Part 14

O Thou that on the hills and wastes of Night art Shepherd, Whose folds are flameless moons and icy planets, Whose darkling way is gloomed with ancient sorrows: Whose breath lies white as snow upon the olden, Whose sigh it is that furrows breasts grown milkless, Whose weariness is in the loins of man And is the barren stillness of the woman: O thou whom all would ’scape, and all must meet, Thou that the Shadow art of Youth Eternal, The gloom that is the hush’d air of the Grave, The sigh that is between last parted love, The light for aye withdrawing from weary eyes, The tide from stricken hearts forever ebbing!

O thou the Elder Brother whom none loveth, Whom all men hail with reverence or mocking, Who broodest on the brows of frozen summits Yet dreamest in the eyes of babes and children: Thou, Shadow of the Heart, the Brain, the Life, Who art that dusk =What-is= that is already =Has-Been=, To thee this rune of the fathers-to-the-sons And of the sons to the sons, and mothers to new mothers-- To thee who art =Aois=, To thee who art Age!

Breathe thy frosty breath upon my hair, for I am weary! Lay thy frozen hand upon my bones that they support not, Put thy chill upon the blood that it sustain not; Place the crown of thy fulfilling on my forehead; Throw the silence of thy spirit on my spirit, Lay the balm and benediction of thy mercy On the brain-throb and the heart-pulse and the lifespring-- For thy child that bows his head is weary, For thy child that bows his head is weary. I the shadow am that seeks the Darkness. Age, that hath the face of Night unstarr’d and moonless, Age, that doth extinguish star and planet, Moon and sun and all the fiery worlds, Give me now thy darkness and thy silence!

A Milking Song.

[Sidenote: FIONA MACLEOD]

O sweet St Bride of the Yellow, yellow hair: Paul said, and Peter said, And all the saints alive or dead Vowed she had the sweetest head, Bonnie, sweet St Bride of the Yellow, yellow hair.

White may my milking be, White as thee: Thy face is white, thy neck is white, Thy hands are white, thy feet are white, For thy sweet soul is shining bright-- O dear to me, O dear to see St Bridget white!

Yellow may my butter be, Soft, and round: Thy breasts are sweet, Soft, round and sweet, So may my butter be: So may my butter be O Bridget sweet!

Safe thy way is, safe, O Safe, St Bride: May my kye come home at even, None be fallin’ none be leavin’, Dusky even, breath-sweet even, Here, as there, where O St Bride thou Keepest tryst with God in heav’n, Seest the angels bow And souls be shriven-- Here, as there, ’tis breath-sweet even Far and wide-- Singeth thy little maid Safe in thy shade Bridget, Bride!

Lullaby.

[Sidenote: FIONA MACLEOD]

Lennavan-mo, Lennavan-mo, Who is it swinging you to and fro, With a long low swing and a sweet low croon, And the loving words of the mother’s rune?

Lennavan-mo, Lennavan-mo, Who is it swinging you to and fro? I’m thinking it is an angel fair, The Angel that looks on the gulf from the lowest stair And swings the green world upward by its leagues of sunshine hair.

Lennavan-mo, Lennavan-mo, Who is it swings you and the Angel to and fro? It is He whose faintest thought is a world afar, It is He whose wish is a leaping seven-moon’d star, It is He, Lennavan-mo, To whom you and I and all things flow.

Lennavan-mo, Lennavan-mo, It is only a little wee lass you are, Eilidh-mo-chree, But as this wee blossom has roots in the depths of the sky, So you are at one with the Lord of Eternity-- Bonnie wee lass that you are, My morning-star, Eilidh-mo-chree, Lennavan-mo, Lennavan-mo.

The Songs of Ethlenn Stuart

I.

His face was glad as dawn to me, His breath was sweet as dusk to me, His eyes were burning flames to me, _Shule, Shule, Shule, agràh_!

The broad noon-day was night to me, The full-moon night was dark to me, The stars whirled and the poles span The hour God took him far from me.

Perhaps he dreams in heaven now, Perhaps he doth in worship bow, A white flame round his foam-white brow, _Shule, Shule, Shule, agràh_!

I laugh to think of him like this, Who once found all his joy and bliss Against my heart, against my kiss, _Shule, Shule, Shule, agràh_!

