Part 7

Thou searchest the secret dwelling, on clansman and kindred thou shinest; White-necked, beautiful, hail! who makest thine uprising golden!

The chequered page of my booklet tells me my life was erring; Melcroin, 'tis thee whom I fear, 'tis from thee that shall come my undoing.

Scallcrow, thou paltry fowl, sharp-beaked, grey-coated and cruel, Full well do I guess thy desire, no friendship hast thou unto Cellach.

Raven, O Raven, that croakest, from the top of the rath thou art watching, Wait but awhile, bird of death, and most surely my flesh will suffice thee.

Fiercely the kite of Cluain Eo will take his part in the scramble, His talons filled with my flesh, flying off to his haunt in the yew-tree.

Swift through the darkling woodland the foxes will scent out my slaughter, They on the confines trackless my flesh and my blood will devour.

The mighty wolf from his lair 'neath the rath on the East of Drumm Dara, To the banquet of bones will betake him, prime chief of the curs he will boast him.

Wednesday night past I saw visions, the wild dogs troubled my slumbers, Hither and thither they dragged me through russet ferns of the coppice.

'Twas in a dream I saw it; to the lonely green glen men bore me; Five men were we who went thither, I saw only four returning.[105]

'Twas in a dream I saw it; to their dwelling my comrades allured me; They poured out the cup of old friendship, they quaffed to my luck and long living.

Scant is thy tail, tiny wren; thy doleful pipe is prophetic; Perhaps it is thou art the traitor; thou, and not they, my destroyer.

For why should Mac Deora deceive me? His father and mine were brothers; Oh! monstrous deed and unholy, that he should desire to harm me!

Or why should Meldalua hurt me? my cousin, is he by his mother; Twin sisters his mother and mine, yet in truth it was he who betrayed me.

What ill can I get from Melsenig? For a pure man's son I have held him; Melsenig, the son of Melibar, 'tis he who hath plotted my downfall.

Melcroin, my playfellow Melcroin, the crime of thy act is yet deeper; For ten thousand ingots of gold would not Cellach have stooped to betray thee.

Vain pelf hath allured thee, O Melcroin, the love of this world's fleeting pleasures, For the guerdon of hell hast thou sold me, hast sold me, thy friend and thy brother!

All precious things that I had, my treasures, my sleek-coated horses, Would I have given to Melcroin, to win him away from this treason!

Yet in high heaven above me, the great Son of Mary is speaking; "Thou art forsaken on earth; but a welcome awaits thee in heaven."

FOOTNOTES:

[105] Compare "So the two brothers and their murdered man rode past fair Florence," in Keats' _Isabella or the Pot of Basil_, Stanza xxvii.

THE SONG OF MANCHAN THE HERMIT

Abbot of Liath Manchan, now Lemanaghan, in King's Co. Died 665 A.D.

I wish, O Son of the Living God, O Ancient Eternal King, For a hidden hut in the wilderness, a simple secluded thing.

The all-blithe lithe little lark in his place, chanting his lightsome lay; The calm, clear pool of the Spirit's grace, washing my sins away.

A wide, wild woodland on every side, its shades the nursery Of glad-voiced songsters, who at day-dawn chant their sweet psalm for me.

A southern aspect to catch the sun, a brook across the floor, A choice land, rich with gracious gifts, down-stretching from my door.

Few men and wise, these I would prize, men of content and power, To raise Thy praise throughout the days at each canonical hour.

Four times three, three times four, fitted for every need, To the King of the Sun praying each one, this were a grace, indeed.

Twelve in the church to chant the hours, kneeling there twain and twain; And I before, near the chancel door, listening their low refrain.

A pleasant church with an Altar-cloth, where Christ sits at the board, And a shining candle shedding its ray on the white words of the Lord.

Brief meals between, when prayer is done, our modest needs supply; No greed in our share of the simple fare, no boasting or ribaldry.

This is the husbandry I choose, laborious, simple, free, The fragrant leek about my door, the hen and the humble bee.

Rough raiment of tweed, enough for my need, this will my King allow; And I to be sitting praying to God under every leafy bough.

A PRAYER

Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart, Naught is all else to me, save that Thou art.

Thou my best thought by day and by night, Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light.

Be Thou my Wisdom, Thou my true Word; I ever with Thee, Thou with me, Lord.

