Part 6

He is returned with his fame. I feel the right hand of his wars. But I must rest beside the rock till my soul returns from my fear. O let the harp be near! Raise the song, ye daughters of Morni!

[Sidenote: OSSIAN]

DERSAGRENA.

Comala has slain three deer on Ardven, the fire ascends on the rock; go to the feast of Comala, king of the woody Morven!

FINGAL.

Raise, ye sons of song, the wars of the streamy Carun; that my white-handed maid may rejoice: while I behold the feast of my love.

BARDS.

Roll, streamy Carun, roll in joy, the sons of battle are fled! The steed is not seen on our fields; the wings of their pride spread in other lands. The sun will now rise in peace, and the shadows descend in joy. The voice of the chase will be heard; the shields hang in the hall. Our delight will be in the war of the ocean, our hands shall grow red in the blood of Lochlin. Roll, streamy Carun, roll in joy, the sons of battle fled!

MELILCOMA.

Descend, ye light mists from high! Ye moonbeams, lift her soul! Pale lies the maid at the rock. Comala is no more!

FINGAL.

Is the daughter of Sarno dead, the white-bosomed maid of my love? Meet me, Comala, on my heaths, when I sit alone at the streams of my hills!

HYDALLAN.

Ceased the voice of the huntress of Ardven? Why did I trouble the soul of the maid? When shall I see thee, with joy, in the chase of the dark-brown hinds?

FINGAL.

Youth of the gloomy brow! No more shalt thou feast in my halls. Thou shalt not pursue my chase, my foes shall not fall by thy sword. Lead me to the place of her rest that I may behold her beauty. Pale she lies at the rock, cold winds lift her hair. Her bow-string sounds in the blast, her arrow was broken in her fall. Raise the praise of the daughter of Sarno! Give her name to the winds of Heaven!

BARDS.

See! Meteors gleam around the maid! See! Moonbeams lift her soul! Around her, from their clouds, bend the awful faces of her fathers; Sarno of the gloomy brow! The red-rolling eyes of Fidallan! When shall thy white hand arise? When shall thy voice be heard on our rocks? The maids shall seek thee on the heath but they shall not find thee. Thou shalt come, at times, to their dreams, to settle peace in their soul. Thy voice shall remain in their ears, they shall think with joy on the dreams of their rest. Meteors gleam around the maid, and moon-beams lift her soul.

[Sidenote: OSSIAN]

The Death-Song of Ossian.

Such were the words of the bards in the days of song; when the king heard the music of harps, the tales of other times! The chiefs gathered from all their hills, and heard the lovely sound. They praised the Voice of Cona! The first among a thousand bards! But age is now on my tongue; my soul has failed! I hear, at times, the ghosts of the bards, and learn their pleasant song. But memory fails on my mind. I hear the call of years! They say, as they pass along, why does Ossian sing? Soon shall he lie in the narrow house, and no bard shall raise his fame! Roll on, ye dark-brown years; ye bring no joy on your course! Let the tomb open to Ossian, for his strength has failed. The sons of song are gone to rest. My voice remains, like a blast, that roars, lonely, on a sea-surrounded rock, after the winds are laid. The dark moss whistles there; the distant mariner sees the waving trees!

II

ANCIENT CORNISH

_The Pool of Pilate._

[_Wayfarer loq._

_Guel yv thy’mmo vy may fe mos the wolhy ow dule a Thesempes me a vyn omma yn dour may fons y guyn ha glan lour a vostethes_

......

_Ellas pan fema gynys ancow sur yw dynythys Scon thy’mmo vy ny’m bus bywe na fella an dour re wruk thy’m henna yn pur deffry._

[Sidenote: ANCIENT CORNISH]

The Pool of Pilate.

[Wayfarer loq.

It is best to me that it be so Go to wash my hands Immediately I will, here in the water, That they may be white, and clean enough From dirt.

[He washes his hands in the water and dies immediately.]

Alas that I was born! Death surely is come Soon to me. Life is no longer for me, The water has done that to me Very clearly.

Merlin the Diviner.

Merlin! Merlin! where art thou going So early in the day, with thy black dog? Oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! Oi! oi! oi! ioi! oi!