Star of my joy, art still the same Now thou hast gotten a new name, Pulse of my heart, my Blood, my Flame, _Shule, Shule, Shule, agràh_!

[Sidenote: FIONA MACLEOD]

II.

He laid his dear face next to mine, His eyes aflame burned close to mine, His heart to mine, his lips to mine, O he was mine, all mine, all mine.

Drunk with old wine of love I was, Drunk as the wild-bee in the grass Singing his honey-mad sweet bass, Drunk, drunk with wine of love I was!

His lips of life to me were fief, Before him I was but a leaf Blown by the wind, a shaken leaf, Yea, as the sickle reaps the sheaf, My Grief! He reaped me as a gathered sheaf!

His to be gathered, his the bliss, But not a greater bliss than this! All of the empty world to miss For wild redemption of his kiss! My Grief!

For hell was lost, though heaven was brief Sphered in the universe of thy kiss-- So cries to thee thy fallen leaf, Thy gathered sheaf, Lord of my life, my Pride, my Chief, My Grief!

The Closing Doors.

Eilidh,[26] Eilidh, Eilidh, heart of me, dear and sweet! In dreams I am hearing the whisper, the sound of your coming feet: The sound of your coming feet that like the sea-hoofs beat A music by day and night, Eilidh, on the sands of my heart, my sweet!

O sands of my heart what wind moans low along thy shadowy shore? Is that the deep sea-heart I hear with the dying sob at its core? Each dim lost wave that lapses is like a closing door: ’Tis closing doors they hear at last who soon shall hear no more, Who soon shall hear no more.

Eilidh, Eilidh, Eilidh, come home, come home to the heart o’ me: It is pain I am having ever, Eilidh, a pain that will not be: Come home, come home, for closing doors are as the waves o’ the sea, Once closed they are closed for ever, Eilidh, lost, lost, for thee and me, Lost, lost, for thee and me.

The Sorrow of Delight.

[Sidenote: FIONA MACLEOD]

Till death be filled with darkness And life be filled with light, The sorrow of ancient sorrows Shall be the Sorrow of Night: But then the sorrow of sorrows Shall be the Sorrow of Delight.

Heart’s-joy must fade with sorrow, For both are sprung from clay: But the Joy that is one with Sorrow, Treads an immortal way: Each hath in fee To-morrow, And their soul is Yesterday.

Joy that is clothed with shadow Is the Joy that is not dead: For the joy that is clothed with the rainbow Shall with the bow be sped: Where the Sun spends his fires is she, And where the Stars are led.

Farewell to Fiunary.

[Sidenote: NORMAN MACLEOD]

The wind is fair, the day is fine, And swiftly, swiftly runs the time, The boat is floating on the tide That wafts me off from Fiunary.

Eirigh agus tingainn O! Eirigh agus tingainn O! Erigh agus tingainn O! Farewell, farewell to Fiunary!

A thousand, thousand tender ties Awake this day my plaintive sighs, My heart within me almost dies To think of leaving Fiunary.

Eirigh agus tingainn O! etc.

With pensive steps I often strolled Where Fingal’s castle stood of old, And listened while the shepherd told The legend tales of Fiunary.

Eirigh agus tingainn O! etc.

I’ll often pause at close of day Where Ossian sang his martial lay, And viewed the sun’s departing ray Wandering o’er Dun Fiunary.

Eirigh agus tingainn O! etc.

A Kiss of the King’s Hand.

[Sidenote: SARAH ROBERTSON MATHESON]

It wasna from a golden throne, Or a bower with milk-white roses blown, But mid the kelp on northern sand That I got a kiss of the king’s hand.

I durstna raise my een tae see If he even cared to glance at me; His princely brow with care was crossed For his true men slain and kingdom lost.

Think not his hand was soft and white, Or his fingers a’ with jewels dight, Or round his wrists were jewels grand When I got a kiss of the king’s hand.

But dearer far tae my twa een Was the ragged sleeve of red and green O’er that young weary hand that fain, With the guid broadsword, had found its ain.

Farewell for ever, the distance gray And the lapping ocean seemed to say-- For him a home in a foreign land, And for me one kiss of the king’s hand.

The First Ship.