Thou my great Father, I thy dear son; Thou in me dwelling, I with Thee one.

Be Thou my battle-shield, sword for the fight, Be Thou my dignity, Thou my delight.

Thou my soul's shelter, Thou my high tower; Raise Thou me heavenward, Power of my power.

Riches I heed not or man's empty praise, Thou mine inheritance now and always.

Thou, and Thou only, first in my heart, High King of Heaven, my treasure Thou art.

King of the seven heavens, grant me for dole, Thy love in my heart, Thy light in my soul.

Thy light from my soul, Thy love from my heart, King of the seven heavens, may they never depart.

With the High King of heaven, after victory won, May I reach heaven's joys, O Bright heaven's Sun!

Heart of my own heart, whatever befall, Still be my Vision, O Ruler of all.

THE LOVES OF LIADAN AND CURITHIR

St. Cummine, in whose days the lovers lived, died 661. The language is of the ninth century.

A young poet and poetess of Connaught were betrothed; but during the year's interval preceding their marriage, Liadan, for some unexplained reason, took the veil. When Curithir returned to fetch her to his home, he found that by her vows she had for ever separated herself from him. In his despair he determined to follow her example and become a monk. The lovers placed themselves together under the direction of St. Cummine, a severe and hard man, who permitted them to meet, with the object of accusing them of wrong-doing. Finally, he gave Curithir the choice of seeing Liadan without speaking to her, or speaking to her without seeing. He chooses the latter, and henceforth they wander round each other's cells, speaking together through the wattled walls, but never looking on each other's faces. The time comes when this can be no longer borne, and Curithir sails away to strange lands on pilgrimage, so that Liadan saw him no more. She died upon the flagstone on which Curithir was wont to pray, and was buried beneath it.

The poem is in the form of a dialogue.

(LIADAN _speaks_)

Curithir, maker of sweet song, By me beloved, you do me wrong! Dear master of the two Grey Feet,[106] Is it like this we meet?

(CURITHIR _speaks_)

Of late, Since I and Liadan understood our fate, Each day hath been a month of fasting days, Each month a year of doubting of God's ways.

I had my choice To see her gentle form, or hear her voice; "Some comfort yet may reach her from my speech," I said; "we have been ever looking each at each."

(LIADAN _speaks_)

His voice comes up to me again, Is it in blame, or is it pain? I catch its accents strained and deep, And cannot sleep.

The flagstone where he bent the knee, Beside the wattled oratory, 'Tis there, at eve, each lonely day, I go to pray.

Never for him dear hearth or wife, Homestead, or innocent baby life; No mate at his right hand Will ever stand.

Cummine accuses her of wrong and she turns on him:

Cleric, thy thought is ill; Not with my will you link my name with his, From Loch Seng's borderland he comes, I wis, I from Iar-Conchin's Cill.

We met, you say; But sure, no honeyed pastures of the flock Where lover's arms in lover's arms enlock, Was ours that May.

If Curithir is gone to-day To teach the little scholars of the school, Small help he'll get who does not know his rule; Curithir's thoughts are very far away.

At length the news is brought to her that Curithir is gone for ever, and she breaks out into a passionate lament.

_The Cry of_ LIADAN _after_ CURITHIR

'Tis done! Joyless the victory I have won, The tender heart of him I loved I wrung!

He called me near A little space to please him, but the fear Of God in heaven withheld me, and I would not hear.

Great gain To us the way love pointed plain, To win the gates of Paradise through pain.

Reckless and vain The whim that caused my lover's love to dim; Great ever was my gentleness to him.

Liadan am I, And Curithir I loved; it is no lie, He would not doubt me now if he were by.

Short while were we Together in the closest intimacy, Sweet was the time to him, and sweet to me.

The music of the lightly waving tree, When Curithir was here, would sing to me, With the deep voice of the empurpled sea.

Surely to-day No whim of mine would turn his heart away, No senseless act or speech, do what I may.

And to myself I say, My love to him was given, my heart, unshriven, At his dear feet I lay.

My heart is flame, A tempest heat no ice on earth can tame, I cry "I was to blame! I was to blame!"

FOOTNOTES:

[106] A play on Curithir's patronymic, Mac Doborchon, _i.e._ "Son of the Otter."

THE LAY OF PRINCE MARVAN

_In praise of his hermit life. A reply to his brother, King Guaire, of Connaught, when asked by him why he did not dwell in the Palace._

King Guaire died 662; but the poem, as we have it, is of the tenth century.

