Part 6

How melodious soever at every time May be the sound of pipes and horns, Here to-day I make my confession, I have heard music sweeter far!

Here with Conchobar the king Sweet the sound of pipes and horns; More melodious to me the music, Famous and entrancing, of Usna's sons.

The sound of the wave was the voice of Noisi, Melodious music that wearied not ever; Mellow the rich-toned notes of Ardan, Or the deep chant of Ainle through the hunting-booth.

They have laid Noisi in the grave; Woeful to me was that convey,[100] The company whose act poured out for them The venomed draught from which they died.

Loved one of the well-trimmed beard! most fair is thy renown! Shapely one, though thy renown be fair! Alas! to-day I rise not up To greet the coming of Usna's sons.

Beloved thy firm and upright mind! Beloved, high champion, modest-hearted, After our wandering through the forests of Fál,[101] Gentle the caress of midnight.

Dear the grey eye, a woman's love; Though stern of aspect to the foe! As we passed through the trees to the simple tryst, Delightful thy deep notes across the sombre woods!

I sleep no more! No more I stain my finger-nails with red; No greeting comes to me who watch-- The sons of Usna return no more.

I sleep not! Through half the wakeful night My mind is wandering out amongst the hosts; Yet more than that, I neither eat nor smile.

For me to-day no instant of deep joy, Nor noble house, nor rich adornments please; In Emain's gatherings of her mighty men I find no peace, nor pleasure, nor repose.

Splendid as in your eyes may be the impetuous champions Who resort to Emain after a foray; More brilliant yet was the return Of Usna's heroes to their home!"

When King Conchobar sought to soothe her, she would answer:

"What, O Conchobar, of thee? To me nought but tears and lamentation hast thou meted out; This is my life, so long as life shall last; Thy love for me is as a flame put out.[102]

He who to me was fairest under heaven, He who was most beloved, Thou hast torn him from me, great was the injury, I see him not until I die.

The secret of my grief, that it is gone, The form of Usna's son revealed to me; A pile I see dark-black above a corpse, Bright and well known to me beyond all else.

* * * * *

Break not, my heart, to-day! I sink ere long into an early grave; Like to the strong sea-wave The grief that binds me, if thou but knowest, O King!

What, O Conchobar, of thee? To me nought but tears and lamentation hast thou meted out; This is my life, so long as life shall last; Thy love, methinks, is as a flame put out."

FOOTNOTES:

[100] _i.e._ Fergus mac Roy and his sons, who induced the sons of Usna to return with them to Ireland, where they were slain by King Conchobar.

[101] _Fál_ is a poetic name for Ireland; _Inisfáil_ means "the Island of destiny" or of "knowledge."

[102] Lit. "is not lasting."

OSSIANIC POETRY

"Were but the brown leaf which the wood sheds from it gold--were but the white billow silver--Fionn would have given it all away."--_The Colloquy with the Ancients._

FIRST WINTER-SONG

Take my tidings! Stags contend; Snows descend-- Summer's end!

A chill wind raging; The sun low keeping, Swift to set O'er seas high sweeping.

Dull red the fern; Shapes are shadows: Wild geese mourn O'er misty meadows.

Keen cold limes Each weaker wing. Icy times-- Such I sing! Take my tidings! ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES.

SECOND WINTER-SONG

Cold till Doom! Glowers more fearfully the gloom! Each gleaming furrow is a river, A loch in each ford's room.

Each pool is deepened to a perilous pit, A standing-stone each plain, a wood each moor; The clamouring flight of birds no shelter finds, White snow winds towards the door.

Like to a spectral host each sharp slim shape, Each leaping lake swelled to a mighty main; Wide as a wether's skin each falling flake, Shield-broad, each drop of rain.

Swift frost again hath fastened all the ways, It strove and struggled upwards o'er the wold, About Colt's standing-stone the tempest sways, Shuddering, men cry, "'Tis cold!"

IN PRAISE OF MAY

Ascribed to Fionn mac Cumhaill.

May-day! delightful day! Bright colours play the vale along. Now wakes at morning's slender ray Wild and gay the blackbird's song.