[Sidenote: DUGALD MOORE]

The sky in beauty arch’d The wide and weltering flood, While the winds in triumph march’d Through their pathless solitude-- Rousing up the plume on ocean’s hoary crest, That like space in darkness slept, When his watch old Silence kept, Ere the earliest planet leapt From its breast.

A speck is on the deeps, Like a spirit in her flight; How beautiful she keeps Her stately path in light! She sweeps the shining wilderness in glee-- The sun has on her smiled, And the waves, no longer wild, Sing in glory round that child Of the sea.

’Twas at the set of sun That she tilted o’er the flood, Moving like God alone O’er the glorious solitude-- The billows crouch around her as her slaves How exulting are her crew!-- Each sight to them is new, As they sweep along the blue Of the waves.

Fair herald of the fleets That yet shall cross the waves, Till the earth with ocean meets One universal grave, What armaments shall follow thee in joy! Linking each distant land With trade’s harmonious band, Or bearing havoc’s brand To destroy!

The Land o’ the Leal.

[Sidenote: LADY CAROLINE NAIRNE]

I’m wearin’ awa, John, Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John, I’m wearin’ awa To the land o’ the leal.

There’s nae sorrow there, John, There’s neither cauld nor care, John, The day is aye fair In the land o’ the leal.

Our bonnie bairn’s there, John, She was baith gude and fair, John, And, oh, we grudged her sair To the land o’ the leal.

But sorrow’s sel’ wears past, John, And joy’s a-comin’ fast, John, The joy that’s aye to last, In the land o’ the leal.

Oh, dry your glist’ning ee, John, My saul langs to be free, John, And Angels beckon me To the land o’ the leal.

O haud ye leal and true, John, Your day it’s wearin’ through, John, And I’ll welcome you To the land o’ the leal.

Now fare-ye-weel, my ain John, The warld’s cares are vain, John, We’ll meet and we’ll be fain In the land o’ the leal.

Skye.

[Sidenote: ALEXANDER NICOLSON]

My heart is yearning to thee, O Skye! Dearest of Islands! There first the sunshine gladdened my eye, On the sea sparkling; There doth the dust of my dear ones lie, In the old graveyard.

Bright are the golden green fields to me, Here in the Lowlands; Sweet sings the mavis in the thorn-tree, Snowy with fragrance: But oh for a breath of the great North Sea, Girdling the mountains!

Good is the smell of the brine that laves Black rock and skerry, Where the great palm-leaved tangle waves Down in the green depths, And round the craggy bluff pierced with caves Sea-gulls are screaming.

Where the sun sinks beyond Humish Head, Crowning in glory, As he goes down to his ocean bed Studded with islands, Flushing the Coolin with royal red, Would I were sailing!

Many a hearth round that friendly shore Giveth warm welcome; Charms still are there, as in days of yore, More than of mountains; But hearths and faces are seen no more, Once of the brightest.

Many a poor black cottage is there, Grimy with peat smoke, Sending up in the soft evening air Purest blue incense, While the low music of psalm and prayer Rises to Heaven.

Kind were the voices I used to hear Round such a fireside, Speaking the mother tongue old and dear, Making the heart beat With sudden tales of wonder and fear, Or plaintive singing.

Great were the marvellous stories told Of Ossian’s heroes, Giants, and witches, and young men bold, Seeking adventures, Winning kings’ daughters and guarded gold, Only with valour.

Reared in those dwellings have brave ones been; Brave ones are still there; Forth from their darkness on Sunday I’ve seen Coming pure linen, And like the linen the souls were clean Of them that wore it.

See that thou kindly use them, O man! To whom God giveth Stewardship over them, in thy short span Not for thy pleasure; Woe be to them who choose for a clan Four-footed people!

Blessings be with ye, both now and aye Dear human creatures! Yours is the love that no gold can buy! Nor time can wither, Peace be to thee and thy children, O Skye! Dearest of islands.

Midnight by the Sea.

(Autumn.)

[Sidenote: SIR NOËL PATON]

Waves of the wild North Sea, Breaking--breaking--breaking! From the dumb agony Of dreams awaking, How sweet within the loosened arms of sleep To lie in silence deep, Lone listening to your many-throated roar Along the caverned shore, In midnight darkness breaking--breaking--breaking!