I have come here to search the way, To find the red egg; The red egg of the marine serpent, By the sea-side in the hollow of the stone. I am going to seek in the valley The green water-cress, and the golden grass, And the top branch of the oak, In the wood by the side of the fountain.

Merlin! Merlin! retrace your steps; Leave the branch on the oak, And the green water-cress in the valley, As well as the golden grass; And leave the red egg of the marine serpent, In the foam by the hollow of the stone. Merlin! Merlin! retrace thy steps, There is no diviner but God.

[Sidenote: ANCIENT CORNISH DRAMA]

The Vision of Seth.

[Adam bids Seth journey to the Gate of Paradise--the way to be known to him because of the burnt imprints of the feet of himself and Eve on the day they were driven forth, sere marks never grass-grown since--and, after telling him to ask for the oil of mercy, blesses him, and sees him go.]

CHERUBIN.

Seth, what is thy errand, That thou wouldst come so long a way? Tell me soon.

SETH.

O angel, I will tell thee: My father is old and weary, He would not wish to live longer;

And through me he prayed thee To tell the truth Of the oil promised to him Of mercy in the last day.

CHERUBIN.

Within the gate put thy head, And behold it all, nor fear, Whatever thou seest, And look on all sides; Examine well every particular; Search out everything diligently.

SETH.

Very joyfully I will do it; I am glad to have permission To know what is there, To tell it to my father.

[And he looks, and turns round, saying:--]

Fair field is this; Unhappy he who lost the country: And the tree, it is to me A great wonder that it is dry; But I believe that it is dry, And all made bare, for the sin Which my father and mother sinned. Like the prints of their feet, They are all dry, like herbs. Alas, that the morsel was eaten.

CHERUBIN.

O Seth, thou art come Within the Gate of Paradise; Tell me what thou sawest.

SETH.

All the beauty that I saw The tongue of no man in the world can Tell it ever. Of good fruit, and fair flowers, Minstrels and sweet song, A fountain bright as silver; And four springs, large indeed, Flowing from it, That there is a desire to look at them.

In it there is a tree, High with many boughs; But they are all bare, without leaves. And around it, bark There was none, from the stem to the head All its boughs are bare.

And at the bottom, when I looked, I saw its roots Even into hell descending, In the midst of great darkness. And its branches growing up, Even to heaven high in light; And it was without bark altogether, Both the head and the boughs.

CHERUBIN.

Look yet again within, And all else thou shalt see Before thou come from it.

SETH.

I am happy that I have permission; I will go to the gate immediately, That I may see further good.

[He goes, and looks, and returns.

CHERUBIN.

Dost thou see more now, Than what there was just now?

SETH.

There is a serpent in the tree; An ugly beast, without fail.

CHERUBIN.

Go yet a third time to it, And look better at the tree. Look, what you can see in it, Besides roots and branches.

[Again he goes up.

SETH.

Cherub, angel of the God of grace, In the tree I saw, High up on the branches, A little child newly born; And he was swathed in cloths, And bound fast with napkins.

CHERUBIN.

The Son of God it was whom thou sawest, Like a little child swathed. He will redeem Adam, thy father, With his flesh and blood too, When the time is come, And thy mother, and all the good people.

He is the oil of mercy, Which was promised to thy father; Through his death, clearly, All the world will be saved.

SETH.

Blessed be he: O God, now I am happy; Knowing the truth all plainly, I will go from thee.

CHERUBIN.

Take three kernels of the apple, Which Adam, thy father, ate. When he dies, put them, without fail, Between his teeth and tongue. From them thou wilt see Three trees grow presently; For he will not live more than three days After thou reachest home.

SETH.

Blessed be thou every day; I honour thee ever very truly: My father will be very joyful, If he soon passes from life.

III

ANCIENT ARMORICAN

(Breton)

[Sidenote: ANCIENT BRETON]

The Dance of the Sword.

(Ha Korol ar C’Hleze.)

Blood, wine, and glee, Sun, to thee,-- Blood, wine, and glee! Fire! fire! steel, Oh! steel! Fire, fire! steel and fire! Oak! oak, earth, and waves! Waves, oak, earth and oak!

Glee of dance and song, And battle-throng,-- Battle, dance, and song! Fire! fire! steel, etc.

Let the sword blades swing In a ring,-- Let the sword blades swing! Fire! fire! steel, etc.