Now comes the bird of dusty hue, The loud cuckoo, the summer-lover; Branchy trees are thick with leaves; The bitter, evil time is over.

Swift horses gather nigh Where half dry the river goes; Tufted heather clothes the height; Weak and white the bogdown blows.

Corncrake sings from eve to morn, Deep in corn, a strenuous bard! Sings the virgin waterfall, White and tall, her one sweet word.

Loaded bees with puny power Goodly flower-harvest win; Cattle roam with muddy flanks; Busy ants go out and in.

Through the wild harp of the wood Making music roars the gale-- Now it settles without motion, On the ocean sleeps the sail.

Men grow mighty in the May, Proud and gay the maidens grow; Fair is every wooded height; Fair and bright the plain below.

A bright shaft has smit the streams, With gold gleams the water-flag; Leaps the fish, and on the hills Ardour thrills the leaping stag.

Loudly carols the lark on high, Small and shy, his tireless lay, Singing in wildest, merriest mood, Delicate-hued, delightful May.

T. W. ROLLESTON.

THE ISLE OF ARRAN

Arran of many stags! Her very shoulders washed by ocean's foam; Of companies of hardy men the home, Whose blue spears reddened oft along her crags Where the quick-leaping deer doth roam. Beneath her russet oaks the acorns fall, Cool water in her streams, and, scattered all, Dark berries lurk, like down-dropped hidden tears, Beneath her slowly-moving grasses tall.

Greyhounds there were in her, and beagles brown; And, when the winding horn her stillness shocks, From out the friendly shelter of her rocks The startled stag leaps down. Around her noble crags, in thickening flocks, To one another wheeling sea-mews cry; Yet, all unmoved, the fawns feed silently, Unconscious of the storm-cloud's gathering frown That spreads across the leaden autumn sky.

Smooth were her level lands and sleek her swine, Cheerful her fields (true is the tale I tell) The heavy hazel-boughs remembered well, The purple crop, where bramble-trails entwine. Above the nestling homesteads of the dell. Her whispering streams, her clear deep pools I miss, Where brown trout browse beneath the fairy liss; Pleasant thine isle, Arran of bounding stags, On such a sultry summer's day as this.

THE PARTING OF GOLL FROM HIS WIFE

_When they are shut up by Fionn on a sea-girt rock, without chance of escape_.

A DIALOGUE

(GOLL _speaks_)

The end is come; upon this narrow rock To-morrow I must die; Wife of the ruddy cheeks and hair of flame, Leave me to-night and fly.

Seek out the camp of Fionn and of his men Upon the westward side; Take there, in time to come, another mate. Here I abide.

(GOLL'S _wife replies_)

Which way, O Goll, is my way, and thou perished? Alas! few friends have I! Small praise that woman hath whose lord is gone And no protector nigh!

What man should I wed? I whom great Goll cherished And made his wife? Where in the East or West should one be sought To mend my broken life?

Shall I take Oísin, son of Fionn the Wise? Or Carroll of the blood-stained hand? Shall I make Angus, son of Hugh, my prize? Or swift-foot Corr, chief of the fighting-band?

I am as good as they; aye, good and better, Daughter of Conall, Monarch of the West, Fostered was I with Conn the Hundred-Fighter, Best among all the best.

Thee out of all I loved, thee my first master, Gentlest and bravest thou; Seven years we lived and loved, through calm and tumult, And shall I leave thee now?

From that night till to-night I found thee never Of harsh and churlish mind; And here I vow, no other man shall touch me, Kind or unkind.

Here on this narrow crag, foodless and sleepless, Thou takest thy last stand; A hundred heroes, Goll, lie rotting round thee, Slain by thy dauntless hand.

In the wide ocean near us, life is teeming; Yet on this barren rock I sink from hunger, and the wild briny waters My thirst-pangs mock.

Fierce is our hunger, fierce are the five battalions Sent here to conquer thee; But fiercer yet the drought that steals my beauty Midst this surrounding sea.

Though all my dear loved brothers by one caitiff Lay slaughtered in my sight, That man I'd call my friend, yea, I would love him, Could my thirst ease to-night.