Wind of the wild North Sea, Calling--calling--calling! What may your message be, Rising and falling? From out the infinite ye make reply: “Whither? and whence? and why?” And my soul echoes the despairing moan-- Which none can answer--none!-- From out its depths abysmal calling--calling--calling.

In Shadowland.

[Sidenote: SIR NOEL PATON]

Between the moaning of the mountain stream And the hoarse thunder of the Atlantic deep, An outcast from the peaceful realms of sleep I lie, and hear as in a fever-dream The homeless night-wind in the darkness scream And wail around the inaccessible steep Down whose gaunt sides the spectral torrents leap From crag to crag,--till almost I could deem The plaided ghosts of buried centuries Were mustering in the glen with bow and spear And shadowy hounds to hunt the shadowy deer, Mix in phantasmal sword-play, or, with eyes Of wrath and pain immortal, wander o’er Loved scenes where human footstep comes no more.

Mountain Twilight.

[Sidenote: WILLIAM RENTON]

The hills slipped over each on each Till all their changing shadows died. Now in the open skyward reach The lights grow solemn side by side. While of these hills the westermost Rears high his majesty of coast In shifting waste of dim-blue brine And fading olive hyaline; Till all the distance overflows, The green in watchet and the blue In purple. Now they fuse and close-- A darkling violet, fringed anew With light that on the mountain soars, A dusky flame on tranquil shores; Kindling the summits as they grow In audience to the skies that call, Ineffable in rest and all The pathos of the afterglow.

Durisdeer.

[Sidenote: LADY JOHN SCOTT]

We’ll meet nae mair at sunset when the weary day is dune, Nor wander hame thegither by the lee licht o’ the mune. I’ll hear your steps nae langer amang the dewy corn, For we’ll meet nae mair, my bonniest, either at e’en or morn.

The yellow broom is waving abune the sunny brae, And the rowan berries dancing where the sparkling waters play; Tho’ a’ is bright and bonnie it’s an eerie place to me, For we’ll meet nae mair, my dearest, either by burn or tree.

Far up into the wild hills there’s a kirkyard lone and still, Where the frosts lie ilka morning and the mists hang low and chill. And there ye sleep in silence while I wander here my lane Till we meet ance mair in Heaven never to part again!

November’s Cadence.

[Sidenote: EARL OF SOUTHESK]

The bees about the Linden-tree, When blithely summer blooms were springing, Would hum a heartsome melody, The simple baby-soul of singing; And thus my spirit sang to me When youth its wanton way was winging: “Be glad, be sad--thou hast the choice-- But mingle music with thy voice.”

The linnets on the Linden-tree, Among the leaves in autumn dying, Are making gentle melody, A mild, mysterious, mournful sighing; And thus my spirit sings to me While years are flying, flying, flying: “Be sad, be sad, thou hast no choice, But mourn with music in thy voice.”

Cailleach Bein-y-Vreich.

[Sidenote: JOHN CAMPBELL SHAIRP]

Weird wife of Bein-y-Vreich! horo! horo! Aloft in the mist she dwells; Vreich horo! Vreich horo! Vreich horo! All alone by the lofty wells.

Weird, weird wife! with the long gray locks, She follows her fleet-foot stags, Noisily moving through splinter’d rocks, And crashing the grisly crags.

Tall wife, with the long gray hose! in haste The rough stony beach she walks; But dulse or seaweed she will not taste, Nor yet the green kail stalks.

* * * * *

O I will not let my herd of deer, My bonny red deer go down; I will not let them go down to the shore, To feed on the sea-shells brown.

Oh, better they love in the corrie’s recess, Or on mountain top to dwell, And feed by my side on the green, green cress, That grows by the lofty well.

Broad Bein-y-Vreich is grisly and drear, But wherever my feet have been The well-springs start for my darling deer, And the grass grows tender and green.

And there high up on the calm nights clear, Beside the lofty spring, They come to my call, and I milk them there, And a weird wild song I sing.

But when hunter men round my dun deer prowl, I will not let them nigh; Through the rended cloud I cast one scowl, They faint on the heath and die.

And when the north wind o’er the desert bare Drives loud, to the corries below I drive my herds down, and bield them there From the drifts of the blinding snow.