Song of the blue steel, Death to feel,-- Song of the blue steel! Fire! fire! steel, etc.

Fight, whereof the sword Is the Lord,-- Fight of the fell sword! Fire! fire! steel, etc.

Sword, thou mighty king Of battle’s ring,-- Sword thou mighty king! Fire! fire! steel, etc.

With the rainbow’s light Be thou bright,-- With the rainbow’s light! Fire! fire! steel, Oh! steel! Fire, fire! steel and fire! Oak! oak, earth and waves! Waves, oak, earth, and oak!

[Sidenote: ANCIENT BRETON]

The Lord Nann and the Fairy.

(Aotron Nann Hag ar Gorrigan.)

The good Lord Nann and his fair bride Were young when wedlock’s knot was tied-- Were young when death did them divide.

But yesterday that lady fair Two babes as white as snow did bear; A man-child and a girl they were.

“Now, say what is thy heart’s desire, For making me a man-child’s sire? ’Tis thine, whate’er thou may’st require,--

“What food soe’er thee lists to take, Meat of the woodcock from the lake, Meat of the wild deer from the brake.”

“Oh, the meat of the deer is dainty food! To eat thereof would do me good, But I grudge to send thee to the wood.”

The Lord of Nann, when this he heard, Hath gripp’d his oak spear with never a word; His bonny black horse he hath leap’d upon, And forth to the greenwood hath he gone.

By the skirts of the wood as he did go, He was ware of a hind as white as snow.

Oh, fast she ran, and fast he rode, That the earth it shook where his horse-hoofs trode.

Oh, fast he rode, and fast she ran, That the sweat to drop from his brow began--

That the sweat on his horse’s flank stood white; So he rode and rode till the fall o’ the night.

When he came to a stream that fed a lawn, Hard by the grot of a Corrigaun.

The grass grew thick by the streamlet’s brink, And he lighted down off his horse to drink.

The Corrigaun sat by the fountain fair, A-combing her long and yellow hair.

A-combing her hair with a comb of gold,-- (Not poor, I trow, are those maidens cold).--

“Now who’s the bold wight that dares come here To trouble my fairy fountain clear?

“Either thou straight shall wed with me, Or pine for four long years and three; Or dead in three days’ space shall be.”

“I will not wed with thee, I ween, For wedded man a year I’ve been;

“Nor yet for seven years will I pine, Nor die in three days for spell of thine;

“For spell of thine I will not die, But when it pleaseth God on high.

“But here, and now, I’d leave my life, Ere take a Corrigaun to wife.

* * * * *

“O mother, mother! for love of me, Now make my bed, and speedily, For I am sick as a man can be.

“Oh, never the tale to my lady tell; Three days and ye’ll hear my passing bell; The Corrigaun hath cast her spell.”

Three days they pass’d, three days were sped, To her mother-in-law the ladye said;

[Sidenote: ANCIENT BRETON]

“Now tell me, madam, now tell me, pray, Wherefore the death-bells toll to-day?

“Why chaunt the priests in the street below, All clad in their vestments white as snow?”

“A strange poor man, who harbour’d here, He died last night, my daughter dear.”

“But tell me, madam, my lord, your son-- My husband--whither is he gone?”

“But to the town, my child, he’s gone; And at your side he’ll be back anon.”

“What gown for my churching were’t best to wear,-- My gown of grain, or of watchet fair?”

“The fashion of late, my child, hath grown, That women for churching black should don.”

As through the churchyard porch she stept, She saw the grave where her husband slept.

“Who of our blood is lately dead, That our ground is new raked and spread?”

“The truth I may no more forbear, My son--your own poor lord--lies there!”

She threw herself on her knees amain, And from her knees ne’er rose again.

That night they laid her, dead and cold, Beside her lord, beneath the mould; When, lo!--a marvel to behold!--

Next morn from the grave two oak-trees fair, Shot lusty boughs high up in air;

And in their boughs--oh wondrous sight!-- Two happy doves, all snowy white--

That sang, as ever the morn did rise, And then flew up--into the skies!

Alain the Fox.

The bearded fox is yelping, yelp, yelping through the glades; Woe to the foreign rabbits! His eyes are two keen blades.