Eat, Son of Morna, batten on these dead bodies, This is my last behest; Feast well, gaunt Goll, then quench thy awful craving Here at my breast.

Nought is there more to fear, nought to be hoped for, Of life and all bereft High on this crag, abandoned and forsaken, Nor hope nor shame is left.

(GOLL _speaks_)

King Conall's daughter, cease this mad entreaty, Cease thou, I pray; Never have I a woman's counsel asked for, Far less to-day.

Oh! pitiful how this thing hath befallen, Little red mouth! Lips that of old made speech and happy music, Now dry and harsh with drouth.

Ever I feared this end; my haunting terror By wave and land Was to be caught by Fionn and his battalions On some stark, foodless strand.

Depart not yet; upon this barren islet, Beneath this brazen sky, Sweet lips and gentle heart, we sit together Until we die.

YOUTH AND AGE

From the "Poem-book of Fionn."

Once I was yellow-haired, and ringlets fell, In clusters round my brow; Grizzled and sparse to-night my short grey crop, No lustre in it now.

Better to me the shining locks of youth, Or raven's dusky hue, Than drear old age, which chilly wisdom brings, If what they say be true.

I only know that as I pass the road, No woman looks my way; They think my head and heart alike are cold-- Yet I have had my day.

CHILL WINTER

Nipping this winter's night, the snow drifts by, Below the hill the boisterous billows roar; 'Tis bitter cold to-night the mountain o'er, Yet still the ungovernable stag bells forth his cry.

To-night laid not his side upon the ground The deer of Slievecarn of the hundred fights; He, with the stag of Echtge's frozen heights, Caught the wolves' snarl, and quivered at the sound.

I, Caoilte, wakeful lie, and Dermot Donn, We, with keen Oscar of the footsteps fleet, Watch the slow hours of moving night retreat, Whilst the dread pack of hungry wolves comes on.

Well rests the ruddy deer in dawn's dim light, Deep breathing near the covering earthen mound, Hidden from sight, as 'twere beneath the ground, All in the latter end of chilly night.

I sit to-night amongst the ancient race, And of the younger men but few I know, Though, in the ice-bound mornings long ago, From my firm grasp the javelin flew apace.

I thank Heaven's King, I thank sweet Mary's Son, My hand it was that silenced countless men; They lie stretched out beneath us in the glen, Colder than we, death-cold, lies many and many an one.

THE SLEEP-SONG OF GRAINNE OVER DERMUID

_When fleeing from Fionn_

From the "Poem-book of Fionn."

Sleep a little, a little little, thou needest feel no fear or dread, Youth to whom my love is given, I am watching near thy head.

Sleep a little, with my blessing, Dermuid of the lightsome eye, I will guard thee as thou dreamest, none shall harm while I am by.

Sleep, O little lamb, whose homeland was the country of the lakes, In whose bosom torrents tremble, from whose sides the river breaks.

Sleep as slept the ancient poet, Dedach, minstrel of the South, When he snatched from Conall Cernach Eithne of the laughing mouth.

Sleep as slept the comely Finncha 'neath the falls of Assaroe, Who, when stately Slaine sought him, laid the Hardhead Failbe low.

Sleep in joy, as slept fair Aine, Gailan's daughter of the west, Where, amid the flaming torches, she and Duvach found their rest.

Sleep as Degha, who in triumph, ere the sun sank o'er the land, Stole the maiden he had craved for, plucked her from fierce Deacall's hand.

Fold of Valour, sleep a little, Glory of the Western world; I am wondering at thy beauty, marvelling how thy locks are curled.

Like the parting of two children, bred together in one home, Like the breaking of two spirits, if I did not see you come.

Swirl the leaves before the tempest, moans the nightwind o'er the lea, Down its stony bed the streamlet hurries onward to the sea.

In the swaying boughs the linnet twitters in the darkling light, On the upland wastes of heather wings the grouse its heavy flight.

In the marshland by the river sulks the otter in his den; While the piping of the peeweet sounds across the distant fen.

On the stormy mere the wild-duck pushes outward from the brake, With her downy brood beside her seeks the centre of the lake.