There is a shieling hidden in the wood Unknown to all save God; An ancient ash-tree and a hazel-bush Their sheltering shade afford.

Around the doorway's heather-laden porch Wild honeysuckles twine; Prolific oaks, within the forest's gloom, Shed mast upon fat swine.

Many a sweet familiar woodland path Comes winding to my door; Lowly and humble is my hermitage, Poor, and yet not too poor.

From the high gable-end my lady's throat Her trilling chant outpours, Her sombre mantle, like the ousel's coat, Shows dark above my doors.

From the high oakridge where the roe-deer leaps The river-banks between, Renowned Mucraime and Red Roigne's plains Lie wrapped in robes of green.

Here in the silence, where no care intrudes, I dwell at peace with God; What gift like this hast thou to give, Prince Guaire, Were I to roam abroad?

The heavy branches of the green-barked yew That seem to bear the sky; The spreading oak, that shields me from the storm, When winds rise high.

Like a great hostel, welcoming to all, My laden apple-tree; Low in the hedge, the modest hazel-bush Drops ripest nuts for me.

Round the pure spring, that rises crystal clear, Straight from the rock, Wild goats and swine, red fox, and grazing deer, At sundown flock.

The host of forest-dwellers of the soil Trysting at night; To meet them foxes come, a peaceful troop, For my delight.

Like exiled princes, flocking to their home, They gather round; Beneath the river bank great salmon leap, And trout abound.

Rich rowan clusters, and the dusky sloe, The bitter, dark blackthorn, Ripe whortle-berries, nuts of amber hue, The cup-enclosed acorn.

A clutch of eggs, sweet honey, mead and ale, God's goodness still bestows; Red apples, and the fruitage of the heath, His constant mercy shows.

The goodly tangle of the briar-trail Climbs over all the hedge; Far out of sight, the trembling waters wail Through rustling rush and sedge.

Luxuriant summer spreads its coloured cloak And covers all the land; Bright blue-bells, sunk in woods of russet oak, Their blooms expand.

The movements of the bright red-breasted men, A lovely melody! Above my house, the thrush and cuckoo's strain A chorus wakes for me.

The little music-makers of the world Chafers and bees, Drone answer to the tumbling torrent's roar Beneath the trees.

From gable-ends, from every branch and stem, Sounds sweetest music now; Unseen, in restless flight, the lively wren Flits 'neath the hazel-bough.

Deep in the firmament the sea-gulls fly, One widely-circling wreath; The cheerful cuckoo's call, the poult's reply, Sound o'er the distant heath.

The lowing of the calves in summer-time, Best season of the year! Across the fertile plain, pleasant the sound, Their call I hear.

Voice of the wind against the branchy wood Upon the deep blue sky; Most musical the ceaseless waterfall, The swan's shrill cry.

No hired chorus, trained to praise its chief, Comes welling up for me; The music made for Christ the Ever-young, Sounds forth without a fee.

Though great thy wealth, Prince Guaire, happier live Those who can boast no hoard; Who take at Christ's hand that which He doth give As their award.

Far from life's tumult and the din of strife I dwell with Him in peace, Content and grateful, for Thy gifts, High Prince, Daily increase.

(GUAIRE _replies_)

Wisely thou choosest, Marvan; I a king Would lay my kingdom by, With Colman's glorious heritage I'd part To bear thee company!

THE SONG OF CREDE, DAUGHTER OF GUARE

(In the battle of Aidne, Crede, the daughter of King Guare of Aidne, beheld Dinertach of the HyFidgenti, who had come to the help of Guare, with seventeen wounds upon his breast. Then she fell in love with him. He died and was buried in the cemetery of Colman's Church.)

These are the arrows that murder sleep At every hour in the night's black deep; Pangs of Love through the long day ache, All for the dead Dinertach's sake.

Great love of a hero from Roiny's plain Has pierced me through with immortal pain, Blasted my beauty and left me to blanch A riven bloom on a restless branch.

Never was song like Dinertach's speech But holy strains that to Heaven's gate reach; A front of flame without boast or pride, Yet a firm, fond mate for a fair maid's side.

A growing girl--I was timid of tongue, And never trysted with gallants young, But since I have won into passionate age, Fierce love-longings my heart engage.