His teeth are keen; his feet are swift; his nails are red with blood. Alain the fox is yelping war: yelp, yelping in the wood.

The Bretons making sharp their arms of terror I did see, It was on cuirasses of Gaul, not stones of Brittany.

The Bretons reaping did I see, upon the fields of war; It was not notched reaping-hooks, but swords of steel they bore.

They reapt no wheat of our own land, they reaped not our rye; But the beardless ears, the beardless ears of Gaul and Saxony.

I saw upon the threshing-floor the Bretons threshing corn: I saw the beaten chaff fly out from beardless ears off-torn.

It was not with their wooden flails the Bretons thresht the wheat; But with their iron boar-spears and with their horses’ feet.

I heard the cry when threshing’s done, the joy-cry onward borne Far, far from Mont-Saint-Michel to the valleys of Elorn:

From the abbey of Saint Gildas far on to the Land’s-End rocks. In Brittany’s four corners give a glory to the Fox!

[Sidenote: ANCIENT BRETON]

From age to age give glory to the Fox a thousand times! But weep ye for the rhymer, though he recollect his rhymes!

For he that sang this song the first since then hath never sung: Ah me, alas! Unhappy man! The Gauls cut out his tongue.

But though no more he hath a tongue, a heart is always his: He has both hand and heart to shoot his arrowy melodies.

Bran.

(The Crow.)

Wounded full sore is Bran the knight; For he was at Kerloan fight; At Kerloan fight, by wild seashore Was Bran-Vor’s grandson wounded sore; And, though we gained the victory, Was captive borne beyond the sea. He when he came beyond the sea, In the close keep wept bitterly. “They leap at home with joyous cry While, woe is me, in bed I lie. Could I but find a messenger, Who to my mother news would bear!” They quickly found a messenger; His best thus gave the warrior: “Heed thou to dress in other guise, My messenger, dress beggar-wise! Take thou my ring, my ring of gold, That she thy news as truth may hold! Unto my country straightway go, It to my lady mother show! Should she come free her son from hold, A flag of white do thou unfold! But if with thee she come not back, Unfurl, ah me, a pennon black!”

So, when to Leon-land he came, At supper table sat the dame, At table with her family, The harpers playing as should be. “Dame of the castle, hail! I bring From Bran your son this golden ring, His golden ring and letter too; Read it, oh read it, straightway through!” “Ye harpers, cease ye, play no more, For with great grief my heart is sore! My son (cease harpers, play no more!) In prison, and I did not know! Prepare to-night a ship for me! To-morrow I go across the sea.”

The morning of the next, next day The Lord Bran question’d, as he lay: “Sentinel, sentinel, soothly say! Seest thou no vessel on its way?” “My lord the knight, I nought espy Except the great sea and the sky.” The Lord Bran askt him yet once more, Whenas the day’s course half was o’er; “Sentinel, sentinel, soothly say! Seest thou no vessel on its way?” “I can see nothing, my lord the knight, Except the sea-birds i’ their flight.” The Lord Bran askt him yet again, Whenas the day was on the wane; “Sentinel, sentinel, soothly say! Seest thou no vessel on its way?” Then that false sentinel, the while Smiling a mischief-working smile; “I see afar a misty form-- A ship sore beaten by the storm.” “The flag? Quick give the answer back! The banner? Is it white or black?” “Far as I see, ’tis black, Sir knight, I swear it by the coal’s red light.” When this the sorrowing knight had heard Again he never spoke a word; But turn’d aside his visage wan; And then the fever fit began.

Now of the townsmen askt the dame, When at the last to shore she came, “What is the news here, townsmen, tell! That thus I hear them toll the bell?” An aged man the lady heard, And thus he answer’d to her word: “We in the prison held a knight; And he hath died here in the night.” Scarcely to end his words were brought, When the high tower that lady sought; Shedding salt tears and running fast, Her white hair scatter’d in the blast, So that the townsmen wonderingly Full sorely marvell’d her to see; Whenas they saw a lady strange, Through their streets so sadly range Each one in thought did musing stand; “Who is the lady, from what land?” Soon as the donjon’s foot she reacht, The porter that poor dame beseecht; “Ope, quickly ope, the gate for me! My son! My son! Him would I see!” Slowly the great gate open drew; Herself upon her son she threw, Close in her arms his corpse to strain, The lady never rose again.