In the east the restless roe-deer bellows to his frightened hind; On thy track the wolf-hounds gather, sniffing up against the wind.

Yet, O Dermuid, sleep a little, this one night our fear hath fled, Youth to whom my love is given, see, I watch beside thy bed.

THE SLAYING OF CONBEG

_A beloved hound of Fionn's which Goll mac Morna drowned in despite of Fionn_.

CAOILTE _sang this_:

Mournful to me the slaying of Conbeg,[103] Little hound, great was his brightness; Never was one more deft of paw Seen in the chase of swine or deer.

Tribulation to me the slaying of Conbeg, Little hound, of the baying voice; Never was one more deft of paw Found in the running down of the deer.

Tribulation to me the drowning of Conbeg Upon the mighty grey-green seas; His cruel loss, it brought contention,[104] A "fill of sorrow" was his death.

FOOTNOTES:

[103] Conbeg means "little hound."

[104] _i.e._ between Fionn and Goll; Goll was leader of the Connacht Fians and the deadly enemy of Fionn.

THE FAIRIES' LULLABY

My mirth and merriment, soft and sweet art thou, Child of the race of Conn art thou; My mirth and merriment, soft and sweet art thou, Of the race of Coll and Conn art thou.

My smooth green rush, my laughter sweet, My little plant in the rocky cleft, Were it not for the spell on thy tiny feet Thou wouldst not here be left, Not thou.

Of the race of Coll and Conn art thou, My laughter, sweet and low art thou; As you crow on my knee, I would lift you with me, Were it not for the mark that is on your feet I would lift you away, and away, with me.

SONG OF THE FOREST TREES

O man that for Fergus of the feasts dost kindle fire, Whether afloat or ashore burn not the king of woods.

Monarch of Innisfail's forests the woodbine is, whom none may hold captive; No feeble sovereign's effort is it to hug all tough trees in his embrace.

The pliant woodbine if thou burn, wailings for misfortune will abound, Dire extremity at weapons' points or drowning in great waves will follow.

Burn not the precious apple-tree of spreading and low-sweeping bough; Tree ever decked in bloom of white, against whose fair head all men put forth the hand.

The surly blackthorn is a wanderer, a wood that the artificer burns not; Throughout his body, though it be scanty, birds in their flocks warble.

The noble willow burn not, a tree sacred to poems; Within his bloom bees are a-sucking, all love the little cage.

The graceful tree with the berries, the wizard's tree, the rowan, burn; But spare the limber tree; burn not the slender hazel.

Dark is the colour of the ash; timber that makes the wheels to go; Rods he furnishes for horsemen's hands, his form turns battle into flight.

Tenterhook among woods the spiteful briar is, burn him that is so keen and green; He cuts, he flays the foot, him that would advance he forcibly drags backward.

Fiercest heat-giver of all timber is green oak, from him none may escape unhurt; By partiality for him the head is set on aching, and by his acrid embers the eye is made sore.

Alder, very battle-witch of all woods, tree that is hottest in the fight-- Undoubtedly burn at thy discretion both the alder and whitethorn.

Holly, burn it green; holly, burn it dry; Of all trees whatsoever the critically best is holly.

Elder that hath tough bark, tree that in truth hurts sore; Him that furnishes horses to the armies from the _sídh_ burn so that he be charred.

The birch as well, if he be laid low, promises abiding fortune; Burn up most sure and certainly the stalks that bear the constant pods.

Suffer, if it so please thee, the russet aspen to come headlong down; Burn, be it late or early, the tree with the palsied branch.

Patriarch of long-lasting woods is the yew, sacred to feasts, as is well-known; Of him now build ye dark-red vats of goodly size.

Ferdedh, thou faithful one, wouldst thou but do my behest: To thy soul as to thy body, O man, 'twould work advantage.

STANDISH HAYES O'GRADY.

EARLY CHRISTIAN POEMS

ST. PATRICK'S BREASTPLATE

I arise to-day Through the strength of heaven: Light of sun, Radiance of moon, Splendour of fire, Speed of lightning, Swiftness of wind, Depth of sea, Stability of earth, Firmness of rock.