I have every bounty that life could hold, With Guare, arch-monarch of Aidne cold, But, fallen away from my haughty folk, In Irluachair's field my heart lies broke.

There is chanting in glorious Aidne's meadow, Under St. Colman's Church's shadow; A hero flame sinks into the tomb-- Dinertach, alas my love and my doom!

Chaste Christ! that now at my life's last breath I should tryst with Sorrow and mate with Death! At every hour of the night's black deep, These are the arrows that murder sleep.

ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES.

THE STUDENT AND HIS CAT

The Irish of this playful poem was written by a student of the Monastery of Carinthia on a copy of St. Paul's Epistles about the close of the eighth century.

I and Pangur Bán, my cat, 'Tis a like task we are at; Hunting mice is his delight, Hunting words I sit all night.

Better far than praise of men 'Tis to sit with book and pen; Pangur bears me no ill-will, He, too, plies his simple skill.

'Tis a merry thing to see At our tasks how glad are we, When at home we sit and find Entertainment to our mind.

Oftentimes a mouse will stray In the hero Pangur's way; Oftentimes my keen thought set Takes a meaning in its net.

'Gainst the wall he sets his eye Full and fierce and sharp and sly; 'Gainst the wall of knowledge I All my little wisdom try.

When a mouse darts from its den, O! how glad is Pangur then; O! what gladness do I prove When I solve the doubts I love.

So in peace our task we ply, Pangur Bán, my cat, and I; In our arts we find our bliss, I have mine, and he has his.

Practice every day has made Pangur perfect in his trade; I get wisdom day and night, Turning darkness into light.

ROBIN FLOWER.

THE SONG OF THE SEVEN ARCHANGELS

Now, Gabriel, be with my heart On this first day of seven, He, first of the Archangels; And Thou, High King of Heaven.

Michael be mine, if Monday dawn, Michael I call upon, There is none like thee, Michael, None but Jesu, Mary's Son.

And oh if Tuesday sorrow bring, Let Raphael help it forth, One of the seven that hears us weep, Sad women of this earth.

And Uriel hear, if Wednesday wake, In his nobility, And heal our wounds and care for us And calm this wind-torn sea.

And Sariel, should Thursday come With wilder wind and seas, On Sariel I cry aloud For that solace which is his.

For sorrow's fast on Friday, Out of my need I cry On Rumiel, my heart's near friend, Though Heaven I know is nigh.

And Saturday, on Panchel, While this yellow world is mine, I call on him while shake the leaves And the yellow sun doth shine.

The Trinity protect me still-- Oh blessed Trinity, And be my stay in danger's hour; Protect and prosper me.

ERNEST RHYS.

THE FÉILIRE OF ADAMNAN

_Ancient Irish Litany_

Though ascribed to St. Adamnan, Abbot of Iona (died 704), the biographer of St. Columba, the piece, judging by its language, is later.

Saints of Four Seasons! Saints of the Year! Loving, I pray to you; longing, I say to you: Save me from angers, dreeings, and dangers! Saints of Four Seasons! Saints of the Year!

Saints of Green Springtime! Saints of the Year! Patraic and Grighair, Brighid be near! My last breath gather with God's Foster Father! Saints of Green Springtime! Saints of the Year!

Saints of Gold Summer! Saints of the Year! (Poesy wingeth me! Fancy far bringeth me!) Guide ye me on to Mary's Sweet Son! Saints of Gold Summer! Saints of the Year!

Saints of Red Autumn! Saints of the Year! Lo! I am cheery! Michil and Mary Open wide Heaven to my soul bereaven! Saints of Red Autumn! Saints of the Year!

Saints of Grey Winter Saints of the Year! Outside God's Palace fiends wait in malice-- Let them not win my soul going in! Saints of Grey Winter! Saints of the Year!

Saints of Four Seasons! Saints of the Year! Waking or sleeping, to my grave creeping, Life in its Night, hold me God's light! Saints of Four Seasons! Saints of the Year!

P. J. MCCALL.

THE FEATHERED HERMIT

Blackbird, who pourest praise, Deep hidden 'neath the bough, No bell to call the Hours Thou needest, thou; Each hour, O hermit, from thy throat, Wells thy sweet, soft, peaceful note.

AN APHORISM

Time was, I was not here; Short the time for me, I fear! Death comes, that is clear; It is not clear when death is near.