There is a tree, that doth look o’er From Kerloan’s battle-field to th’ shore; An oak. Before great Evan’s face The Saxons fled in that same place. Upon that oak in clear moonlight, Together come the birds at night; Black birds and white, but sea birds all; On each one’s brow a blood-stain small, With them a raven gray and old; With her a crow comes young and bold. Both with soil’d wings, both wearied are; They come beyond the seas from far: And the birds sing so lovelily That silence comes on the great sea. All sing in concert sweet and low Except the raven and the crow. Once was the crow heard murmuring: “Sing, little birds, ye well may sing! Sing, for this is your own countrie! Ye died not far from Brittany!”

IV

EARLY CYMRIC AND MEDIÆVAL WELSH

The Soul.

(From “The Black Book of Caermarthen.”)

[Sidenote: EARLY CYMRIC]

Soul, since I was made in necessity blameless True it is, woe is me that thou shouldst have come to my design, Neither for my own sake, nor for death, nor for end, nor for beginning. It was with seven faculties that I was thus blessed, With seven created beings I was placed for purification; I was gleaming fire when I was caused to exist; I was dust of the earth, and grief could not reach me; I was a high wind, being less evil than good; I was a mist on a mountain seeking supplies of stags; I was blossoms of trees on the face of the earth. If the Lord had blessed me, He would have placed me on matter. Soul, since I was made----

The Gorwynion.

The tops of the ash glisten, that are white and stately, When growing on the top of the dingle: The breast rackt with pain, longing is its complaint.

Brightly glitters the top of the cliff at the long midnight hour; Every ingenious person will be honoured: ’Tis the duty of the fair, to afford sleep to him that is in pain.

Brightly glistens the willow tops; the fish are merry in the lakes, Blustering is the wind over the tops of the small branches: Nature over learning doth prevail.

Brightly glisten the tops of the furze; have confidence with the wise, But from the unwise tear thyself afar; Besides God there is none that sees futurity.

Brightly glisten the clover tops: the timid has no heart; Wearied out are the jealous ones: Cares attend the weak.

Brightly glisten the tops of reed-grass; furious is the jealous, If any should perchance offend him: ’Tis the maxim of the prudent to love with sincerity.

Brightly glare the tops of the mountains from the blustering of winter, Full are the stalks of reeds; heavy is oppression: Against famine bashfulness will vanish.

Brightly glare the tops of mountains assail’d by winter cold; Brittle are the reeds; the mead is incrusted over; Playful is the heedless in banishment.

[Sidenote: LLYWARC’H HEN]

Bright are the tops of the oaks, bitter are the ash branches; Before the duck, the dividing waves are seen: Confident is deceit; care is deeply rooted in my heart.

Brightly glisten the tops of the oaks, bitter are the ash branches; Sweet is the sheltering hedge; the wave is a noisy grinner; The cheek cannot conceal the trouble of the heart.

Bright is the top of the eglantine; hardship dispenses with forms, Let everyone keep his fire-side: The greatest blemish is ill-manners.

Brightly glitters the top of the broom; may the lover have a home; Very yellow seem the clustered branches; Shallow is the ford; sleep visits the contented mind.

Brightly glitters the top of the apple-tree; the prosperous is circumspect. In the long day the stagnant pool is warm; Thick is the veil on the light of the blind prisoner.

Very glittering are the hazel-tops by the hill of Dig; Every prudent one will be free from harm; ’Tis the act of the mighty to keep a treaty.

Glittering are the tops of the reeds; the fat are drowsy And the young imbibe instruction; None but the foolish will break faith.

Glittering is the top of the lily; let every bold one be a drinker; The word of a tribe is superior; ’Tis usual for the unjust to break his word.

Bright are the tops of heath; miscarriage attends the timid; Boldly laves the water on its banks. Tis the maxim of the just to keep his word.

The tops of the rushes glitter; the kine are gentle; Running are my tears this day, Social comfort from man there is not.

Glittering are the tops of fern, yellow is the wild marygold; The sea is a fence for blind ones: Swift and active are the young men.

Glittering are the tops of the service-tree; care attends the old; The bees frequent the wilds; Vengeance only to God belongs.