I arise to-day Through God's strength to pilot me: God's might to uphold me, God's wisdom to guide me, God's eye to look before me, God's ear to hear me, God's word to speak for me, God's hand to guard me, God's way to lie before me, God's shield to protect me, God's host to save me From snares of devils, From temptations of vices, From every one who shall wish me ill, Afar and anear, Alone and in a multitude.

Christ to shield me to-day Against poison, against burning, Against drowning, against wounding, So that there may come to me abundance of reward. Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ on my right, Christ on my left, Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down, Christ when I arise, Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me, Christ in the mouth of every one who speaks of me, Christ in every eye that sees me, Christ in every ear that hears me.

I arise to-day Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity, Through belief in the threeness, Through confession of the oneness Of the Creator of Creation.

KUNO MEYER.

PATRICK'S BLESSING ON MUNSTER

Blessing from the Lord on High Over Munster fall and lie; To her sons and daughters all Choicest blessings still befall; Fruitful blessing on the soil That supports her faithful toil!

Blessing full of ruddy health, Blessing full of every wealth That her borders furnish forth, East and west and south and north; Blessings from the Lord on high Over Munster fall and lie!

Blessing on her peaks in air, Blessing on her flag-stones bare; Blessing from her ridges flow To her grassy glens below; Blessings from the Lord on High Over Munster fall and lie!

As the sands upon her shore Underneath her ships, for store,

Be her hearths, a twinkling host Over mountain, plain and coast! Blessing from the Lord on High Over Munster fall and lie!

ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES.

COLUMCILLE'S FAREWELL TO ARAN OF THE SAINTS

St. Columcille, or Columba, was born 521, died 597 A.D.

Farewell from me to Ara's Isle, Her smile is at my heart no more, No more to me the boon is given With hosts of heaven to walk her shore.

How far, alas! How far, alas! Have I to pass from Ara's view, To mix with men from Mona's fen, With men from Alba's mountains blue.

O Ara, darling of the West, Ne'er be he blest who loves not thee! O God, cut short her foeman's breath, Let hell and death his portion be.

O Ara, darling of the West, Ne'er be he blest who loves not thee, Herdless and childless may he go, In endless woe his doom to dree.

O Ara, darling of the West, Ne'er be he blest who loves thee not, When angels wing from heaven on high, And leave the sky for this dear spot.

DOUGLAS HYDE.

ST. COLUMBA IN IONA

From an Irish MS. in the Burgundian Library, Brussels.

Delightful would it be to me On a pinnacle of rock, That I might often see The face of the ocean; That I might watch its heaving waves Over the wide sea When they chant music to their Father Upon the world's course; That I might see its level sparkling strand, It would be no cause of sorrow; That I might hear the song of the wonderful birds, Source of happiness; That I might hear the thunder of the clamorous waves Upon the rocks; That I might hear the roar by the side of the church Of the surrounding sea; That I might watch its noble bird-flocks Flying over the watery surf; That I might see the ocean-monsters, Greatest of all wonders; That I might observe its ebb and flood In their cycles; That my mystical name might be, i'faith, "Cul ri Erin." That on my heart contrition might fall On looking upon her; That I might bewail my evils all, Though it were not easy to number them; That I might bless the Lord Who orders all; Heaven with its countless bright orders Land, strand and flood; That I might search in all the books That which would help my soul; At times kneeling to the Heaven of my heart, At times singing psalms; At times meditating on the King of Heaven, Chief of the Holy Ones; At times at work without compulsion This would be delightful. At times plucking duilisc from the rocks; At other times fishing; At times distributing food to the poor, At times in a hermitage; The best guidance from the presence of God Has been vouchsafed to me; The King whom I serve will keep from me All things that would deceive me.

EUGENE O'CURRY.

HYMN TO THE DAWN

Ascribed to St. Cellach of Killala, when imprisoned in a hollow oak on the morning before his murder by his old comrades, _circa_ 540.

Hail to the morning fair, that falls as a flame on the greensward; Hail, too, unto Him who bestows her, the morn ever fruitful in blessings.

Robed in her pride she comes, the brilliant sun's little sister, Hail to thee, Dawn, thrice hail! that lightest my book of the hours.