THE BLACKBIRD

High trees close me round Far from the ground the blackbird sings, Trilling, it chants its lay Above my well-lined book to-day.

In its soft veil of grey The wayward cuckoo calls aloud; Within my wall of green, My God shrouds me, all unseen.

DEUS MEUS

By Mael-Isu ("Servant of Jesus"), of Derry, _obit._ 1038.

_Deus meus adiuva me_, Give me thy love, O Christ, I pray, Give me thy love, O Christ, I pray, _Deus meus adiuva me_.

_In meum cor ut sanum sit_, Pour, loving King, Thy love in it, Pour, loving King, Thy love in it, _In meum cor ut sanum sit_.

_Domine, da ut peto a te_, O, pure bright sun, give, give to-day, O, pure bright sun, give, give to-day, _Domine, da ut peto a te_.

_Hanc spero rem et quaero quam_ Thy love to have where'er I am, Thy love to have where'er I am, _Hanc spero rem et quaero quam_.

_Tuum amorem sicut uis_, Give to me swiftly, strongly, this, Give to me swiftly, strongly, this, _Tuum amorem sicut uis_.

_Quaero, postulo, peto a te_, That I in heaven, dear Christ, may stay, That I in heaven, dear Christ, may stay, _Quaero, postulo, peto a te_.

_Domine, Domine, exaudi me_, Fill my soul, Lord, with Thy love's ray, Fill my soul, Lord, with Thy love's ray, _Domine, Domine, exaudi me_. _Deus meus adiuva me_, _Deus meus adiuva me_.

GEORGE SIGERSON.

THE SOUL'S DESIRE

(Author and date unknown.)

It were my soul's desire To see the face of God; It were my soul's desire To rest in His abode.

It were my soul's desire To study zealously; This, too, my soul's desire, A clear rule set for me.

It were my soul's desire A spirit free from gloom; It were my soul's desire New life beyond the Doom.

It were my soul's desire To shun the chills of hell; Yet more my soul's desire Within His house to dwell.

It were my soul's desire To imitate my King, It were my soul's desire His ceaseless praise to sing.

It were my soul's desire When heaven's gate is won To find my soul's desire Clear shining like the sun.

Grant, Lord, my soul's desire, Deep waves of cleansing sighs; Grant, Lord, my soul's desire From earthly cares to rise.

This still my soul's desire Whatever life afford,-- To gain my soul's desire And see Thy face, O Lord.

TEMPEST ON THE SEA

The original of the following poem was ascribed to Ruman mac Colmáin, an Irish poet of the seventh century, whom the _Book of Leinster_ generously styles "the Homer and Virgil of Ireland." It has been edited and exquisitely translated in prose by Professor Kuno Meyer in vol. ii. of _Otia Merseiana_. He attributes it to the eleventh century. The old prose account says that it was made by Ruman, when challenged by the Danes of Dublin to sing of the sea.

Tempest on the great sea-borders, Hear my tale, ye viking sworders! Winter smites us, wild winds crying Set the salty billows flying, Wind and winter, fierce marauders.

Lir's vast host of shouting water Comes against us, charged with slaughter, None can tell the dread and wonder Speaking in the ocean thunder And the tempest, thunder's daughter.

With the wind of east at morning All the waves' wild hearts are yearning Westward over wastes of ocean, Till they stay their eager motion Where the setting sun is burning.

When the northern wind comes flying, All the press of dark waves crying, Southward surge and clamour, driven To the shining southern heaven, Wave to wave in song replying.

When the western wind is blowing O'er the currents wildly flowing, Eastward sets its mighty longing And the waves go eastward thronging Far to find the sun-tree growing.

When the southern wind comes raining Over shielded Saxons straining, Waves round Skiddy isle go pouring, On Caladnet's beaches roaring, In grey Shannon's mouth complaining.

Full the sea and fierce the surges, Lovely are the ocean verges, On the showery waters whirling, Sandy winds are swiftly swirling, Rudders cleave the surf that urges.

Hard round Éire's cliffs and nesses, Hard the strife, not soft the stresses, Like swan-feathers softly sifting, Snow o'er Milidh's folk is drifting, Manann's wife shakes angry tresses.

At the mouth of each dark river Breaking waters surge and shiver, Wind and winter met together Trouble Alba with wild weather, Countless falls on Dremon quiver.