she sped, + Far fleeting, wind-upborne! ’twixt hill and cloud, + To Uladh’s cliffs, and thence with prone descent + Sank to the myriad-murmuring sea wine-dark, + And whispered to the Genii of the deep, + Her sisters:--then from ocean’s breast there rose + A mist, no larger than a dead man’s shroud, + That, slowly widening, spread o’er Uladh’s realm + Mantle of darkness, and an erring mind, + And powerlessness, and shame. + The queen returned, + And reached her host what time the sunset glare + With omnipresent splendour girt it round, + Concourse immortalised. Thereon she gazed + High standing in her chariot, spear in hand: + Her too that army saw, and raised the shout. + But Fergus, as she passed him spake: ‘not yet + Know’st thou my Uladh, nor the Red Branch Knights; + And one man is there mightier thrice than they.’ + Meantime within Murthemné’s land its lord + Cuchullain, musing like a listening hound, + For many a rumour filled that time the air, + Sat in remote Dûn Dalgan[27] all alone, + Chief city of his realm. On Uladh’s verge + Southward that lesser realm dependent lay + Girt by a racing river. Silent long + He watched: at last he heard a sound like wind + + In woods remote; and earthward bowed his head; + And said; ‘that sound is distant thirty leagues, + And huge that host;’ then bade prepare his car, + And southward sped, counsel to hold as wont + With Faythleen nigh to Tara. + Eve grew dim + When lo! a chariot from the woods emerged + In swift pursuit: an old man urged the steeds, + A grey old man that chattered evermore + With blinking eyes that ceased not from amaze. + That sight displeased Cuchullain: ne’ertheless + He stayed his course; and Saltain soon drew nigh, + Clamouring, ‘O son--and when was son like thee-- + Forsake not thou thy father! In old time, + Then when some God had laid on me his hand, + Dectara, my wife, immured me in my house, + Year after year, and weighed the lessening dole: + But thou, to manhood grown, though even to her + Reverent, didst pluck her from that place usurped, + Lifting thy poor old father.’ At that word + Cuchullain left his car, and kissed his sire, + And soothed his wandering wits with meat and wine; + And spake dissembling; ‘lo, these mantles warm! + Prescient, for thee I stored them! Night is near; + Lie down and rest.’ Thus speaking, with both hands + Deftly he spread them wide; and Saltain slept: + Then, tethering first the horses of his sire, + Lastly his own, upon the chill, wet grass + He likewise lay, and slept not. + On, at dawn + They drave; but Faythleen, witch perverse of will, + That oft through spleenful change her purpose slew, + Had broken tryst; and northward they returned. + That day Cuchullain clomb a rock tree-girt + And kenned beyond the forest’s roof a host + Innumerable, the standards of Queen Meave, + And Fergus, and the great confederate kings. + The warrior eyed them long with bitter smile; + Few words he spake: ‘At fifty thousand men + I count them.’ To his father then he turned: + ‘Haste to Emania! Bid the Red Branch Knights + Attend me in Murthemné. I till then + Hang on the invaders’ flank, a fiery scourge.’ + Saltain made answer: ‘Be it! northward I: + But Dectara, thy mother, and my wife, + Till thou art by my side I will not see; + For dreadful are her eyes as death or fate; + And many deem her mad.’ + He spake, and drave + Northward; nor ceased from chatterings all day long, + Since, like a Poplar, vocal was the man + Not less than visible. Meantime his son + Took counsel in his heart, and made resolve + To skirt, in homeward course, that eastern sea, + The woods primeval ’twixt him and the foe, + Still sallying night and day through alley and glade + And taming thus their pride. + Three days went by: + Then stood Cuchullain where great wood-ways met; + And lo! betwixt four yews a warrior’s grave, + The pillar-stone above it! O’er that stone + In mirthful mood he twined an osier wreath, + Cyphering thereon his name in Ogham signs: + For thus he said; ‘On no man unawares + Fall I, but warned.’ The hostile host approached, + And, halting stood in wonder at that wreath; + Yet none could spell the Ogham. Last drew nigh + Fergus, and read it: on him fell that hour + Memories full dear, and loud he sang and long; + He sang a warrior’s praise: yet named him not; + He sang; ‘From name of man to name of beast + A warrior changed: then mightiest grew of men!’ + And, as he sang, the cheek of Meave grew red. + Next morn Neara’s sons outsped the rest + Car-borne with brandished spears; and, ere the dew + Was lifted, came to where Cuchullain sat + Beneath an oak, sporting with black-birds twain + That followed him for aye. Toward the youths + He waved his hand; ‘Away, for ye are young!’ + In answer forth they flung their spears: he caught them, + And snapt them on his knee; next, swift as fire, + Sprang on the twain, and slew them with his sword, + One blow:--anon he loosed their horses’ bits, + And they, with madness winged, rejoined the host, + Bearing those headless bulks. Forth looked the queen; + Beheld; and, trembling, cried; ‘It might have been + Orloff, my son!’ + That eve, at banquet ranged + The warriors questioned Fergus; ‘Who is best + Among the Uladh chiefs?’ Ere answer came + King Conor’s son self-exiled, Conlinglas, + Upleaping cried, ‘Cuchullain is his name! + Cuchullain! From his childhood man was he! + On Eman Macha[28] ever was his thought, + Its walls, its bulwarks, and its Red Branch Knights, + The wonder of the world.’ Then told the prince + How, when his mother mocked his zeal, that child + Fared forth alone, with wooden sword and shield, + And fife, and silver ball; and how he hurled + His little spears before him as he ran, + And caught them ere they fell; and how, arrived, + He spurned great Eman’s gates, and scaled its wall, + And lighted in the pleasaunce of the king, + His mother’s brother, Conor Conchobar; + And how the noble youths of all that land + There trained in warlike arts, had on him dashed + With insult and with blows: and how the child + This way and that had hurled them, while the king + Who sat that hour with Fergus, playing chess, + Gazed from his turret wondering. + Next he told + How to that child, Setanta first, there fell + Cuchullain’s nobler name. ‘To Eman near + There dwelt an armourer, Cullain was his name, + That earliest rose, and latest with his forge + Reddened the night: mail-clad in might of his + The Red Branch Knights forth rode; the bard, the chief + Claimed him for friend. One day, when Conor’s self + Partook his feast, the armourer held discourse; + “The Gods have made my house a house of fame: + The craftsmen grin and grudge because I prosper: + The forest bandits hunger for my goods, + Yea, and would eat mine anvil if they might-- + Trow ye what saves me, Sirs? A Hound is mine, + Each eve I loose him, lion-like, and fell; + The blood of many a rogue is on his mouth: + The bravest, if they hear him bay far off, + Flee like a deer!” Setanta’s shout rang loud + That moment at the gate, and, with it blent, + The baying of that hound! “The boy is dead,” + King Conor cried in horror. Forth they rushed-- + There stood he, bright and calm, his rigid hands + Clasping the dead hound’s throat! They wept for joy: + The armourer wept for grief. “My friend is dead! + My friend that kept my house and me at peace: + My friend that loved his lord!” Setanta heard + Then first that cry forth issuing from the heart + Of him whose labour wins his children’s bread; + That cry he honours yet. Red-cheeked he spake; + “Cullain! unwittingly I did thee wrong! + I make amends. I, child of kings, henceforth + Abide, thy watch-hound, warder of thy house.” + Thenceforth the ‘Hound of Cullain’[29] was his name, + And Cullain’s house well warded.’ + Stern of brow + The queen arose: ‘Enough of fables, lords! + Drink to the victory! Ere yon moon is dead + We knock at gates of Eman.’ High she held + The crimson goblet. Instant, felt ere heard, + Vibration strange troubled the moonlit air; + A long-drawn hiss o’er-ran it: then a cry, + Death-cry of warrior wounded to the death. + They rose: they gazed around: upon a rock + Cuchullain stood. The warrior said in heart, + ‘I will not slay her; yet her pride shall die!’ + Again that hiss: instant the golden crown + Fell from her head! In anger round she glared:-- + Once more that hiss long-drawn, and in her hand + The goblet, shivered, stood! She cast it down; + She cried; ‘Since first I sat, a queen new-crowned, + Never such ignominy, or spleen of scorn + Hath mocked my greatness!’ Fiercely rushed the chiefs + Against the aggressor. Through the high-roofed woods + They saw him distant like a falling star + Kindling the air with speed. Ere long, close by + He stood with sling high holden. At its sound + Ever some great one died! + The morrow morn + Cuchullain reached a lawn: tall autumn grass + Whitened within it; but the Beech trees round + Were russet brown, the thorn-brakes berry-flushed: + Passing, he raised his spear, and launched it forth + Earthward: there stood it buried in the soil + Halfway, and quivering. Loud Cuchullain laughed, + And cried, ‘It quivers like the tail of swine + Gladdened by acorn feast!’ then drew he rein + And with one sword-stroke felled a youngling Birch + And bound it to that spear, and on its bark + Silvery and smooth, graved with his lance’s point + In Ogham characters the words, ‘Beware! + Unless thou know’st what hand this Ogham traced + Twine yonder berries mid thy young bride’s locks, + But spare to tempt that hand!’ An hour passed by + And Meave had reached the spot. Chief following chief + Drew near in turn; yet none could drag from earth + That spear deep-buried. Fergus laughed; ‘Let be + Connacians! Task is here for Uladh’s hand!’ + Then, standing in his car, he clutched the spear + And tugged it thrice. The third time ’neath his feet + Down crashed the strong-built chariot to the ground. + He laughed! The queen in anger cried, ‘March on!’ + The host advanced, disordered. Foremost drave + Orloff, Meave’s son. That morning he had wed + A maid, the loveliest in his mother’s court, + And yearned to prove his valour in her eyes. + Sudden he came to where Cuchullain stood + Pasturing his steeds with grass and flower forth held + In wooing, dallying hand. Cuchullain said + ‘The queen’s son this! I will not harm the youth,’ + And waved him to depart. That stripling turned + Yet, turning, hurled his javelin. As it flew + The swift one caught it; poised it; hurled it home: + It pierced that youth from back to breast; he fell + Dead on the chariot’s floor. The steeds rushed on + Wind-swift; and reached the camp. There sat the queen + Throned in her car, listening the host’s applause: + In swoon she fell, and lay as lie the dead. + Next morn again the invaders marched, nor knew + What foe was he who, mocking, thinned their ranks, + Trampled their pride; who, lacking spear and car, + Viewless by day, by night a fleeting fire, + Dragged down their mightiest, in the death cry shrill + Drowning the revel. Fergus knew the man, + Fergus alone; nor yet divulged his name, + Oft muttering, ‘These be men who fight for Bulls-- + I war to shake a Perjurer from his throne, + And count no brave man foe.’ Again at feast + Ailill made question of the Red Branch Knights: + Fergus replied; ‘Cuchullain is their best: + I taught him arms! Hear of his Knighting Day! + ‘Northward of Eman lies a pleasaunce green: + The Arch-Druid, Cathbad, gazer on the stars, + While there the youths contended, beckoned one + And whispered, “Happy shall that stripling prove + Knighted this day! Glorious his life, though brief!” + That hour Cuchullain stood beyond the wall + South of the city, yet that whisper heard! + He heard, and cried; “Enough one day of life + If great my deeds, and helpful!” Swift of foot + He sped to Conor. “I demand, great king, + Knighthood this day, and knighthood at thy hand.” + But Conor laughed; “Not fifteen years are thine! + Withhold thyself yet three.” That self-same hour + Old Cathbad entered, and his Druid clan, + And spake; “King Conor! by my bed last night + Great Macha stood, the worship of our race, + Our strength in realms unseen. ‘Arise,’ she said; + ‘To Conor speed: to him report my will: + That youth knighted this day is mine Elect! + I, Macha, send him forth!’ + ‘“She spake and passed: + Trembled the place like cliffs o’er ocean caves: + Like thunder underground I heard her wheels + In echoes slowly dying.” + ‘Fixed and firm + King Conor stood. Sternly he made reply: + “Queen Macha had her day and ruled: far down + Doubtless this hour she rules, or rules aloft: + I rule in Eman and this Uladh realm: + I will not knight a stripling!” Prophet-like + Up-towered old Cathbad, and his clan black-stoled. + This way and that they rolled prophetic bolts + Three hours; and brake with warnings from the stars + And mandates from the synod of the Gods, + The king’s resolve. At last he cried, “So be it! + Since Gods, like men, grow witless, be it so! + The worse for Eman, and great Macha’s land-- + Stand forth, my sister’s son!” He spake and bound + The Geisa, and the edicts, and the vows + Of that dread Red Branch Order on the boy, + And gave him sword and lance. + ‘An eye star-keen + That boy upon them fixed, and, each on each, + Smote them. They snapt in twain. Laughing, he cried, + “Good art thou, Uncle mine; but these are base: + I need a warrior’s weapons!” Conor signed; + Then brought his knaves ten swords, and lances ten: + Cuchullain eyed them each and snapt them all, + The concourse marvelling. “Varlets,” cried the king, + “Bring forth my arms of battle!” These in turn + Cuchullain proved: they brake not. Up they dragged + A battle-car. Cuchullain leaped therein: + With feet far set he spurned its brazen floor + That roared and sank in fragments. Chariots twelve + Successive thus he vanquished. “Uncle mine, + Good art thou,” cried the youth; “but these are base!” + King Conor signed, “My car of battle!” Leagh + The charioteer forth brought it with the steeds: + Cuchullain proved that war-car and it stood. + Careless he spake: “So, well! The car will serve! + Abide ye my return.” + ‘He shook the reins: + He called the horses by their names well-known: + He dashed through Eman’s gateway as a storm: + Far off a darksome wood and darksome tower + Frowned over Mallok’s wave: therein abode + Three bandit chieftains, foes to man: well pleased + Those bandits eyed the on-rushing car, and youth, + Exulting in their prey: arrived, with gibes + He summoned them to judgment: forth they thronged, + They and their clan: he slew them with his sling, + The three; and severed with his sword their heads, + And fixed them on the chariot’s front. His mood + Changed into mirthful: fleeter than the wind + Six stags went by him, stateliest of the herd; + Afoot he chased them, caught them, bound them fast + Behind the chariot rail. Birds saw he next + White as a foam-wreath of their native sea, + Spotting the glebe new turned. A net lay near: + He caged them; next he tied them to his car + Wide-winged, and wailing loud. To Eman’s towers + Returned he then with laughter: at its gate + The king, the chiefs, grey Druids, maids red-cloaked, + Agape to see him--on his chariot’s front + The grim heads of those bandits; in its rear + Those stags wide-horned; and, high o’erhead the birds!’ + The laughter ceasing, spake King Conor’s son; + ‘Recount the wonder of those fairy steeds + That drag Cuchullain’s war-car!’ Fergus then, + Despite Queen Meave, who plaited still her robe + With angry hectic hand, the tale began. + ‘Cuchullain paced the herbage thin that clothes + Slieve Fuad’s summit. On that airy height + A wan lake glittered, whitening in the blast, + Pale plains around it. From beneath that lake + Emerged a horse foam-white! Cuchullain saw, + And straightway round that creature’s neck high-held + Locked the lithe arms no struggles could unwind. + That courser baffled clothed his strength with speed: + From cliff to cliff he sped; cleared at a bound + Inlet, and rocky rift; nor stayed his course, + Men say, till he had circled Erin’s Isle. + Panting then lay he, on his conqueror’s knee + Resting his head; thenceforth that conqueror’s friend, + His “Liath Macha.” Gentle-souled is she + “Sangland,” the wild one’s comrade. As the night + Sank on those huge red-berried woods of Yew + Loch Darvra’s girdle, from beneath the wave + She issued, darker still. Softly she paced, + As though with woman’s foot, the grassy marge + In violets diapered, and laid her head + Upon Cuchullain’s shoulder. In his wars + Emulous those mated marvels drag his car: + In peace he yokes them never.’ + Fergus rose: + ‘Night wanes,’ he said, ‘and tasks await my hand:’ + Passing the throne he whispered thus the queen, + ‘The Hound of Uladh is your visitant + Both day and night.’ The cheek of Meave grew pale. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + FRAGMENT II. + + _THE DEEDS OF CUCHULLAIN._ + + + ARGUMENT. + +Fergus is sent to Cuchullain with gifts, and requires him to forsake +King Conor. This he will not do, yet consents to forbear Meave’s host +till she has reached the border of Uladh, the queen engaging that the +warfare shall then be restricted to a combat between himself and a +single champion sent against him day by day. Each day Meave’s champion +is slain. Cailitin, lord of the Magic Clan, counsels Meave to send +against Cuchullain his best-loved friend Ferdīa; yet she sends, instead, +Lok Mac Favesh. When he too falls, Cailitin and his twenty-seven sons, +all magicians, fling themselves upon Cuchullain to slay him. Cuchullain +slays them. The Mor Reega, the War-Goddess of the Gael, prophesies to +him that there yet awaits him the greatest of his trials. After ninety +days of combat Cuchullain’s father brings him tidings that all Uladh +lies bound under a spell of imbecility. + + + Thus ever day by day, and night by night, + Through strength of him that mid the royal host + Passed, and re-passed like thought, the bravest fell; + For ne’er against the inglorious or the small + That warrior raised his hand. Then Ailill spake; + ‘Let Fergus seek that champion in the woods, + Gift-laden, and withdraw him from his king:’ + But Fergus answered; ‘Sue and be refused! + That great one loves his country. Heard ye never + How when King Conor’s sin, that forfeit pledge + Plighted with Usnach’s sons, had left the Accursed + Crownless, and Eman’s bulwarks in the dust, + Her elders on Cuchullain worked, what time + He came my work of vengeance to complete? + They said, “Cuchullain loves his land o’er all! + The man besides, though terrible to foes, + Is tender to the weak. Through Eman’s streets + Send ye proclaim, ‘Will any holy Maid + To save the city take her station sole + On yonder bridge, at parting of the ways, + That city’s Emblem-Victim, robed in black + Down from her girdle to the naked feet; + Above that girdle this alone--the chains + Of Eman’s gate, circling that virgin throat + And down at each side streaming? It may be + That dread one will relent, pitying in her + Great Uladh’s self despoiled of robe and crown, + Her raiment bonds and shame.’ Of Eman’s maids + But one, the best and purest gave consent: + Alone she stood at parting of the ways: + While near and nearer yet that war-car drew + Wide-eyed she stood, death-pale: it stopp’d: she spake; + Eman, thy Mother, stands a widow now: + And many a famished babe that wrought no ill + Lies mid her ruins wailing.” To the left + The warrior turned his steeds. The land was saved.’ + Then spake the kings confederate; ‘Hard albeit + That task, to draw Cuchullain from his charge, + Seek him, and proffer terms!’ Fergus next morn + Made way through those sea-skirting woods, and cried + Three times, ‘Setanta;’ and Cuchullain heard + And knew that voice, and, beaming, issued forth, + And clasped his ancient master round the neck, + And led him to his sylvan cell. Therein + Long time they held discourse of ancient days + Heaven-fair through mist of years. The youthful host + Set forth their rural feast, whate’er the woods + And they that in them dwelt, swine-herds, and hinds, + Yielded, their best: nor lacked it minstrel strain, + Bird-song by autumn chilled, that brake through boughs + Lit by unwarming sunshine. Banquet o’er, + Fergus his errand shewed, and named the gifts + By Ailill sent, and Meave. Cuchullain rose + And curtly answered; ‘Never will I break + My vow; nor wrong the land; nor sell my king:’ + Fergus too royal was to hear surprised, + Or grieved, his friend’s resolve, nor touched again + Upon that pact unworthy. Happier themes + Succeeded, mirthful some. Of these the last + Made sport of Ailill. Fergus spake; ‘One night + To Meave’s pavilion swift of foot I sped; + War-tidings wait not. Ailill from afar + Furtively followed, stung by jealous spleen. + The queen had passed into the inner tent; + I sought her there. In the outer Ailill marked + My sword, that morning thither sent, a loan, + For Meave had vowed with braided gems, her boast, + To out-brave its hilt. His wrath was changed to joy! + He snatched it up; he cried; “Hail, forfeit mine! + Hail Eric just!”[30] and laughed his childish laugh. + Since then he neither frowns on me nor smiles: + He will not let me rule his foolish kings; + Yet, deeming still my sword a charm ’gainst fate + Wears it. An apter one for him I keep: + One day ’twill raise a laugh!’ In graver mood + At parting Fergus spake; ‘For thee unmeet + That pact of Meave, though not for her: but thou + Conceal not, know’st thou meeter terms, and fit?’ + To whom Cuchullain; ‘Fergus, terms there be, + Other, and fitter. I divulge them not: + Divine them he that seeks them!’ On the morn + Fergus these things narrated to the chiefs + In synod met. Then rose a recreant churl, + And thus gave counsel; ‘Lure Cuchullain here + On pretext fair; and slay him at the feast!’ + Against that recreant Fergus hurled his spear, + And slew him, and continued, ‘Hundreds six, + Our best, have perished, and our march is slow: + Now, warriors, hear my counsel, and my terms. + Cuchullain scorns your gifts--of such no more! + ’Twixt southern Erin and my Uladh’s realm, + Runs Neeth: across that river lies a ford; + Speak to Cuchullain; “By that ford stand thou, + Guarding thy land. Against thee, day by day, + Be ours to send one champion--one alone:-- + While lasts that strife forbear the host beside!”’ + Then roared the kings a long and loud applause, + Since wise appeared that counsel: faith they pledged, + And sureties in the hearing of the Gods: + Likewise Cuchullain, when his friend returned, + Made answer; ‘Well you guessed! a month or more + My strength will hold: meantime our Uladh arms.’ + To seal that pact he sought the hostile camp, + And shared the banquet. Wondering, all men gazed, + And maidens, lifted on the warriors’ shields, + Gladdened, so bright that youthful face. At morn + Meave, when the chief departed, kissed his cheek: + ‘Pity,’ she said, ‘that such a one should die!’ + The one sole time that Meave compassion felt. + That eve Cuchullain drank the wave of Neeth, + And wading reached Murthemné’s soil, his charge + And knelt, and kissed it. As the sun declined + He clomb a rocky height, and northward gazed, + And cried; ‘Ye Red Branch warriors, haste! I keep + The ford; but who shall guard it when I die?’ + Next morning by that stream the fight began, + Two champions face to face: and, every morn, + Rang out, renewed, that combat; every eve + Again went up from that confederate host + The shout of rage. Daily their bravest died, + Thirty in thirty days. Feerbraoth fell; + And Natherandal, though the Druid horde + Above his javelins, carved at set of moon + From the ever-sacred holly stem, had breathed + Vain consecration, and with futile salve + Anointed them: confuted soon they sailed + In ignominy adown that seaward tide + With him that hurled them. Eterconnel next, + Dalot, and Cuir. Yet he who laid them low + Was beardless at the lip:--While thus they strove + A second month went by. + Such things beholding + The queen was moved; and in her grew one day + Craving for Cruachan. But on her ear + Rolled forth that hour the lowings of that Bull + Cuailgné’s Donn: for he from Daré’s house + Had heard, though far, the clamours of the host, + And answered rage with rage. Then Meave resolved, + Though all my host should perish to a man + This foot shall tread no more my native plains + Save with that Bull in charge! + To her by night + Came Cailitin, who ever walked by night + Shunning mankind, and Fergus most of all, + Cailitin, father of the Magic Clan, + And thus addressed her; ‘Place in me thy trust! + I hate Cuchullain, for he hates my spells + Resting his hope on virtue. In thy camp + Ferdīa bides, a Firbolg feared of all. + Win him to meet Cuchullain. They in youth + Were friends: to slay that friend will lay a hand + Icy as death upon Cuchullain’s heart. + Ferdīa dies--thus much mine art foreshews-- + Then I, since magic spells have puissance most + Upon a soul depressed and body sick, + Fall on him with my seven and twenty sons, + Magicians all. One are we: thence with one + May fight, thy pledge unflawed. A drop of blood + Shed by our swords, though small as beetle’s eye, + Costs him his life.’ Fiercely the queen replied, + ‘A Firbolg! Never!’ Cailitin resumed, + ‘Then send for Lok Mac Favesh!’ + With the morn + Mac Favesh sought her tent. Direful his mien; + Massive his stride; his body brawny and huge; + For, though of Gaelic race, the stock of Ir, + With him was mingled giant blood of old, + Wild blood of Nemedh’s brood that hurled sea rocks + ’Gainst the Fomorian. Oft the advancing tide + Drowned both, in battle knit. Before the queen + Boastful the sea-king laid his club, and spake: + ‘Queen, though to combat with a beardless boy + Affronts my name, my lineage, and my strength, + His petulance shall vex thine eye no more! + Uladh is thine to-morrow!’ At the dawn + By hundreds girt, the great ones of his clan, + Down drave he to the ford, and onward strode + Trampling the last year’s branches strewn hard by + That snapp’d beneath him. Hides of oxen seven + Sustained the brazen bosses of his shield; + And forth he stretched a hand that might have grasped + A tiger’s throat and choked him. O’er his helm + Hovered an imaged demon raven-black. + Cuchullain met him; hours endured the strife, + That mountained strength triumphant now, anon + Cuchullain’s might divine. Then first that might + Was fully tasked. Upon the bank that day + Stood up a Portent seen by none save him, + A Shape not human. Terribly it fixed + On him alone its never-wandering eye; + The dread Mor Reega,[31] she that from the skies + O’er-rules the battle-fields, and sways at will + This way or that the sable tides of death. + He gazed; and, though incapable of fear, + Awe, such as heroes feel, possessed his heart: + Its beatings shook his brain: his corporal mould + Throbbed as a branch against some river swift; + And backward turned his hair like berried trails + Of thorn athwart the hedge. Three several times + He saw her, yet fought on. With beckoning hand + At last that Portent summoned from the main + A huge sea-snake: round him it twined its knots: + Then on Cuchullain fell the rage from heaven: + A sword-blow, and that vast sea-worm lay dead! + A sword uplifted, and Mac Favesh fell + Prone on the shuddering flood. In death he cried, + ‘Lay me with forehead turned to Uladh’s realm;-- + They shall not say that fugitive I died.’ + Cuchullain wrought his will: then, bleeding fast, + Stood upright, leaning on his spear aslant; + A warrior battle-wearied. + From the bank + Meantime, the dark magician, Cailitin, + He and his sons, with wide and greedy eyes, + That still, like one man’s eyes, together moved, + Had watched that fight, counting each drop that fell + Down from Cuchullain’s wounds. When faint he stood + At once their cry rang out like one man’s cry; + Like one their seven and twenty javelins flew: + As swift, Cuchullain caught them on his shield: + An instant more, and all that horde accursed + Was dealing with him. From the trampled ford + Went up a mist of spray that veiled that strife, + Though pierced by demon cries, and flash beside + Of demon swords. O’er it at last up-towered + On-borne, such power to blend have Spirits impure, + A single Form--as when o’er seas storm-laid + The watery column reels, and draws from heaven + The cloud, and drowns the ship--a single Form, + And Head, and Hand, clutching Cuchullain’s crest: + Not wholly sank he. O’er that mist of spray + Glittered his sword. There fell a silence strange: + Slowly that mist dispersed; and on the sands + That false Enchanter lay with all his sons + Black, bleeding bulks of death. + Amid them stood + Cuchullain; near him, seen by him alone, + That dread Mor Reega, now benign. She spake: + ‘I hated thee, since less in me thy trust + Than in great Virtue’s aid. I hate no more. + Be strong! a trial waits thee heavier yet-- + No man is friend of mine till trial-proved.’ + Yet sad at heart that eve Cuchullain clomb + His wonted rock, and faint with loss of blood, + And mused; ‘My strength must lessen day by day;’ + And northward gazed, thus murmuring; ‘All too late + To save the land those Red Branch Knights will come + When I am dead-- + My war-car, and my war-steeds are far off + And I am here alone.’ Through grief that night + He slept not; for the Magic Clan had power, + Though dead, to lean above him as a cloud + Darkening his spirit. Happy days gone by + They changed to grief and shame. + While thus he sat + He saw, not distant, on the forest floor, + In moonbeams clad, though moon was near him none, + A pure and princely presence. Lithe his form + In youthful prime: chain armour round him clung + Bright as if woven of diamonds. Glad his eye; + Dulcet his voice as strain from Elfin glen + Far heard o’er waters. Thus that warrior spake: + ‘My child, an ancestor of thine I come, + Great Ethland’s son, in virtuous battle slain. + Among the Sidils[32] now, and fairy haunts + Moon-lit, and under depths of lucent lakes, + Gladness I have who in my day had woe, + And youth perpetual though I died in age. + Repose thou need’st: for sixty days thine eyes + Have closed reluctant. Sleep a three days’ sleep + Whilst I thy semblance bearing meet thy foes.’ + Thus spake the youth, then sang Lethean song, + And, straight, Cuchullain slept. Three days gone by, + Again that vision came. ‘Arise,’ he said: + The warrior rose; and lo! his wounds were healed: + Down to the river sped he. + Waiting there + Stood up Iarion, champion of the queen, + There stood, nor thence returned. Eochar next + Perished, then Tubar, Chylair, Alp, and Ord, + In all full ninety warriors. Ninety days + Had fled successive since that strife began, + When, on the evening of the ninetieth day, + His strength entire, and victory eagle-winged + Fanning his ardent cheek, Cuchullain scaled + Once more that specular rock. Within his heart + Spirit illusive that, with purpose veiled, + Oft tries the loftiest most, this presage sang + ‘Southward, not distant, thou shalt see them march + At last, that Red Branch Order, in their van + Thy Conal Carnach!’ Other spectacle + Met him, a chariot small with horses small, + And, o’er the axle bent, a small old man + Urging them feebly on. It was his sire! + T’wards him Cuchullain rushed: the old man wept, + For gladness wept, and afterwards for woe, + Kissing the wounds unnumbered of his son: + Reverent, Cuchullain led him to his cell; + Reverent, he placed before him wine and meat; + Nor questioned yet. The old man satisfied, + Garrulity returned, though less than once, + Now quelled by patriot passion. Thus he spake:-- + ‘Setanta! son of mine! I bring ill news: + Uladh is mad; the Red Branch House is mad: + We two are mad; and all the world are mad, + Mad as thy mother! Through the realm I sped: + A mist hung o’er it heavy, and on her sons + Imbecile spirit, and a heartless mind, + And base soul-sickness. Evermore I cried, + “Arise! the stranger’s foot is on your soil: + They come to stall their horses in your halls; + To slay your sons; enslave your spotless maids; + Alone my son withstands them!” Shrewd of eye + Men answered; “Merchant; see thy wares be sound! + No lack-wits we!” Old seers I saw that decked + Time-honoured foreheads with a jester’s crown: + I saw an ollamb trample under foot + His sacred Oghams: next I saw him grave + His own blear image on the tide-washed sands, + Boasting, “The unnumbered ages here shall stoop + Honouring true Wisdom’s image.” Shepherds set + The wolf to guard their fold. The wittol bade + The losel lead his wife to feast and dance: + Young warriors looked on maids with woman’s eyes. + I drave to Daré’s Dûn: his loud-voiced sons + Adored the Donn Cuailgné as their sire, + And called their sire a calf. To Iliach’s tower + I sped: he answered; “What! the foe! they come! + Climb we yon apple trees, and garner store! + Wayfarers need much victual!” Onward next + To Sencha’s castle:--On the roof he knelt, + Self-styled the kingdom’s chief astrologer, + Waiting the unrisen stars. To Olchar’s Dûn + I journeyed: wrapp’d in rags the strong man lay, + Thin from long fast; with eyelids well nigh closed: + Not less beneath them lay a gleaming streak: + “Awake me not,” he said: “a dormouse I! + Till peace returns I simulate to sleep.” + I sought the brothers Nemeth: one his eyes + Bent on the smoke-wreath from his chimney’s top, + One on the foam-streak wavering down the stream; + While each a finger raised, and said “Tread light! + Our earth is grass o’er glass!” I sought the mart: + Men babbled; “Bid the Druids find the king!” + I sought the Druids’ College: in a hall + Reed-strewn to smother sound they held debate + On Firbolg and Dedannan contracts pledged + Ere landed first the Gael. The Red Branch House + Was changed to hospital; and knights full-armed + Nodded o’er lepers’ beds. I sought the king: + From hall deserted on to hall I roamed: + I found him in his armoury walled around + With mail of warriors dead. There stood, or lay, + The chiefs by Uladh worshipp’d. Nearest, crouched + Great Conal Carnach patting of his sword + Like nurse that lulls an infant. On his throne + Sat Conchobar in miniver and gold: + His eyes were on his grandsire’s shield that breathed + At times a sigh athwart the steel-lit gloom: + Around his lips an idiot’s smile was curled: + “What will be will be,” spake the king at last: + “All things go well.”’ + Thus Saltain told his tale: + One thing he told not--how, a moment’s space, + The passion of an old man’s scorn had wrought + Deliverance strange for that astonished throng, + High miracle of nature. He, the man + Despised since youth, the laughter of the crowd, + Himself restored to youth by change like death, + Had rolled his voice abroad, a mighty voice; + They heard it: from their trance they burst: they stood + Radiant once more with mind! They stood till died + The noble anger’s latest echo. Then + That mist storm-riven put forth once more its hand, + And downward dragged its prey. + Upon his feet + Cuchullain sprang, his father’s tale complete: + That rage divine which gave him strength divine + Had fallen on him from heaven. He raised his hands, + And roared against the synod of the Gods + That suffer shames below. Beyond the stream + That host confederate heard and armed in haste, + And slept that night in armour. Far away + Compassion touched the strong hearts of the Gods, + The strongest most--Mor Reega’s. Ere that cry + Had left its last vibration on the air + High up the Battle-Goddess, adamant-mailed, + Was drifting over Uladh. Eman’s towers + Flashed back her helmet’s beam. With lifted spear + She smote the brazen centre of her shield + Three times; and thunder, triple-bolted, rolled + Three times from sea to sea. The spell was snapp’d: + Humanity returned to man! The first + Who woke was Leagh, Cuchullain’s charioteer: + Forth from the opprobrious mist he passed like ship + That cleaves the limit of some low marsh-fog + And sweeps into main ocean. Forth he rushed-- + Forth to Cuchullain’s chariot-house, and dragged + Abroad that war-car feared of man and yoked + White Liath Macha, and his comrade black, + And dashed adown the vacant, echoing streets, + And passed the gateway towers: the warders slept: + Beyond them, propp’d against the city wall, + A cripple crunched his mouldering crust. Still on + He rushed, the reins forth shaking and the scourge, + Clamouring and crying; ‘Haste, Cuchullain’s steeds! + On Liath Macha! Sable Sangland on! + Your master needs you! Aye! ye know it now! + The blood-red nostril smells the fight far off! + On to Murthemné, and Cuailgné’s hills, + And Neeth’s remembered ford!’ Unseen he drave; + So slowly, clinging still to brake and rock, + And oft re-settling, vanished from the land + The insane mist. That hurricane of wheels + Not less was heard by men who nothing saw: + On stony plain, in hamlet, and in vale:-- + They muttered as in sleep; ‘Deliverance comes.’ + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + FRAGMENT III. + + _THE COMBAT AT THE FORD._ + + + ARGUMENT. + +Queen Meave sends her herald to Ferdīa the Firbolg, requiring him to +engage with Cuchullain in single combat. Ferdīa refuses to fight against +his ancient friend; yet, later he attends a royal banquet given in his +honour; and there, being drawn aside through the witcheries of the +Princess Finobar, he consents to the fight. The charioteer of Ferdīa +sees Cuchullain advancing in his war-car to the Ford, and, rapt by a +prophetic spirit, sings his triumph. For two days the ancient friends +contend against each other with reluctance and remorse: but on the third +day the battle-rage bursts fully forth: and on the fourth, Cuchullain, +himself pierced through with wounds innumerable, slays Ferdīa by the +Gae-Bulg. He lays his friend upon the bank, at its northern side, and, +standing beside him, sings his dirge. + + + Meantime the queen, ere dawned that ninetieth morn, + Mused, ill at ease; ‘Daily my people die, + And many a stormy brow on me is bent:-- + What if they turn on me like starving hounds + That rend their huntsman?’ In her ear once more + Sounded the word of Cailitin; ‘The man + To fight Cuchullain is the man he loves: + His death were death to both.’ Then came the kings + Confederate, saying; ‘Send Ferdīa forth! + Ferdīa is the mightiest of our host: + Ferdīa is Cuchullain’s chief of friends: + Westward of Alba in the Isle of Skye + Scatha, that rock-browed northern warrioress, + In amplest lore of battles trained them both: + Except the Gae-Bulg, every feat of arms + Is known to each alike.’ + The queen gave way: + She sent her herald to the man she scorned + With offers huge, tract vaster than his own + Not barren like his mountains billow-beat, + But laughing in the lap of Ai’s plains; + A war-car deftly carved and ribbed with brass; + And, for his clansmen, raiment of all dyes, + Twelve suits. A stalwart man, yet fair as strong + The Firbolg towered, dark-eyed, dark-haired, pale-faced, + Unlike the Gael. Melodious was his voice + But deeper than a lion’s. Ceaseless thought + On immemorial wrongs--he brooded still + O’er glories of Moytura, and Tailltenn, + Their great assemblies, and their solemn games, + And kingly graves--had cast upon his brow + Perpetual shade; and ever, on the march, + If high on crags there stood some Gaelic tomb + Wind-worn a thousand years, he passed it by + With face averse, muttering, ‘New men! New men! + We note not such!’ The herald’s task discharged, + He answered thus, not turning; ‘Tell your queen + That I, a Firbolg, serve, but not for hire, + A cause not mine. Cuchullain is my friend: + Better I died than he!’ + O’er-awed though wroth + The queen despatched in statelier embassage + Three warriors, and three ollambs, and three bards: + With reverence they addressed him. ‘Chief and Prince! + True prince, though scion of a house deject, + The queen, who judges all men by their deeds, + This day hath in thine honour made a feast + And sues to it thy presence. Kings alone + Partake that banquet; Ailill first, and she + Of princesses the fairest, Finobar!’ + Scornful the Firbolg answered; ‘Finobar! + She whose bright face hath frosted with death’s white + Full four score faces of war-breathing men + Sent to that Ford successive! Let it be! + Tell them I join their feast: tell them beside + Their bribe shall prove base gold!’ + In mantle blue + Clasped by a silver torque, and silver belt + Enringed with silver rings innumerable + That evening from his tent Ferdīa strode + With large attendance. Ailill and the queen + Received him on their threshold. At the board + Princes alone had place. High up, o’er each + Glittered upon the wall his blazoned shield. + King Ailill placed Ferdīa on his right; + Beyond him sat the Princess. In her ear + Her mother whispered as she neared that seat: + She answered with her eyes. + Well stricken harp + Gladdened that festive throng; and many a tale, + The rage of hunger lessening by degrees, + Ailill recounted of the heroic past, + When, youthful yet, he ranged ’mid friends and foes + Such men as breathed no longer. Servitors + Brimmed oft the goblets; and Ferdīa’s brow, + As song to song succeeded, tale to tale, + Remitted its first sternness. Finobar + Unconsciously had dropp’d her jewell’d hand + Not far from his: her large and dusky eyes, + Shyly at first from his withdrawn, at last + Full frankly met them: on her lips the smile + Increased, though waveringly, then waned, not died, + And in it sadness mingled as she spake: + ‘But late yon harper told us of a dream-- + My earliest of remembered dreams was sad; + I saw some princess of your earlier stock + Whose lover late had perished, slain in fight + By ours, methought them recent. At her feet-- + Why there I scarcely know--I made lament: + “All thou hast lost for thy sake I renounce: + For me, like thee, no bridal rites forever! + Dead on thy marriage garland lies mine own; + For lo! the stain accursed is on our sword: + Thy race came first: this Island should be theirs!”’ + Ferdīa listened; and the icy pride + Thawed in his bosom. With a sudden change + The jubilant music into martial soared, + Wild battle-chaunt. Upon the warrior’s hand + Still nigh to hers, there lay a scar. With eye + Reverently dewed the princess gazed thereon: + ‘Aye, of your war-deeds I have heard so long, + It seems as though since childhood--Whence that wound? + What battle left it there? What sister bound it? + I would that sister were my sister too, + Partaker of my heart, my hope, my life: + I have no youthful friend!’ She paused:--again + But now with paler cheek, and hurried, spake: + ‘Beware my mother! She would send you forth + Her knight to meet Cuchullain! Shun that man! + Cuchullain spares not: four score warriors dead + Avouch it. Chief of Gaels is he! Ah me! + The last great battle ’twixt the old race and new + Would find the same sad ending as the first.’ + The Firbolg frowned: she faltered, ‘Am I false, + False to my race’--and tears were in her voice-- + ‘False to my race, who cannot wish such ending?’ + She paused; again she questioned of his wars: + He told her of his sire’s. Like one who thinks + Not speaks, she murmured low; ‘A soothsayer + Thus warned my mother--I was then a child-- + “Bring not that maid to war-fields! She shall die + Grieving for some dead warrior.”’ + Changed once more + The martial songs to amorous and of mirth, + And once again the torches’ golden flame + Laughed on the cup new-brimmed. Again she spake, + That lovesome one, ‘I love not songs of love! + Better the war-song! Best, methinks, of all + That lullaby half war and sorrow half + Breathed by some bride while o’er her wounded lord + Softly descends the sleep:--so softly sank + Cold dews of evening on this flower still wet.’ + She took it from her breast, and held it near: + He smelt it; kissed it; kept it. With a smile + She added; ‘For your sister? Have you one? + If so, ’tis likely she resembles me: + They chide me oft; “No Gaelic face is thine, + Dark-eyed, dark-browed, a rebel since its birth!”’ + She ceased; again she spake: ‘Even now, methinks, + That lullaby I spake of I can hear! + Is it for thee, my friend, or Cuchullain?’ + That hand, of flower amerced, drew nearer yet + To his. That smile had passed. Tearful she turned + On him those luminaries of love and death, + Her eyes, like stars in midnight waters glassed; + Turned them, but spake no longer. Through his brain + Shivered their shrouded lustre; through his blood: + The sanguine currents from the warrior’s heart + Long sad, to female sympathies unused, + Drank up at once that splendour, and the tears + That splendour’s strange eclipse. + And yet, that hour, + Seen in some lonelier region of his soul + Another presence, O how different, stood! + Again, that hour, he saw those guileless eyes, + Blue as the seas they gazed on; saw once more + That hair like winter sunshine, brow snow-white, + That unvoluptuous form and virginal, + That love-unwakened breast with love for all, + Those hands that knew not what their touch conferred, + Those blithesome, wave-washed, scarce divided feet:-- + The huge cliff smiled upon her; seemed to say, + ‘Ah little nursling mine! Ah tender child + Of winds and rocks untender!’ + Had he loved? + Sadness is celibate and eremite: + His converse long had been with injuries past, + In Scatha’s isle with frowning crags and clouds-- + Aye, but with one beside, a friend, his nearest, + Who loved that maid, and sued her grace. Ferdīa + Had never spoken love; nor thought, ‘I love:’ + And yet, that hour, was false. + A hundred harps + Rang out together, and the feast was o’er: + Murmured the rose-red lips; but what they said + He heard not. Mournfully at last withdrew + Those eyes, like eyes fated thenceforth to bear + One image on till death. She joined her mother. + The queen, as he departed, took his hand: + Alone they stood: she spake: ‘That noble scorn + Which spurned a bribe, approves a Firbolg’s worth: + ’Twas Ailill sent that herald. ’Twas not I. + I know you now, and proffer royal terms + Confirmed by guarantee of all our kings: + Accept this combat; and the princess wed! + Ferdīa! I have made that offer thrice + To three dead warriors with the king’s consent, + Never till now with hers!’ + He pledged his word: + The battle day was fixed; the morrow morn: + She took that glittering torque whose splendours clasped + Her mantle red; with it his mantle bound: + Then with attendance to his tent he passed. + Meantime, that night within his forest lair + In dreams Cuchullain lay, and saw in dreams, + Not recent fights, but ocean and that isle + Where with Ferdīa he had dwelt in youth, + With Scatha--and another. And in dream + He mused; ‘The dearest of my friends survives: + These wars will pass; Ferdīa then and I + Thenceforth are one for aye!’ That self-same hour + Sadly from troubled sleep the Firbolg woke, + Murmuring, as one in trance, ‘Against my friend! + Against my only friend!’ With gloomy brows + His clansmen watched him arming. One sole man + They feared; that man Cuchullain. Morn the while + Was dawning, though nor glowing cheek she raised + Nor ardent eyes, with silver wand not gold + Striking the unkindling portals of the East; + And, ere the sun had risen, Ferdīa bathed + Three times his forehead in the frosty stream; + And bade attend his charioteer; and drave + Begirt by stateliest equipage of war + Down to the river’s brim. In regal pomp + The host confederate followed, keen to watch + With Meave, and Ailill, and with Finobar, + All passions of a fight unmatched till then; + While clustered here and there, on rock or mound, + Minstrel and food-purveyor groom and leech + With healing herbs, and charms. + The sun arose + And smote the forest roof dew-saturate + As onward dashed through woodlands to the Ford + Cuchullain’s war-car. Nearer soon it rolled + Crushing the rocks. Above those wondrous steeds + That Great One glittered through the mist of morn, + Splendour gloom-veiled. Ferdīa’s charioteer + Half heard, half saw him. Spirit-rapt, yet awed, + Perforce thus sang he standing near the marge. + ‘I hear the on-rushing of the car! I see + There throned that warrior not of mortal mould + Swathed in the morning. Dreadful are his wheels; + Dreadful as breaker arched, when on its crest + Stands Fear, and Fate upon the rock-strewn shore: + But not sea-rocks they crush, those brazen wheels, + But realms, and peoples, and the necks of men. + ‘I see the war-car! Terrible it comes, + Four-peaked; and o’er those peaks a shadowy pall + Pavilioning dim crypt and caves of death: + I see it by the gleam of spears high held, + The glare of circling Spirits. Lo! the same + I saw far northward drifting, months gone by, + Ere yet that madness quelled the northern land.’ + Then cried Ferdīa, stationed where huge trees + Shut out unwelcome vision: ‘For a bribe + Thou seest these portents, singing of my death!’ + Once more, in agony prophetic, he-- + ‘The man within that car is Uladh’s Hound! + What hound? No stag-hound of the storm-swept hills: + No watch-hound watching by a merchant’s store: + The hound he is that tracks the steps of doom; + The hound of realms o’er-run, and hosts that fly; + The hound that laps the blood!’ + Again he sang; + ‘The Hound of Uladh is a hound with wings; + A hound man-headed! Yea, and o’er that head + Victory and empire, like two eagles paired + Sail onward, tempest-pinioned. Endless morn + Before him fleeting over seas and lands, + With shaft retorted lights his chariot-beam. + That chariot stays not, turns not: on it comes, + Like torrent shooting from a tall cliff’s brow, + Level long time; then downward borne!’ + ‘A bribe!’ + Once more Ferdīa cried; ‘A bribe! a lie! + Traitor! for Ailill’s gold and gold of Meave, + Thou sing’st thy master’s death-song!’ + By the stream + Cuchullain stood: not yet he knew his foe; + That foe who slowly to the Ford advanced + Full panoplied, and in his hand a spear. + Long gazed they each on each. Cuchullain spake: + ‘Welcome howe’er thou com’st, Ferdīa! Once + In Scatha’s isle far otherwise thou camest + Morn after morn with tidings fresh of war + Plaything and pastime of our brother swords. + This day thou com’st invader of my land + Murthemné, bulwark broad of Uladh’s realm; + Thou com’st to burn my cities, spoil my flocks-- + A change there is, Ferdīa!’ Stern of brow + The Firbolg answered; ‘Friends we were; not peers: + The younger thou. ’Twas thine to yoke my steeds; + Arm me for fight. A stripling hopes this day + With brandished spear to make a mountain flee! + Son of the Gael! long centuries since, thy race + Trampled my race:--their vengeance hour is near; + I bid thee to depart!’ To him his friend; + ‘Ferdīa, in the old days on Scatha’s Isle + Thou wert my tribe, my household-stock, my race! + Questioned I then on battle-plain, or when + On frosty nights we couched beneath one rug, + Ancestral claims, traditions of the clan? + A change there is, Ferdīa!’ + Thus with words + Or mild, or stern in hope to save not slay, + Those friends contended. Sternest was the man + Whose conscience most aggrieved him. + ‘To this Ford + Thou cam’st the first, old comrade! choice of arms + Is therefore thine by right.’ Cuchullain spake: + Ferdīa chose the javelin. Arrow-swift, + While still the charioteers brought back the shaft, + The missiles flew. Keen-eyed as ocean bird + That, high in sunshine poised, glimpses his prey + Beneath the wave, and downward swooping slays him, + Each watched the other’s movements, if an arm + Lifted too high, or buckler dropp’d too low + Left bare a rivet. Long that fight endured: + Three times exhausted sank their hands: three times + They sat on rocks for respite, each the other + Eyeing askance, not silent; ‘Lo the man + Who shields an ox-like or a swine-like race + That strikes no blow itself!’ or thus; ‘Ah pledge + Of amity eterne in old time sworn! + Ferdīa, vow thy vow henceforth to maids! + The man-race nothing heeds thee!’ + Evening fell + And stayed perforce that combat. Slowly drew + The warriors near; and as they noted, each, + The other bleeding, in its strength returned + The friendship unextinct: round either’s neck + That other wound his arms and kissed him thrice: + That night their coursers in the self-same field + Grazed, side by side: that night their charioteers + With rushes gathered from the self-same stream + Made smooth their masters’ beds, then sat themselves + By the same fire. Of every healing herb + That lulled his wounds Cuchullain sent the half + To staunch Ferdīa’s; while to him in turn + Ferdīa sent whate’er of meats or drinks + Held strengthening power or cordial, to allay + Distempered nerve or nimble spirit infuse, + In equal portions shared. + The second morn + They met at sunrise:--‘Thine the choice of arms;’ + The Firbolg spake; the Gael made answer; ‘Spears!’ + Then leaped the champions on their battle-cars + And launched them into battle. Dire their shock + In fiery orbits wheeling now; anon + Wheel locked in wheel. Profounder wounds by far + That day than on the first the warriors gored, + Since closer was the fight. With laughing lip + Not less that eve Cuchullain sang the stave + That chides in war ‘Fomorian obstinacy:’ + Again at eve drew near they, slower now + For pain, and interwove fraternal arms: + Again their coursers in the self-same field + Grazed side by side, and from the self-same stream + Again their charioteers the rushes culled: + Again they shared alike both meats and drinks, + Again those herbs allaying, o’er their wounds + With incantations laid. + Forlorn and sad + Peered the third morning o’er the vaporous woods, + The wan grey river with its floating weed, + And bubble unillumined. From the marge + Cuchullain sadly marked the advancing foe:-- + ‘Alas, my brother! beamless is thine eye; + The radiance lives no longer on thy hair; + And slow thy step.’ The doomed one answered calm, + ‘Cuchullain, slow of foot, but strong of hand + Fate drags his victim to the spot decreed: + The choice to-day is mine: I choose the sword.’ + So spake the Firbolg; and they closed in fight: + And straightway from his heart to arm and hand + Rushed up the strength of all that buried race + By him so loved! Once more it swelled his breast: + In majesty re-clothed each massive limb, + And flashed in darksome light of hair and eye + Resplendent as of old. Surpassing deeds + They wrought, while circled meteor-like their swords, + Or fell like heaven’s own bolt on shield or helm. + Long hours they strove till morning’s purer gleams + Vanished in noon. Sharper that day their speech; + For, in the intenser present, years gone by + Hung but like pallid, thin, horizon clouds + O’er memory’s loneliest limit. Evening sank + Upon the dripping groves and shuddering flood + With rainy wailings. Not as heretofore + Their parting. Haughtily their mail they tossed + Each to his followers. In the self-same field + That night their coursers grazed not; neither sat + Their charioteers beside the self-same fire: + Nor sent they, each to other, healing herbs. + Ere morn the Firbolg drank the strength of dreams + Picturing his race’s wrong; and trumpet blasts + Went o’er him blown from fields of ancient wars: + And thus he mused, half-wakened; ‘Not for Meave; + Not for the popular suffrage; not for her + That maid who fain had held me from the snare, + Fight I that fight whose end shall crown this day: + O race beloved, this day your vengeance dawns + Red in the East! The mightiest of the Gaels + Goes down before me! What if both should die? + So best! Thus too the Firbolg is avenged!’ + Thus mused he. Stately from his couch he rose, + And armed himself, sedate. Upon his breast + He laid, in iron sheathed, a huge, flat stone, + For thus he said, ‘Though many a feat of arms + Is mine, from Scatha learned, or else self-taught, + The Gae-Bulg is Cuchullain’s!’ On his head + He fixed his helm, and on his arm his shield + Sable as night, with fifty bosses bound, + All brass; the midmost like a noontide sun. + Cuchullain eyed him as he neared the Ford, + And spake to Leagh; ‘This day, if slack of hand + Thou notest me, or wearied, hurl, as wont, + Sharp storm of arrowy railing from thy lips + That so the battle-anger from on high + May flame on me.’ The choice of arms was his: + He chose ‘the Ford-Feat.’ On the Firbolg’s brow + A shadow fell:--‘All weapons there,’ he mused, + ‘Have place alike: if on him falls the rage + He will not spare the Gae-Bulg!’ + Well they knew, + Both warriors, that the fortunes of that day + Must end the conflict; that for one, or both, + The sun that hour ascending shone his last: + Therefore all strength of onset till that hour + By either loosed or hoarded, craft of fight + Reined in one moment but to spring the next + Forward in might more terrible, compared + With that last battle was a trivial thing; + Whilst every weapon, javelin, spear, or sword, + Lawful alike that day, scattered abroad + Huge flakes of dinted mail; from every wound + Bounded the life-blood of a heart athirst + For victory or for death. The vernal day + Panted with summer ardours, while aloft + Noontide, a fire-tressed Fury, waved her torch, + Kindling the lit grove and its youngling green + From the azure-blazing zenith. As the heat + So waxed the warriors’ frenzy. Hours went by: + That day they sought not rest on rock or mound, + Held no discourse. Slowly the sun declined; + And as wayfarers oft when twilight falls + Advance with strength renewed, so they, refreshed, + Surpassed their deeds at morning. With a bound + Cuchullain, from the bank high springing, lit + Full on the broad boss of Ferdīa’s shield, + His dagger-point down turned. With spasm of arm + Instant the Firbolg from its sable rim + Cast him astonished. Upward from the Ford + Again Cuchullain reached that shield: again + With spasm of knee Ferdīa flung him far, + While Leagh in scorn reviled him: ‘As the flood + Shoots on the tempest’s blast its puny foam; + The oak-tree casts its dead leaf on the wave; + The mill-wheel showers its spray; the shameless woman + Hurls on the mere that babe which was her shame, + So hurls he forth that fairy-child bewitched + Whom men misdeemed for warrior!’ + Then from heaven + Came down upon Cuchullain, like the night, + The madness-rage. The Foes confronted met: + Shivered their spears from point to haft: their swords + Flashed lightnings round them. Fate-compelled, their feet + Drew near, then reached that stream which backward fled + Leaving its channel dry. While raged that fight + Cuchullain’s stature rose, huge bulk, immense, + Ascending still: as high Ferdīa towered + Like Fomor old, or Nemed from the sea, + Those shields, their covering late from foot to helm, + Shrinking, so seemed it, till above them beamed + Shoulders and heads. So close that fight, their crests + That waved defiance, mingled in mid air; + While all along the circles of their shields, + And all adown their swords, viewless for speed + Ran, mad with rage, the demons of dark moors + And war-sprites of the valleys, Bocanachs + And Banacahs, whose scream, so keen its edge, + Might shear the centuried forest as the scythe + Shears meadow grass. To these in dread response + Thundered far off from sea-caves billow-beat + And halls rock-vaulted ’neath the eternal hills, + That race Tuatha, giant once, long since + To pigmy changed, that forge from molten ores + For aye their clanging weapons, shield or spear, + On stony anvils, waiting still their day + Of vengeance on the Gael. That tumult scared + The horses of the host of Meave that brake + From war-car or the tethering rope, and spread + Ruin around. Camp-followers first, then chiefs + Innumerable were dragged along, or lay + ’Neath broken axle, dead. The end was nigh: + Cuchullain’s shield splintered upon his arm + Served him no more; and through his fenceless side + Ferdīa drave the sword. Then first the Gael + Hurled forth this taunt; ‘The Firbolg, bribed by Meave, + Has sold his ancient friend!’ Ferdīa spake, + ‘No Firbolg he, the man in Scatha’s Isle, + That won a maid, then left her!’ Backward stepp’d + Cuchullain paces three: he reached the bank; + He uttered low; ‘The Gae-Bulg!’ Instant, Leagh + Within his hand had lodged it. Bending low, + Low as that stream, the war-game’s crowning feat, + He launched it on Ferdīa’s breast. The shield, + The iron plate beneath, the stone within it, + Like shallow ice-films ’neath a courser’s hoof + Burst. All was o’er. To earth the warrior sank: + Dying, he spake: ‘Not thine this deed, O friend-- + ’Twas Meave who winged that bolt into my heart!’ + Then ran Cuchullain to that great one dead, + And raised him in his arms, and laid him down + Beside the Ford, but on its northern bank, + Not in that realm by Ailill swayed and Meave: + Long time he looked the dead man in the face; + Then by him fell in swoon. ‘Cuchullain, rise! + The men of Erin be upon thee! Rise!’ + Thus Leagh. He answered, waking; ‘Let them come! + To me what profit if I live or die? + The man I loved is dead!’ + But by the dead + Cuchullain stood; and thus he made lament: + ‘Ferdīa! On their head the curse descend + Who sent thee to thy death! We meet no more; + Never while sun, and moon, and earth endure. + ‘Ferdīa! Far away in Scatha’s isle + A great troth bound us and a vow eterne + Never to raise war-weapons, each on each:-- + ’Twas Finobar that snared thee! She shall die. + ‘Ferdīa! dearer to my heart wert thou + Than all beside if all were joined in one: + Dear was thy clouded face, and darksome eye; + Thy deep, sad voice; thy words so wise and few; + Dear was thy silence: dear thy slow, grave ways, + Not boastful like the Gael’s.’ + Silent he stood + While Leagh in reverence from the dead man’s breast + Loosened his mail. There shone the torque of Meave:[33] + There where the queen had fixed it yet it lay. + Cuchullain clutched it. ‘Ha! that torque I spurned! + Dark gem ill-lifted from the seas of Death! + Swart planet bickering from the heavens of Fate! + With what a baleful beam thou look’st on me! + ’Twas thou, ’twas thou, not I, that slew’st this man’-- + He dashed it on the rock, and with his heel + Smote it to fragments. + Then, as one from trance + Waking, once more he spake: ‘Oh me--oh me, + That I should see that face so great and pale! + To-day face-whitening death is on that face; + And in my hand my sword:--’tis crimson yet. + That day when he and I triumphed in fight + By Formait’s lake o’er Scatha’s pirate foes + The woman fetched a beaker forth of wine, + And made us drink it both; and made us vow + Friendship eterne. O friend, my hand this day + Tendered a bloody beaker to thy lip.’ + Again he sang; ‘Queen Meave to Uladh’s bound + Came down; and dark the deed that grew thereof; + Came down with all the hosting of her kings; + And dark the deed that grew thereof. We two + Abode with Scatha in her northern isle, + Her pupils twinned. The sea-girt warrioress + That honoured few men honoured us alike: + We ate together of the self-same dish: + We couched together ’neath the self-same shield: + Now living man I stand, and he lies dead!’ + He raised again his head: once more he sang: + ‘Each battle was a game, a jest, a sport + Till came, fore-doomed, Ferdīa to the Ford. + I loved the warrior though I pierced his heart. + Each battle was a game, a jest, a sport + Till stood, self-doomed, Ferdīa by the Ford. + Huge lion of the forestry of war; + Fair, central pillar of the House of Fame; + But yesterday he towered above the world: + This day he lies along the earth, a shade.’ + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + FRAGMENT IV. + + _THE INVASION OF ULADH._ + + + ARGUMENT. + +Cuchullain lies long in the forest nigh to death from his wounds, and +yet more through grief for Ferdīa. The queen crosses the Ford into +Uladh, and captures the Donn Cuailgné. The confederate kings fall out +among themselves; Meave summons a war council; whereupon there bursts +forth a second contention between them and the Exile-Band. She makes the +circuit of all Uladh; yet enacts nothing memorable. Lastly she marches +against Eman, its metropolis, but slowly, being encumbered by her spoil. +Uladh rouses itself daily out of its trance of imbecility. The death of +Ketherne. Finobar is fain to draw Rochad to the cause of her mother, but +fails. Her fate. The queen, falling into despondency, re-crosses the +frontier. + + + Silence amid the wide, confederate camp: + No clang of sword or shield; no warrior’s tread + Striding to Meave with battle-gage down flung + For him who kept the Ford. But when six days + Were past, and none had seen that threatening helm, + There went abroad a rumour, ‘he is dead:’ + Then sped to her six champions claiming fight: + Whom from her presence spurning, Meave advanced + With all her host o’er Uladh’s frontier line + By Daré’s castle and the ill-omened gate + Whereon high-seated Daré’s Fool had hurled + Against her scorn and gibe. As Meave drew near + Forth rolled the bellowing of Cuailgné’s Donn, + Cause of that war. King Daré’s sons had fled; + But in the gate-way stood their old, grey sire, + Alone, and slew the first that entrance made: + The rest dashed in upon him, and he died. + Six days, and in Cuchullain’s cell no change-- + The bud grew large; the earlier violet died; + He neither spake nor moved. His wounds were deep: + Deeper his grief; and stronger thence their power + Though dead, that clan accursed of Cailitin, + With ghostly spells darkening the warrior’s heart: + As lie the dead, he lay. + One eve, what time + The setting sun levell’d through holly brakes + Unnumbered dagger-points of jewel’d light + And ’neath the oak-stem burned a golden spot, + Leagh, standing near his couch, reproached him thus; + ‘In time of old the greatness of thy spirit + Had ever strength to salve thy corporal griefs: + But now through coward heart thou makest no fight, + Dying as old men die.’ Cuchullain heard; + But answered nought. + Next day, while near them buzzed + At noon the gilded insect swarm, he spake; + ‘While lived Ferdīa wounds to thee were jest; + Thy grief it is that drags thee to the pit; + Grief; and for what? Of treasons worse is none + Than sorrow when thy country’s foe is dead! + Not man is he, the man who dies of grief.’ + He spake: Cuchullain fixed a vacant eye + On that sad, wrathful face. + Then hastened Leagh + To where those giant coursers, side by side, + Stood tethered mid green grass and meadow-sweet + Within a lawn; and led them to a stream, + And bade them drink; and later led them home; + And placed their corn before them, and they ate: + Next spake he; ‘Horses ye; and yet ye know + To eat at need, while men self-sentenced starve!’ + Thus of that man whom most he loved on earth + He made complaint. Liath, the lake’s white son, + Tossed high his head in anger. By his side + Sangland, his dusky comrade, sadly ate, + Moistening with tears her barley. + Late that eve + Cuchullain beckoned Leagh; ‘To Conor speed: + Speak thus; “Put on thine arms and save thy land + Since now the Hound that kept thy gate is dead:-- + Make no delay!”’ At midnight Leagh went forth + Though loth to leave his master to the care + Of cowherd rude, or swineherd. Tenderer aid + Ere long consoled him. Beauteous as the dawn + Next morn two shepherd boys seeking a lamb + Came on the sick man in his forest nook; + Long time they gazed on him compassionate; + With voice benign and tendance angel-like + Onward into his confidence they crept; + His lips with milk, the purest, they refreshed; + They placed the dewy wood flowers in his hand; + They sang him ballads old, not battle-songs, + Too loud such songs they deemed, but Fairy lore, + Or tale of lovers fleeing tyrant’s rage: + Among the last unwittingly they sang + ‘Cuchullain’s Wooing;’ how the youth had found + Eimer, the loveliest lady of the land + Within her bowery pleasaunce, girt with maids + Harping, or broidering fair in scarf deep-dyed + Blossom or insect: how he sued; and how + She answered; ‘Woo my sister: woo not me!’ + How, glorying in her loveliness, her sire + Had sworn no chief should ever call her wife + Who won her not by valour; how that youth + Had scaled his rock and slain his guards and forth + Led her by hand, a downward-looking bride, + Majestic, unconsenting, undismayed, + But likewise unreluctant. As they sang + Above that suffering face there passed a smile; + And where that smile had lain there crept a tear; + And in few minutes more asleep he sank + Who had not slept nine days. + Swiftly meanwhile + On marched the host confederate: bootless speed; + Since ever one day’s progress by the next + Was cancelled; tortuous mind made tortuous course + Now bent awry to capture spoil, anon + To avenge some private wrong. Fergus the while + Inly with fury raged; for still his thought + Was ‘Eman--Vengeance.’ Meave, to calm his wrath, + Albeit debate she scorned, a council called + And made demand, ‘To Eman speed we, Kings, + With central wound striking at Uladh’s heart, + Or wind, as now, at random through the realm, + With havoc huge, and plunder?’ + Rose a chief + Aulnau, the son of Magach, one whose pride + Was not in war-deeds but in crafty brain, + And thus made answer. ‘March to Eman! Queen! + Not difficult the emprise; but whose the gain? + Eman to burn, what were it but to sow + The sanguine seed of endless wars to come? + The Uladh chiefs live scattered. Eman’s fall + Touches not them. Their strength ere long revived + Southward in search of vengeance they will rush: + Slay them yet weakling! Slay them ere they wake! + Slay them in mountain hold and forest lair + In vale and glen: slay each apart, half-armed; + Easy the task!’ Arose the Exiled King: + ‘“Easy the task!”’ he cried; ‘that Daré learned! + Unarmed--alone--I saw the old man fall! + “Easy the task!”’ Then brake upon him Alp + That ruled in far Iorras, speaking thus; + ‘Fergus, we love our queen; but love not thee! + Hostile to ours thy race: King Conor’s fall + Thou seek’st; not Uladh’s. Hear me, Queen of Men! + The siege of Eman means a three months’ siege: + Be wary lest, ere yet that time is past + King Conor with his exiles makes a pact, + And they who now but rate thee drink thy blood: + Be wary likewise lest in half that time + Thy host melt from thee like a wreath of snow! + The Gael is restless; lives on chance and change; + The clan grows home-sick: victory in its grasp, + Pines for the babe unkissed, or field unreaped: + My counsel then is Aulnau’s. Like a flood + Wind devious through the land and strip it bare: + Till then let Eman be.’ + Debate ere long, + For chiefs there were who loved the nobler war, + Passed on to raging storm. Old friendships died; + And from the dust of ages injuries old + Leaped up like warriors armed. In Fergus wrath + Gave way to scorn: with haughty port he spake, + A man majestical yet mirthful too. + ‘Great Lords and Kings--since Kings ye claim to be-- + King-vassals, world-renowned for mutual hate, + Alone of men I censure not your strifes, + Knowing their cause. The very air you breathe, + The founts whereof you drink, the soil you tread, + Are all impregnate with a sacred rage; + And false alike to usage, country, blood, + Were he among you who, for three hours’ space, + Discerned ’twixt friend and foeman. Lords and Kings, + Attend a legend from your annals old, + A laughing picture of man’s life this day. + In Erin’s earlier age there reigned two kings: + Each had a swineherd who, through magic power, + Assumed what form he would of shapes that live + In heaven, or earth, or sea. Friendship eterne + They pledged; then strove ten years, with hosts allied + So huge that none remained to till the land. + At last the vanquished westward creaked, a crane: + A crane, the victor chased him. Twenty years + High up they fought; to each side Erin’s birds + Flocking in clans, the factions of the heavens. + Those twenty years run out, the vanquished crane + Dropp’d on a stream and straight to salmon changed; + Instant his foe, to salmon turned not less, + From stream to sea pursued him. Far and wide + All scaly shapes that buffet Erin’s waves + From sprat and minnow up to shark and whale + Beat up in finny squadrons. Forty years + With deepening rage they fought, till round the isle + Main ocean boiled, and from her ships black-ribbed + Melted the tar, and mist was over all. + Next changed those salmons twain to dragon-flies: + But while they sat in hate on neighbouring pools + A dun cow and a red cow drank them up + Unwittingly. From them two bull-calves sprang + That, grown, with battle thunders dinned the realm + For eighty years! How say ye, Lords? From these + Come not the Bulls that shake this day our land, + Fionbannah, and the Donn? For them we fight, + And in their honour hold, on peaceful days, + Like them our roaring synods!’ + Fiercely and long + The unwise council strove; and Meave, who feared + Far more the petulance of her lesser kings + Than that great exile’s loftier wrath, resumed + Next morn her march erratic. On she passed, + The Dal Araidhé forests on her right, + Northward to Moira’s plain and Clannaboy; + And through the Glynns of Ardes glimpsed remote + Alba’s blue hills. Dalríad fastnesses + She burned with fire, and seized full many a herd + On banks of Bann; then westward turned, and kenned + The grass-green glitter soon of far Lough Foyle, + And where the winding river-sea divides + Fanad from Inishowen’s cliffs forlorn. + Aileach she passed, more late the seat of kings; + And, southward next, that lake[34] whose lonely isle + Descends, through caves, to Spirit-worlds unknown. + Thus Meave a circle traced round Uladh’s realm, + And heard the murmur of its three great seas, + Yet nothing wrought of perdurable fame. + Conor, meantime, round Eman ranged his hosts + There flocking night and day. ‘I march not hence’ + He said, ‘till Uladh’s wound is wholly healed;-- + Fergus I deem the sage of battle-fields, + Though fool in all beside.’ + But sloth and fear + In manly hearts at worst rare visitants, + Leave them betimes, like vermin caught by chance + That quit ere long the clean. O’er Uladh’s breadth + Daily some chief, or fragment of a clan + Long chilled by rumour of Cuchullain slain, + Despite King Conor’s hest assailed the queen + Marching, though late, on Eman. First of these + Was Ketherne. Hewing oaks on Fuad’s crest + He marked her host, and rushed, a naked man + From waist to head, his axe within his hand, + In fury on it. Late that eve his kernes + Forth from the battle tore him bleeding fast + From fifty wounds. That night physicians five + Were bending o’er his bed: the eldest spake; + ‘Ketherne, thou son of Fintan, thou must die!’ + Then Ketherne raised himself and with one blow + Smote him upon his forehead that he died. + In turn the second,--‘Ketherne, thou must die:’ + And Ketherne slew him. Feebler-toned the third + Whispered, ‘The man must die;’ and died himself; + Likewise the fourth. Old Ithal was the fifth, + A son of Alba. He with stealthy foot + Stepping o’er corpses of his brethren slain, + Made keen-eyed inquest of the wounds; then spake: + ‘Of these the least is dangerous: fatal none: + Two cures for such there be, diverse in kind; + Ketherne, thou son of Fintan, make thy choice! + The first is slow but certain: where thou liest + Full three months thou must lie; then rise restored: + The second is immediate: strength divine + It pours like light into a warrior’s veins; + Then dies its virtue, and the warrior dies!’ + Ketherne laughed loud: ‘My choice is quickly made-- + Three months bed-ridden, or one vengeance day + Joyous and glorious! Leech! I rather choose + With mine own hand to avenge eretime my death + Than trust that task to others!’ At his word + Ithal prepared a wonder-working bath + Strewn with strange herbs, and bathed therein the man, + Then bade him drink of some elixir bright + Drawn from the sun. As one refreshed by sleep + He rose: he clomb his war-car; sought the foe; + Threescore he slew, their best. At last the strength + Ceased from his arm; and opened once again + His wounds late closed; and back he sank, and died. + Such hindrances, and every day had such, + Likewise huge herds and cumber of her spoil + Slackened the march of Meave. Full many a chief + Perished in bootless fight; full many an eye + Turned on her, malcontent. But trial worse + Had found her through her daughter, Finobar. + Without an hour’s misgiving or remorse + In beauty’s pride not less than patriot zeal-- + Wilier she was than Meave, and haughtier far-- + Champion on champion she had sent to doom + Beside that fatal Ford. Ferdīa most + Had tasked the sorceress, for in him alone + Vanity kept no place. She watched the fight + No pallor on her fruit-like cheek, no cloud + Dimming her star-like eyes. Without a sigh + She saw the Firbolg, last of all his race, + Fall on the soil once theirs. Even then she knew not + The inevitable shaft had pierced whate’er + Of woman heart was hers. The strong man’s death + Lifted that veil his victory ne’er had raised: + Standing mid others she beheld him dead: + Thenceforth that deep-toned voice, that mournful front, + Those stern yet stately ways, so great and plain, + Haunted her memory. Oft with sudden spasm + She strove to shake that viper from her breast + Which sucked its life-blood. ‘I, the Princess, love! + And love a Firbolg!’ She had never loved: + Self-love, sole regent of the unloving heart, + Had barred it ’gainst all other tenderer loves: + In vain the island chiefs had wooed and sued: + She spurned them each and all. + Of these the last + Was Rochad, and the proudest, in the North + A vassal prince of Conor’s, oft his foe: + The passion she had kindled she had scorned: + Rochad had vowed revenge. + In wonder Meave + Noted the weary lids, the vanishing bloom, + The abrupt accost, though haught yet unassured; + The movements to mechanic changed, the mind + Still strong, yet widowed of its flexile strength; + These things she saw; their cause she ne’er divined: + Love for the living Meave could understand: + For her the dead was dead. To Finobar + The one thing yet remaining was her pride: + Questioned, her answer ever was the same, + ‘Onward, to Eman!’ + Nearer it each day + They drew. One evening through the sunset mist + A camp, high-seated on a bosky hill, + Shone out, fire-fringed: aloof it stood as one + That halts ’twixt war and peace. Ere long they learned + Rochad that site had chos’n, with Uladh’s King + Friendly but half, thence slow to prop his cause. + Then spake the queen; ‘The hand of yonder chief + Sustains our battle’s balance. If his host, + Now dubious, joins the bands that vex our flank + No choice remains but this, a homeward course + Or, if a march to Eman, then the loss + Of half our hard-earned spoil and hate thenceforth + Of all our vassal kings.’ Forth flashed the eyes + Of Finobar--it was their latest flash-- + She answered thus; ‘The sequel leave to me! + He loved me, Rochad, once: ere sets yon moon + I bring you tamed the lion of yon hills, + Aye, in a silken leash!’ + Rochad far off + Beheld her coming; marked it with a smile; + Welcomed her gaily; led her to the feast; + Thence to his tent wherein was none beside. + There put she forth whatever subtlest art + In seeming-simple innocence disguised + Imagines of persuasive, whatsoe’er + Delicatest craft of female witcheries + Potent for man’s destruction can devise, + To bend that warrior’s will. The winter beam + Thaws not the polar ice: o’er Rochad’s soul + So passed the syren’s pleadings. Pleased not less + To stand implored, he dallied with her suit + Destined, and this he knew, to end in shame. + She, self-deceived, inly made vow; ‘This tent + I leave not, save victorious.’ + Hours went by: + She noted not their flight. Once more with skill + Plastic as wind in woods, a measured strength + Varying as minstrel’s hand that grazes now + Now sweeps the tenderer or the deeper strings, + To all the passions of the heart of man + Glory, Ambition, Love, Revenge, she tuned + The modulations of her passionate strain; + While half the richness theirs aforetime throbbed + Again in those sad accents, half their light-- + For oft from out the present shines a past + Long dead--returned to eyes that, seen of none, + Had wept away their splendours. Calm he sat, + Sternly quiescent. Sudden on her broke + The fatal truth. She saw her power was gone; + And all that posthumous life late hers sank back + In embers lost and ashes. On the West + Rested her gaze. A cloud of raven black, + Its veil for half that night, had drifted by, + And o’er that distant gleam, her mother’s camp, + Slowly the moon descended. Finobar + That hour recalled her boast; ‘Ere sets yon moon + I bring you tamed the lion of yon hills, + Aye, in a silken leash!’ + The Orient soon + Whitened with early dawn. Forlorn it lay + On hill and heath and plain and distant mere, + Forlorner on the haggard face--for oft + A face, still fair, in anguish antedates + Its future--of that woman as she knelt, + She knelt at last, low on that threshold low. + Then came the hour of Rochad’s great revenge: + Then first he answered plainly; ‘Finobar! + One day I knew you not: I know you now: + Your spells are null when once their trick is learned: + Likewise your face has lost its earlier charm. + Back to your mother! Say, ere sets yon sun + I join the king my master, from his gate + Repel with scorn the invader.’ Forth he passed + Without farewell. A clarion broke ere long + Her trance: adown the slope she saw his host + Winding t’ward Eman. + From a burning couch + She rose next eve; and, strong with fever’s strength, + Paced swiftly by that sunset-crimsoned stream + Which cut the camp in twain. Anon she marked + In all who met her, change inexplicable, + Strange eyes, strange faces, strange embarrassed ways: + Sadly compassionate that change in some: + In others questioning glance and meaning smile + Hinted at things that through her flaming heart + Passed like a sword of ice. Whisperings not less + There were, but these she heard not; ‘What! All night! + From eve to morn with Rochad in his tent!-- + The men she fed on hopes she sent to death + Beside the Ford. Well! pride must have its fall! + Rochad is joined with Conor!’ Slanders worse + Some chiefs whom most her haughtiness had galled + Ventured, vain-glorious. Late one eve the truth + Sprang like a tigress on her. In his tent + She heard her father with her mother speak; + ‘She yet may wear the crown: her maiden fame + Is lost forever!’ + Three hours ere her death + Thus to her mother spake that sentenced one; + ‘Noise it among the host that grief for those + Her countrymen--the Gael--who, near the Ford-- + Ere yet that Firbolg shared the common fate, + Fell by Cuchullain, snapped her thread of life. + Bear on your march my body:--raise the cairn + On the first hill that kens Emania’s towers.’ + So spake she; and the queen obeyed her hest: + She flung that rumour forth; and all who heard, + Heart-stricken now, believed it. But on Meave + A piercing sadness fell; and by her bed + Orloff her buried son stood up, and spake; + ‘Home to thy native realm, and Cruachan! + Not less a battle waits thee great and dread + ’Twixt Gairig and Ilgairig.’ One day’s march + Eastward still marched she; then upon a hill, + The first whose summit looked on Eman’s towers, + Interred the all-beauteous one with Pagan dirge, + And o’er her piled the cairn. Southward, next morn + She turned, and crossed the Ford. Fulfilled was thus + Cuchullain’s word, breathed o’er Ferdīa dead, + ‘Finobar snared thee. Finobar shall die.’ + But many a century later Uladh’s sons + Rose up and said; ‘Great scorn it is and wrong + Yon stranger’s grave should gaze on Eman’s towers:’ + Then bore they forth those relics once so fair + With funeral rites revered and Pagan dirge, + And laid them by the loud-resounding sea, + And o’er them raised a cairn: and, age on age, + As sighed the sea-wind past it shepherds said + ‘It whispers soft that sad word, Finobar!’ + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + FRAGMENT V. + + _QUEEN MEAVE’S RETREAT._ + + + ARGUMENT. + +Queen Meave, having reached the sacred plain of Uta, sacrilegiously +encamps thereon. A Druid denounces the late war as unrighteous, while +Fergus contemns it as ineffectual; and immediately afterwards the Mor +Reega manifests herself to the host. Next evening, while division of the +spoil is being made, Meave is ware of the advance of King Conor; and +Ailill transfers the supreme command to Fergus, who prepares for the +attack. The battle is gloriously won by Fergus. That night Meave is +warned by signs and omens; and Cuchullain, weak from his wounds, arrives +in the Ulidian camp. From midnight to near sunset the next day he lies +in a trance, during which fair spirits minister to him again his lost +strength; and there is shown to him a vision of some mystic greatness +reserved for Erin, yet of an order which he cannot understand. When the +second battle is well nigh lost Cuchullain wakes; and Meave is driven in +utter overthrow across the Shannon. + + + At last the war had whirled its giddy round; + And Meave, well nigh returned, the Shenan[35] near + Beside Ath-Luain[36] streaming in its might, + Decreed to make division of her spoil + Ere yet she crossed it. In the West the sun + Was sinking; in the East the moon uprose; + While camped her host on Uta’s sacred plain + Betwixt the double glories. Far away + Immeasurably glittered the pastures green + Illumed with million flowers. Nor spade, nor plough + Till then that virgin region had profaned; + Nor sound, save Shenan’s murmur, stirred therein. + There stood the Tomb Heroic. Beams and showers + Alone might pierce that soil sabbatical; + Such reverence held the spot. Now all was changed; + Ill choice; if chance, ill-omened. Neighing steeds + Dinned the still air; while here at times was heard + Whistling of him that fixed his tent, and there + Wood-cleaving axe or feaster’s laugh mistimed. + Higher and higher rose the moon full-orbed, + Mirrored in pool and stream. At intervals + Half lost in bard-song near or shout remote, + The slender wailing of some captive maid + Rang out and died. + The royal tent was set + High on a grassy platform. Meave that night + The first time since the death of Finobar + Was cheerful of aspéct; and, banquet o’er, + Rising her warriors she addressed with vaunt + Beseeming not a queen. ‘A year,’ she said, + ‘Is past since northward to the war we marched:’ + Then forth she loosed the sheets and spread the sails + And bounded on the waves of proud discourse + Recounting all her triumphs; first, her wrong; + Lastly, the cause of war, Cuailgné’s Donn + Chief captive mid her captives! Here her voice + Rang loudest, and her eyes their fiercest beamed. + Rapturous response succeeded; one alone, + A Druid old, dissentient. Thus he spake, + Not rising, to that throng of courtiers crowned: + ‘Ill doctrine have ye praised this evening, kings, + Unwise, to Erin’s realms unprofitable, + Extolling war not based on righteous cause + Nor righteous ends ensuing. Kings and queen, + The end of war is retribution just + For deeds unjust; ill cure for greater ill: + Wars there must be; and woman-mouthed were he + Who railed against them:--aye, but demon-mouthed + The man that boasts of war-dishonouring wars + Opprobrious, spiteful, predatory, base. + Sirs, how began this feud? It rose from jest! + And what its close? A sacred site profaned, + Inviolate till this day!’ The warriors frowned; + Yet all men feared the Druid beard and rod: + They stood in silence. + Fergus rose, and spake: + ‘Sirs, I have heard a war this day extolled, + A war this day denounced. On battle-field + Men say that I was born; on battle-fields + Have lived from youth to age. What thing war is + I ought to know. Yet, sirs, these wearied eyes + Rolled many a day around from East to West + Still seeking war, and found it not: they saw + Six hundred men successive by the hand + Of one man slain, Cuchullain; saw the torch + Hurl the red smoke-cloud o’er a thousand homes: + They saw a war-dance circle Uladh’s coasts; + They saw the ravished flock, and ravished herd, + The captive throng lance-goaded on its way, + Swine-herd and shepherd, hoary head, and maid + Beaming and basking in the healthful glow + Of youthful beauty. Sirs, they saw more late, + But saw from distance, Eman’s walls high-towered: + This, this they saw not; warriors, warrior-ruled, + Marching against them! Mountebanks of war + They saw; not warriors!’ + Plainly Fergus spake: + Not otherwise than plainly could he speak, + A man to Truth predestined; since his birth + By courage sealed to Truth. The legend saith + That down before him on his natal morn + All Erin’s fays and sprites from river or rill + Their tributes laid. But, mightier far than they, + A wingèd goddess ran from sea to sea, + The island’s breadth, to hail him! As she sped, + The path before her, prone till then and low, + Rising ran out a craggy ridge sublime, + The same that for a hundred miles this day + Divides the realm. That highway lofty and straight + Foreshowed that ne’er in tortuous ways or base + Should walk that infant. + Raging, from their seats + The kings and chieftains leaped. A hundred swords + Flashed from their sheaths, and from a hundred mouths + One sentence issued--‘Death!’ By twos and threes + A score of stragglers from the exiles’ band + Closed up behind him. Cormac Conlinglas + Beside him stood, sword drawn. + Again he spake; + ‘Queen, till that day of shame was battle none, + Nor on that day; nor since! But on that day + Beside your daughter’s cairn--more royal far + Though fortunate less was she--we two conversed: + I said; “Without one blow you think to pass + Eman, that cast me forth! Without one blow + To cross your Shenan, reach your Cruachan, + There make your terms secure, the spoil retained, + The exiles sent to judgment! Note you, Queen, + Those horsemen three a mile on yonder road? + My heralds they! The hour your flight begins + They speed to Eman.” + ‘You retreated. They + Rode on to Conor. To that chief of foes + I wrote; “Advance! The queen retreats: make speed! + She shall not ’scape the battle. Know besides + That battle of earth’s battles till this hour + Shall prove the bloodiest. In it, sword to sword + We two shall meet; one die.”’ + In measureless scorn + Then turned he to the kings, continuing thus; + ‘What mean those clamours and those swords half drawn + Which draw ye dare not? Petty, titular kings! + The shadow of that royalty once mine + Dwarfs you to pygmies by comparison! + I heard a cry of “Treason!” Let them lift + Their hands who raised it! Kinglings mutinous, + Princes seditious, ye the traitors are! + And on the nod of him whom ye traduce, + Your pageant crowns sit trembling. Ere three days + Uladh is on you! I shall stand that hour + Your King Elect; not Ailill’s choice, but yours; + The Battle-King; for well ye know that I, + None else, have skill to range the battle-field, + And roll the thunders forth of genuine war. + Till that hour, silence, kings!’ + Silence they kept, + Long silence. Then far off, as though from depths + By thought untraversable of cloudless skies, + Such sound was heard as reaches ships at sea + When, launched on airy voyage though still remote, + Nation of ocean-crossing birds begins + To obscure the serene heaven. That sound drew near: + From every tent the revellers rushed. Then lo! + That portent seen alone in fateful times, + The dread Mor Reega! Terrible as Fate + The goddess of the battles high o’er head + Sailed on full-panoplied, in hue as when + On Alpine snows, their sunset glories gone, + Night’s winding-sheet descends. Upon her casque + And spear beyond it pointing glared the moon, + And on a face like hers that froze of old + The gazers into stone. As on she sailed + On that huge army coldness fell of death: + Yea, some there died. Next morning, from that spot + Northward to Eman lay a branded track: + Straight as a lance still stretched it, league on league; + A bar of winter black through harvest fields, + A bridge of ice spanning the rippling waves; + A pledge that men had dreamed not. + In those days + Foreboding soon, like sorrow, passed away: + Ailill next morning counselled; ‘Ere the night + Cross we the Shenan. If the Red Branch comes + Fight we on Ai’s plain!’ But Meave replied + ‘Not so; I fly not! One day here we rest: + Our kings await their spoil.’ + From morn to eve + That spoil’s partition lasted; first, huge herds; + Flocks snowy-white through water-weeds and grass + Followed, hound-driven. War-horses few were there, + But many from the plough: with these, in crowds + Poor hinds, and swine-herds, maidens skilled in works + That knew to spin the flax or mix the dye + Or card the wool. Next followed wild-eyed boys + Bound each to each. No tear they shed, but scowled + Defiance on their lords and war-songs sang + Of Uladh and her vengeance. King and chief + Scanned each his prize with careless-seeming eye; + Yet oft their followers strove, while onward paced + The royal arbiters with wands high held, + Ruling the wrangling crew. + Upon a mound + Meantime the royal throne was set, a throng + Of warriors round it. Many a mirthful chance + Provoked their laughter: loudest laughed the queen; + But when she spake she waited not reply. + Without a bound to east and west and south + The prospect spread. Her eye was on the north:-- + Not distant stood two hills: she asked their names: + Her great eyes darkened when the answer came + Of Gairig and Ilgairig. + ’Twixt these twain, + Shone out, distincter as the sun declined, + Long northern ranges. Fergus marked her eye + That moved not from them, smiled, and made demand, + ‘What find’st thou in our mountain ridges, Queen, + That merits gaze so fixed?’ Then she; ‘I note + Girdling their slopes a mist feathery and soft, + As though of snow-flakes wov’n: above it peaks + Shoot up, like isles cloud-hid. Within that mist + I see strange lights that cross like shooting stars; + Cross and re-cross, quick-bickering.’ With a smile + That deepened, Fergus questioned once again: + ‘Make large thine eyes and tell me what thou seest!’ + Then Meave; ‘Through all that mist is movement strange, + The agitation of some wondrous life, + And t’wards us on it rolleth.’ Fergus next; + ‘Thine eyes see well! If others saw like thee + Their tongues would clang less loudly. Hear’st thou nought?’ + The queen made answer; ‘Many a sea I hear + That breaks on many a shore.’ + Then Fergus cried + ‘Thou seest my Uladh coming, and the way + And fashion of the advent of her war! + For know, great Queen, even now the Red Branch Knights + Car-borne descend yon slopes! That mist thou saw’st + What is it but the tempest of their march, + The dust flung upwards and the sweat exhaled + And visible breath of warrior and of horse + That breathes the northwind and the sunny glare? + What else the snow-flakes which thou saw’st but foam + Dashed from the horses’ bits? Thy bickering stars, + What else but flaming cars and fiery helms + This way and that way passing? What thy peaks + Crowning that mist, but Uladh’s hills remote + That send her children to avenge her wrong? + And what that thunder sound of many seas + But music of their coming? Well for thee + If o’er them sail not, veiled from mortal eyes, + That dread Mor Reega!’ + Reddened as he spake + Meave’s cheek late pale; yet careless she replied; + ‘I see her not, therefore believe her not, + And breathe securely since that gleam far off + Is human, not demoniac or divine; + For never feared I yet the arm of man: + Cuchullain dead, I hold at nought the rest.’ + Thus Meave: but all the kings and chiefs arose + Clamouring to her and Ailill; ‘Lo, ’tis come! + All Uladh, and a battle such as ne’er + Shook the foundations of this kingly isle! + Now therefore bid him rule thy host, the man + That knows to rule!’ ’Twixt passions twain at war + Meave silent stood. Ailill to Fergus turned + And spake; ‘Be thou henceforth our Battle-King:’ + Thus spake he; then, releasing from his belt + The sword usurped of Fergus, added thus; + ‘Receive once more thy sword! in mirth erewhile + I made it mine: the virtue in that blade + Hath kept me till this hour.’ Fergus replied; + ‘I take mine own: but one month past, this sword + Had cut the cancer out of Uladh’s breast, + And made thy throne a praise on earth for aye! + I take mine own, on thee a sword bestowing + That best becomes thee. Waiting long this hour + For thee I kept it.’ Proudly Ailill clasped + Its glittering hilt: Fergus drew back the sheath; + And lo, a wooden sword, for babes a toy! + The concourse laughed; the loudest Meave: though wroth + Ailill a little whiffling laugh essayed + With sidelong face. + Then Fergus in the soil + Planting his sword upright before it knelt, + And spake; ‘O thou my sovereignty, my sword, + In many a battle, yet in none unjust, + So many a year my glory and my mate! + Mine art thou, mine once more! In all this host + Who shall henceforth reproach me?’ + To his task + The strong one sped, and change was over all: + Again the voice of discipline was heard: + None drank in booths; none rushed abroad; with sloth + Fierceness had vanished. Followers of the camp + Alone were left in charge of flocks and herds: + The clansmen to their duties were restored, + The clans in order ranged. He delved a trench + Barring from Uta’s plain the advancing foe, + And bridges o’er it flung, that so his host + Permission given, and not till then, might strike + Forth pouring torrent-like at Uladh’s heart: + Pits too he dug bristling with stakes sod-hid. + He gave command like one that, born to power, + With courteous might scarce conscious puts it forth: + He spake the word: all heard him: all obeyed + Magnanimous to feel when majesty + Authentic stood before them. Duty done + Engendered strenuous joy, and strength, and hope: + Thus through the mass the spirit of one man + Triumphed, and ruling, raised it: on each face + His corporal semblance lived--light hearted might, + Deliberate resolve. + The moonlight hours + Shone brightly on their labours. Six had sped + Ere Fergus sought the royal tent where sat + Revellers right ill at ease. As in he passed, + The concourse, Meave herself and Ailill, rose, + And did him regal honours. Of his toils + Nought spake he; but their hearts who saw him swelled + And many marvelled why they late were sad: + Again the laugh; again the tale; the song-- + Then came a change. A gradual sound was heard, + Yet what and whence they knew not. It increased; + It swelled ere long, voluminous; grating next; + Then dreadful like the splitting of a world + Whose strong foundations crumble. Forth they passed + Through hurrying clouds the moon rushed madly on, + Now dim, now fiercely glaring. From the north + In terror sped the forest beasts and dashed + Wild through the camp while panic fell on all. + The sole man unastonished, Fergus spake: + ‘Sirs, late ye learn our warfare! As the spring, + When the first spray catches the amorous red, + Her song-bird sends, herald and harbinger, + So Uladh sends before her onward steps + Her shrill-voiced vanguard: men of might are they, + Hewers of war-ways for her battle cars + Advancing through the forests. First ye heard + Their axes only; last, the falling trees:-- + What, Sirs, ye look like men ill-pleased! Well, well! + Not all delight in music. Sirs, good-night! + When breaks the dawn be stirring.’ + In the camp + Few slept that night. Vanished the moon in cloud: + Then shone the watch-fires on the northern hills + Like stars. + Next morn the Uladh host down swarmed + Betwixt those neighbouring hills and round their base + Far spread as flood that, widening on its way, + Changes the heights to islands. Countless wrongs + And shame at all that long inglorious trance, + Roused wrath to madness; from them far they flung + Encumbering arms, and, bare from scalp to waist, + Worked on with brandished battle-axe. Three hours + That trench withstood them. Kelkar ruled their left, + Their right great Conal Carnach, while the king + Marshalled their centre. There the strongest bridge, + Tower-guarded, longest held their host at bay; + Longer had held it, save that from his place + Fergus, the hour foreseen arrived, gave word + ‘Fling wide the gates!’ In rushed they; but to meet + A foe unwasted yet. The Red Branch Knights + Surpassed their old renown. In fresher strength + The host confederate met them. Meave herself + With downward mace three champions slew that day, + Him last, that felon son of faithful sire, + Buini, the Ruthless Red, who, breaking pledge, + Betrayed the sons of Usnach for a bribe: + His father’s prophecy the Accursed fulfilled + Slain by a woman’s hand. Fergus, at last + Forth launched upon his native element, + Raced o’er the battle billows like a bark + When tempests stretch its canvass. Chief on chief + Went down before that sword that still, men sware, + With sweep that widened like a rainbow’s arch + Ran from his hand and harvests reaped of death. + O’er-spent, not scared, that Northern host gave way + Sudden from east to west. It broke and fled. + Alone unvanquished Conor Conchobar + Maintained his place. He rallied twice and thrice + The fugitives; thrice turned them on the foe; + Then stabbed them flying. Last upon the bridge + He stood and sole. There met him face to face + The sole of foes his equal. Dreadful gaze + Long fixed they, each on other; Fergus spake: + ‘Is this indeed that king who filched that realm + Not his, then shamed it by a bloodier fraud; + Who brake his pledge; who murdered Usnach’s sons; + Who drave from Uladh, Uladh’s rightful king;-- + And comes he at my hand to meet his doom? + Just Gods, I thank you!’ With a haughtier mien, + Yet kingly less, King Conchobar replied: + ‘Thou know’st me; and ’tis well! That king am I + Who, less than thou by lineage, but in mind + Loftier, attained that crown thou could’st not keep; + That king, who, breaking through a jesting pact + As eagles through a mist, by doom deserved + Requited rebels proved. That king am I + Who, when with traitors thou true pact hadst made, + Forth hurled thee naked to the wild wolf’s lair: + That was the worst I wished thee: worse by far + If aught of kingly once was thine thou found’st-- + Beneath a hostile roof the beggar’s dole + Gorged on a golden platter, and the hand + Protectress, of a woman!’ + Long that fight + Watched by two hosts in speechless stupor held, + Direful and long! Equal in might those twain, + Equal in craft of war. The kinglier soul + Conferred alone the victory. Fergus raised + The unvanquishable sword so late restored: + It fell in thunder: with it fell the king, + Fell to his knees, a bleeding mass, and blind: + Again that sword was raised: a moment more + Had ended all: then leaped to Fergus’ feet, + His knees enclasping, Cormac Conlinglas + King Conor’s son. He spake these words alone: + ‘My father!--Spare him!’ Fergus ne’er had scorned + A look like his that hour. He turned: he spake: + ‘Take hence that reptile:--holy is this plain! + A true king here was buried!’ Conor’s kernes + Lifted him to his war-car. Slowly it moved; + For Death was in the wheels thereof; and Death + Stood at its door. + That night in Uladh’s camp + Was silence strange and dread. By dying men + Sat men sore wounded. Scornful of their foe + And burning for revenge, the North had spurned + Science of war, their boast, and left, death-strewn, + Full half their host. Between their tents and Meave’s + All that long night the buriers of the dead + Groped their sad way with red, earth-grazing torch, + Turning the white face up in search of friend, + Brother, or son. But in the tent of Meave + Triumph ruled all: a hundred spake at once + Each man his deeds recounting. Far apart + Sat Fergus; on his brow alone was shade: + The deed was needful; but his country’s blood + Gladdened not him. Of those that marked him, some + Had reverence for his sadness: lesser souls + That long had hated, loathed the man that hour. + Sudden the din surceased. Far other sound + Quelled it: from Uladh’s sorrowing camp it swelled, + A jubilant cry soaring from earth to heaven! + Then flashed the eyes of Fergus, and he cried; + ‘Cuchullain lives! That sound is Uladh’s shout + What time the host he enters!’ With a brow + Gloomy as night the queen replied; ‘’Tis false! + We know that in the forest, months gone by + Cuchullain perished!’ Silent long they stood; + Listening. At last rang out far different note + As piteous as the first was full of joy, + A funeral _keen_ world-wide. Then cried the queen, + ‘Cuchullain lived! Cuchullain lives no more! + Wounded and weak he came to aid his own: + Too great such effort for a wasted frame: + That was Cuchullain’s death-dirge!’ Fierce she stood: + Glorying she spake, and with attendance passed + Forth from the hall of banquet to her tent: + But as she passed she heard at either side + She and her ladies with her, trembling heard + The rushing of a panic-stricken host + Invisible, though now the dawn was grey, + A host t’ward Shenan flying! High o’er head + A dulcet strain, unutterably sad, + When ceased that phantom rush of fugitive feet, + Drifted far northward. Then the queen was ware + These were her country’s gods that left her host. + The legend adds that in her tent that hour + Faythleen, the witch, she saw, who sat and wove + A mystic web and sang a mystic song, + Seen but by her:--and, later, o’er her bed + Men say that Orloff bent, her buried son, + And spake; ‘This day the battle shall be fought + Of Gairig and Ilgairig.’ + He meanwhile, + The lord of all the battles, where was he, + Cuchullain? Many a weary day and week + Within his loved Murthemné’s woods he lay, + Sore-wounded man nigh death. Those shepherd youths + Tended him still, or sang beside his bed; + And ofttimes o’er his face the tears of Leagh + In passionate gust descended. But the might + Unholy of the clan of Cailitin + That nightly hung above him like a cloud + Began to wither when that mist accursed + Drifted from Uladh’s borders. On the breast + Pellucid, likewise, of Murthemné’s streams + Benignant spirits scattered flowers and herbs + With healing virtue dowered. He, morn and eve + In those clear currents laid, renewed his youth; + And, pure as infant’s, came again that flesh + Where festered late his wounds. At last, revived, + He passed, car-borne to Eman, north. The fields + Devastated, and wail from foodless glens + Filled him as on he sped with wrathful strength: + Next, tidings came of Conor’s southward march: + Exultingly he followed. On that night + Of overthrow he reached the royal camp: + Far off they kenned his car, and raised that shout + Heard never save for him. When near he drew + Way-worn, and wearied, and around him gazed, + And saw that sight, and thought, ‘too late; too late!’ + His cheek upon the shoulder sank of Leagh, + And all men deemed him dead. Then rose that wail + To Meave auspicious sound. + There are who deem + Cuchullain’s tent that night was near the Well + Where, purer far, more late the royal maids + Fedelm and Ethna met that saint who gave + To God the isle of Fate. Blessing then too + That Well diffused, they say; for from its brink + A runnel o’er the pebbles ran with sound + So sweetly tuned that on the warrior sank + Deep seal of peace divine. The war-shouts near + To him thus harboured seemed but ocean’s sighs + Round islands ever calm. Then came, on winds + Fresher than earth’s, divinities more high + He thought than those that late from elfin meres + Amid Murthemné’s woods had dewed his face; + And loftier songs were sung; and balmier flowers + In holier fountains bathed were softlier pressed + On breast and brow; while shone before his eyes + Visions more fair than lordliest battle-field, + Though what they meant he knew not nor divined-- + High-towerèd temples cruciform that rose + Far-seen o’er wood and street; and from their gates + Vestal procession issuing white, that wound + Through precincts low where only dwelt the poor, + The halt, the lame, the blind; and song he heard + With spiritual pathos changing sense to soul, + ‘The end of all is peace.’ In silence slid + The constellations down the western sky; + And endless seemed that night. + At break of day + Came Conal Carnach and the Red Branch Knights + To see the sick man’s face. Thereon the morn + Laughed, dewy-bright: and lo! where long had lain + Pallor of death, now burned a healthful red: + Not less they dared not touch him; since with him + _Geisa_ it was if any broke his rest. + They left him, and the battle-storm began. + Warned by defeat Uladh had raised ere morn, + Fronting her camp, three bulwarks: at the first + And distant most, three hours the conflict raged. + It fell at last. When rose the conquerors’ shout + Leagh to Cuchullain crept, and touched him not, + Yet knelt and whispered, ‘Heard you not that sound?’ + And thus Cuchullain answered still in trance; + ‘I heard the runnels in Murthemné’s woods + Snow-swoll’n in spring.’ Then Leagh stood up and mused + ‘The hue of health is on his face, and yet + Because he will not wake the land is shamed.’ + Next round the second bulwark raged the war + Hour after hour: heroic deeds were done: + Heroic deaths were died: at last it fell: + Again and nearer rose the conquerors’ shout: + Again with bolder foot and forehead flushed + Leagh to Cuchullain moved and touched him not + But, bending, murmured, ‘Heard you not that sound?’ + And he, without awaking, answered thus; + ‘I heard the birds in Eimer’s pleasaunce sing + To greet our marriage morn.’ Then Leagh went forth + Groaning, and smote his hands, and wept aloud + ‘Because he will not wake the host must die!’ + Around the loftiest bulwark and the last + Once more for hours the battle raged: it fell! + And louder thrice that shout went up. The gaze + Of Leagh was on him fixed: he heard it not: + Slowly it died; and as it died the wail + Came feebly forth from Uladh’s host. A change + Flashed o’er Cuchullain’s face: like fire it shone: + Into his tent he sprang midway! Then lo! + A marvel! for the wounded man that slept + All day with bandages enswathed, up-towered + Full-armed for fight a champion spear in hand, + Work of some god! Swift from his tent he strode:-- + Without the hand of man there stood his car + And those immortal steeds pawing the air + With wonted battle-cry! A moment more + And forward to Ilgairig’s slope they dashed: + ‘Let but the armies see him,’ inly mused + Leagh, ‘and the work is done!’ + Onward they sped; + But not unnoted by that demon brood + That hate the works of justice. From below + Writhing in torment of their rage they heaved + The grassy surface upward into waves + Now swelling, now descending. Strong albeit + The immortal steeds staggered. Cuchullain cried, + ‘What! children of the tempest-wakened lakes + Saw ye till now no billows? Yours they are! + Exult ye in your native element, + And waft your lord to vengeance!’ They obeyed: + They reached Ilgairig’s summit. + On he sped + Mantled with sunset. Terrible he shone! + Both armies saw him--knew him! Onward yet; + While from his golden arms and golden car + Lightnings went forth incessant. In his van + Victory and Fear their pinions spread. He reached + Ilgairig’s southern verge: he reined his steeds: + High in his car he stood; with level hand + Screening his eyes he scanned that battle-field, + His future course decreeing. + On and on + Adown that slope he flashed and o’er that plain + Like zigzag sunshaft o’er the autumnal world; + And ever where he came the host of Meave + Gave way before him. On and ever on! + And now the nearest of those bulwarks three + He reached, and o’er its ruins swept, back driving + The conquerors late now conquered. On and on! + And ever through that foe thick-packed he clave + A lane of doom and death. Ere long was reached + The second rampart. There it was he slew + The great ones of Clan Libna, and the clans + Guairé and Murdoc. Fiery faces thronged + The air around him, and the voice of Gods + Made smooth his way triumphant. + On and on-- + Nor ceased he ever hurling left and right + Destruction from his sling; nor slackened sleet + Of javelins winged with fate. That brazen urn + With death-stones heaped exhausted not its store, + Replenished ever as by hand unseen + Work of some God! That brazen cirque, not less + Where stood his javelins ranged was never void; + Work of some God! The on-rolling wheels devoured + Those serried ranks; the war-steeds trampled down: + Reached was that rampart furthest of the three; + There in her war-car sat the queen; in front + The Maineys seven were ranged: his sword forth flashed: + Four perished of the seven. Then faced the queen + Westward, and fled amazed. + He marked her flight: + Eastward he turned. As on he carved his course + Not now a lane alone of doom and death + But ever widening valleys ruin-strewn + Bore witness of his transit, for behind + Closed ever up Cuchullain’s household clans + Murthemné’s, and Cuailgné’s. Perished there + The Ossorians, and the Olnemacian chiefs, + And many a champion famed from Slaney’s bank + To Lee and Laune, from Caiseal’s crested rock[37] + To Beara’s strand. Who died not, fled and left + Yet ampler ’twixt the bristling flanks of war + That vacant space; and as the dolphin oft + Raptured by gladness of clear summer seas + While flames the noon on purple billows, swims + All round and round some ship full-sailed, so he + Circled on foot at times that car wind-swift + Mocking its slowness; then with airy bound + Once more within it beamed. His boyhood’s mirth + Returned upon him. On the chariot’s floor + He marked those brazen balls, the sport that time + Of men way-faring, snatched them up, tossed high + While yet careering round the blood-stained field, + Then caught them as they fell:--a glittering ring + They girt that glittering head. Not less his eye + Watchful pursued the flying foe; his hand + Brought down to earth the fleetest. + From the crests + Of those twinned hills down rushed the total strength + At last of Uladh. Universal flight + Shook the vast field. The bravest men and best + Caught by its current on were dragged like trees + The sport of winter flood. Chieftain and king + Sought, each, his home. Meave, with a remnant small + Reached Shenan’s bridgeless tide; and there had fallen + Stretching to towered Ath-Luain helpless hands, + Save that Cuchullain, ’mid the narrower way + Standing with arms extended, terrible, + Abashed that host pursuing; ‘Stand ye back! + One day I shared her feast: she shall not die!’ + He spake, and set by Shenan’s wave his shield. + Next morn the Ulidians where that shield had stood + In silence stern planted three pillar-stones, + White daughters of the tempest-beaten hills, + In Ogham graved, ‘Vanquished by Uladh’s sons + Here fled the invader, Meave.’ + Fergus alone + The Exile-King, and they, the Exile Band, + Fled not that day. Though few and bleeding fast + Fearless upon a cloudy crag they stood, + Phalanx prepared to die, prepared not less + Dearly to sell their lives, while past them streamed + That panic-stricken throng. The host pursuing + Looked up, yet swerved not from their course. Once more + Returning from the vengeance they looked up; + Then passed in silence by. + That eve, men say, + While slowly paced Cuchullain t’ward the camp, + Lamenting strains of Goddesses were heard, + For whatsoe’er was female loved the man, + If earthly female, with a human love, + If heavenly, with a love compassionate, + Lamenting strains that, ere his youth had passed, + That starry head must lie by Fate’s decree + Amid the dust of death. Cuchullain turned; + Softly he answered; ‘Goddesses benign! + Why weep ye? I was Uladh’s Mastiff-Hound: + The mastiff lives not long. What better lot + For him than this;--the bandits chased, to die + Beside his master’s gate?’ + + So ends the _Tain_: + Not less, in mirth or spleen, that legend old + Primeval battle-chaunt of Erin’s race, + Adds yet a second close. + Cuchullain led + That host Ulidian home; while Meave made oath + Northward to send, and range round Eman’s walls + Her spoil, the war’s sole triumph, countless flocks, + The herds milk-yielding of the large-eyed kine, + The horses, and the asses, and the goats, + The household stuffs, rich vests, and precious dyes, + The hinds laborious, and the men age-bent, + And maidens skilled in work; but, first, and chief + That sable Bull, the cause of all the war. + Fulfilled were all these pledges save the last; + For Meave upon that fatal day, while hung + Doubtful the battle-scales, had given command + To lead the Donn to Cruachan. Ill-pleased + He on his keepers turning slew a score, + Yet peaceful paced at last betwixt their ranks, + At each side fifty spears. Next day, far south, + Forth rolled the roar of Ailill’s Bull snow-white, + Fionbannah. Bursting through his guard, the Donn + Rushed t’ward the sound. Upon the midway plain + The rivals met. All day that battle raged + While wood to wood thunder on thunder hurled, + And all the bulls of Erin sent reply. + Shepherds, through wood-skirts peering, saw the end, + The Donn, at sunset, rushing t’ward the north, + And, on his conqueror’s back--their horns entwined-- + Fionbannah dead! All night that conqueror rushed + O’er hill and plain and prone morass. When dawn + Looked coldly forth through mist along the meads + Far off he kenned a rock: that rock he deemed + A second bull: collecting all his might + Thereon he hurled his giant bulk, and died. + + Northward thus marched from Cruachan the kings; + Then back. The Foray of Queen Meave thus far. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + NOTES. + + + PREFACE + +Footnote 1: + + _Lectures on the MS. Materials of Ancient Irish History_, p. 41. + +Footnote 2: + + _Lectures on the MS. Materials of Ancient Irish History_, p. 30. + +Footnote 3: + + _Manners and Customs of the Ancient Irish_, vol. iii. p. 403. + +Footnote 4: + + Author of _The Collegians_. + +Footnote 5: + + More correctly written Uisnach. See _Loch Etive and the Sons of + Uisnach_, Macmillan & Co. + +Footnote 6: + + Advertisement to ‘Inisfail,’ p. 52. + +Footnote 7: + + 1. Lays of the Western Gael. 2. Congal. 3. Poems. By Sir Samuel + Ferguson. Bell and Sons. + + + THE SONS OF USNACH + +Footnote 8: + + Ulster. + +Footnote 9: + + Eman, also called Emania, stood nearly on the present site of Armagh. + +Footnote 10: + + Page 9. _He taught her all the Ogham Signs to read._ The Ogham + characters are a species of alphabet, or as some call them cypher, cut + upon stones, or wooden staves. They are found in many parts of + Ireland; and much has been written on them by the most learned Irish + antiquarians of recent times, especially by Bishop Graves. + +Footnote 11: + + The Irish, originally ‘Scoti,’ were so called from Scota. + +Footnote 12: + + Ballyshannon. + +Footnote 13: + + Howth. + +Footnote 14: + + Page 38. _By Geisa bound._ These _Gesa_, or _Geisa_, often as trivial + in character as they were rigidly enforced, have a large place in the + legends of the Irish pre-Christian times. Sometimes they applied to + particular individuals alone: thus, in the case of Cuchullain, it was + a _Gesa_ that no one should wake him out of his sleep. Sometimes they + were self-imposed: thus Fergus Mac Roy and Cuchullain also, had bound + themselves in youth never to refuse an invitation to the feast of a + good man, however humble. The most remarkable illustrations of the + _Gesa_ will be found in ‘Conary,’ the noble poem of my friend, Sir + Samuel Ferguson, who speaks of them as ‘certain sacred injunctions, + the violation of which was attended with temporal punishment. The + agents in inflicting such retribution appear in the form of Fairies.’ + (Poems by Sir Samuel Ferguson, p. 61. McGee, Dublin; George Bell, + London.) + +Footnote 15: + + Page 39. _Deirdré and he were playing chess together_: Chess was a + favourite game with the Irish, and is frequently alluded to in the + earliest tales. + + + THE CHILDREN OF LIR + +Footnote 16: + + Page 73. _The ‘Lia Fail,’ and Ogham lore revered._ The ‘Lia Fail,’ or + ‘Stone of Destiny,’ was the stone on which the Irish ‘Chief Kings,’ or + Ard-Righs, were crowned at Tara. It was subsequently used for the same + purpose during many centuries in Scotland, to which it had been + brought by the Dalriad Irish recorded by Bede, at the coronation of + her Kings of Irish race. It was removed by Edward the First from Scone + to Westminster Abbey, where it still supports the chair of Edward the + Confessor. (See ‘Hist. of Scotland’ by Sir Walter Scott, vol. i. p. + 34.) + +Footnote 17: + + Bamba, Fodhla, and Eire. + +Footnote 18: + + The current running between Cantire, in Scotland, and the northern + coast of Ireland. + +Footnote 19: + + Achill Island, on the coast of Connaught. + +Footnote 20: + + The ‘Tonsured One,’ _i.e._ St. Patrick. + +Footnote 21: + + ‘The term _Mael_, Mull (or Moyle, as Moore calls it), does not + properly apply to the current itself, but to the _Mael_, or bald + headland by which it runs.’--_Professor Eugene O’Curry._ + +Footnote 22: + + ‘They met a young man of good family whose name was Aibhric, and his + attention was often attracted to the birds, and their singing was + sweet to him, so that he came to love them greatly, and that they + loved him; and it was this young man that afterwards arranged in order + and narrated all their adventures.’--_The Fate of the Children of + Lir_, prose version by Professor O’Curry. + +Footnote 23: + + Page 105. _Or Acaill_; Now Achill Head. + + + THE FORAY OF QUEEN MEAVE + +Footnote 24: + + Now Connaught. + +Footnote 25: + + Now Ulster. + +Footnote 26: + + Chief King. + +Footnote 27: + + Now Dundalk. + +Footnote 28: + + Armagh. + +Footnote 29: + + _Cu_ in Irish means hound. + +Footnote 30: + + Page 146. _Hail Eric just._ The fine exacted for various offences by + the Brehon law. + +Footnote 31: + + Page 151. _The dread Mor Reega._ The War Goddess of the ancient Irish. + An account of this divinity will be found in the admirable essay + contributed to the ‘Revue Celtique’ (May 1870), by W. M. Hennessy, + Esq. + +Footnote 32: + + Page 153. _Among the Sidils._ The Fairy Hills. + +Footnote 33: + + Page 181. _There shone the torque of Meave._ ‘Take off his armour that + I may see the Brooch for the sake of which he undertook the combat. + Leagh came, and stripped Ferdīa.... Cuchullain saw the brooch; and he + began to lament and moan for him.’ (MS. translation, by Professor + O’Looney.) + +Footnote 34: + + Page 191. _And, southward next, that lake._ Lough Derg in Donegal, a + place of pilgrimage still frequented. To this island properly belongs + the legend illustrated by Calderon in his ‘Purgatory of St. Patrick,’ + so admirably presented to the English reader by my lamented friend, + the late Denis Florence MacCarthy. + +Footnote 35: + + The Shannon. + +Footnote 36: + + Page 201. _Beside Ath-Luain._ Now Athlone. + +Footnote 37: + + Page 226. _From Caiseal’s crested rock._ Now Cashel. + + + + + LONDON: PRINTED BY + SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE + AND PARLIAMENT STREET + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + Transcriber’s Notes + + +This file uses _underscores_ to indicate italic text. New original cover +art included with this ebook is granted to the public domain. + +The original printed book included both footnotes and endnotes. In this +edition, all notes have been converted to sequentially numbered +endnotes. + +De Vere consistently spells the Irish title “ollamh” as “ollamb”; this +and other non-standard spellings of Irish words have not been corrected. + +There are some errors and inconsistencies in the rendering of single and +double quotation marks in nested dialogue, especially in the long +narration by Fergus starting on page 138. These have been silently +corrected. + +The following changes and corrections have been made: + + • p. vi: Added closing single quotation mark after phrase “a famous + scribe named Maelmire, who was killed there in 1106.” + • p. 1: Added closing single quotation mark after phrase “goodlier is + this child / Than e’er till now on proudest parent smiled!” + • p. 16: Added opening single quotation mark before phrase “Ever at + Uladh’s feasts the clansmen say,” change internal opening single + quotation mark in this stanza to double quotation mark, and add + closing double quotation mark to end of stanza. + • p. 17: Added opening single quotation mark before phrase “Their + singing is the best all Uladh boasts” and at the start of the + following stanza. + • p. 28: Added opening single quotation mark before phrase “Lay first + that head, and march we hence this night!” + • p. 69: Added closing single quotation mark after phrase “A woman’s + hand one day shall strike him dead!” + • p. 78: Replaced “Finōla” with “Finola” in phrase “Finola paced the + high-arched alleys green.” + • p. 80: Added period and closing single quotation mark after phrase + “if not--my hate.” + • p. 81: Added closing single quotation mark after phrase “Their voices + too are voices of the Gael!” + • p. 89: Added exclamation mark and closing single quotation mark after + phrase “Farewell, my little Conn!” + • p. 90: Added closing single quotation mark after phrase “Thou hear’st + the charge: how makest thou reply?” + • p. 114: Added period after phrase “Through Faith the birthright, + though the younger son.” + • p. 145: Changed “bou” to “boughs” in phrase “Bird-song by autumn + chilled, that brake through boughs.” + • p. 153: Added closing single quotation mark after phrase “My strength + must lessen day by day.” + • p. 155: Changed “o er” to “o’er” in phrase “o’er the axle bent.” + • p. 164: Added closing single quotation mark after phrase “this Island + should be theirs!” + • p. 190: Changed “Fionbannagh” to “Fionbannah” in phrase “the Bulls + that shake this day our land, / Fionbannah, and the Donn.” + • p. 203: Added closing single quotation mark after phrase “Is past + since northward to the war we marched.” + • p. 227: Added closing single quotation mark after phrase “One day I + shared her feast: she shall not die!” + • p. 228: Added comma after phrase “The household stuffs, rich vests, + and precious dyes.” + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78491 *** |