Then I mount the blast, and we ride full fast, And laugh as we stride the storm, I, and the witch of the Cruachan Ben, And the scowling-eyed Seul-Gorm.

An Old Tale of Three.

[Sidenote: UNA URQUHART]

Ah bonnie darling, lift your dark eyes dreaming! See, the firelight fills the gloaming, though deep darkness grows without--

_Hush, dear, hush, I hear the sea-birds screaming, And down beyond the haven the tide comes with a shout!_

Ah, birdeen, sweetheart, sure he is not coming, He who has your hand in fee, while I have all your heart--

_Hush, dear, hush, I hear the wild bees humming Far away in the underworld where true love shall not part!_

Darling, darling, darling, all the world is singing, Singing, singing, singing a song of joy for me!

_Hush, dear, hush, what wild sea-wind is bringing Gloom o’ the sea about thy brow, athwart the eyes of thee?_

Ah, heart o’ me, darling, darling, all my heart’s aflame! Sure, at the last we are all in all, all in all we two!

_At the Door, A VOICE._

This is the way I take my own, this is the boon I claim!

(_Later, in the dark, the living brooding beside the dead_:--)

Sure, at the last, ye are all in all, all in all, ye two-- Ah, hell of my heart! Ye are dust to me--and dust with dust may woo!

Lost Love.

[Sidenote: UNKNOWN

(From the Gaelic, Western Isles.)]

My heart! my pulse! my flame! O the gloom, O the pain! He has no wish to save me Who will not come again.

Love! Love! Love! The fair cheek, the dark hair, The promise forgotten; ’Twill go with me there.

False! false! false! O, youth is false for ever: He loves far more than living me-- The lifeless heather.

The hunting field, The greenwood tree, The trout, the running deer, he loves, Far more than me.

He loves--loves--loves To stalk the frightened doe; He never heeds the pain he gives, His skill to show.

O, the dark blue eye-- A flower wet with dew; O, the fair false face-- Too sweet to view!

Love! Love! Love! The fair cheek, the dark hair! For him I’d scale the walls of hell Gin he were there!

IV

CONTEMPORARY ANGLO-CELTIC POETS

(Wales)

Dirge in Woods.

[Sidenote: GEORGE MEREDITH]

A wind sways the pines, And below Not a breath of wild air; Still as the mosses that glow On the flooring and over the lines Of the roots here and there. The pine-tree drops its dead; They are quiet, as under the sea. Overhead, overhead Rushes life in a race, As the clouds the clouds chase; And we go, And we drop like the fruits of the tree, Even we, Even so.

Outer and Inner.

I.

From twig to twig the spider weaves At noon his webbing fine. So near to mute the zephyr’s flute That only leaflets dance. The sun draws out of hazel leaves A smell of woodland wine. I wake a swarm to sudden storm At any step’s advance.

II.

Along my path is bugloss blue, The star with fruit in moss; The foxgloves drop from throat to top A daily lesser bell. The blackest shadow, nurse of dew, Has orange skeins across; And keenly red is one thin thread That flashing seems to swell.

III.

My world I note ere fancy comes, Minutest hushed observe: What busy bits of motioned wits Through antlered mosswork strive; But now so low the stillness hums, My springs of seeing swerve, For half a wink to thrill and think The woods with nymphs alive.

IV.

I neighbour the invisible So close that my consent Is only asked for spirits masked To leap from trees and flowers. And this because with them I dwell In thought, while calmly bent To read the lines dear Earth designs Shall speak her life on ours.

V.

Accept, she says; it is not hard In woods; but she in towns Repeats, accept; and have we wept, And have we quailed with fears, Or shrunk with horrors, sure reward We have whom knowledge crowns; Who see in mould the rose unfold, The soul through blood and tears.

Night of Frost in May.

With splendour of a silver day, A frosted night had opened May: And on that plumed and armoured night, As one close temple hove our wood, Its border leafage virgin white. Remote down air an owl halloed. The black twig dropped without a twirl; The bud in jewelled grasp was nipped; The brown leaf cracked with a scorching curl; A crystal off the green leaf slipped. Across the tracks of rimy tan, Some busy thread at whiles would shoot; A limping minnow-rillet ran, To hang upon an icy foot.