S. Patrick. You who are bent, and bald, and blind,
With a heavy heart and a wandering mind,
Have known three centuries, poets sing,
Of dalliance with a demon thing.
Oisin. Sad to remember, sick with years,
The swift innumerable spears,
The horsemen with their floating hair,
And bowls of barley, honey, and wine,
Those merry couples dancing in tune,
And the white body that lay by mine;
But the tale, though words be lighter than air.
Must live to be old like the wandering moon.
Caoilte, and Conan, and Finn were there,
When we followed a deer with our baying hounds.
With Bran, Sceolan, and Lomair,
And passing the Firbolgs' burial-mounds,
Came to the cairn-heaped grassy hill
Where passionate Maeve is stony-still;
And found On the dove-grey edge of the sea
A pearl-pale, high-born lady, who rode
On a horse with bridle of findrinny;
And like a sunset were her lips,
A stormy sunset on doomed ships;
A citron colour gloomed in her hair,
But down to her feet white vesture flowed,
And with the glimmering crimson glowed
Of many a figured embroidery;
And it was bound with a pearl-pale shell
That wavered like the summer streams,
As her soft bosom rose and fell.
S. Patrick. You are still wrecked among heathen dreams.
Oisin. “Why do you wind no horn?” she said
“And every hero droop his head?
The hornless deer is not more sad
That many a peaceful moment had,
More sleek than any granary mouse,
In his own leafy forest house
Among the waving fields of fern:
The hunting of heroes should be glad.”
“O pleasant woman,” answered Finn,
“We think on Oscar’s pencilled urn,
And on the heroes lying slain
On Gabhra’s raven-covered plain;
But where are your noble kith and kin,
And from what country do you ride?”
“My father and my mother are
Aengus and Edain, my own name
Niamh, and my country far
Beyond the tumbling of this tide.”
“What dream came with you that you came
Through bitter tide on foam-wet feet?
Did your companion wander away
From where the birds of Aengus wing?”
Thereon did she look haughty and sweet:
“I have not yet, war-weary king,
Been spoken of with any man;
Yet now I choose, for these four feet
Ran through the foam and ran to this
That I might have your son to kiss.”
“Were there no better than my son
That you through all that foam should run?”
“I loved no man, though kings besought,
Until the Danaan poets brought
Rhyme that rhymed upon Oisin’s name,
And now I am dizzy with the thought
Of all that wisdom and the fame
Of battles broken by his hands,
Of stories builded by his words
That are like coloured Asian birds
At evening in their rainless lands.”
O Patrick, by your brazen bell,
There was no limb of mine but fell
Into a desperate gulph of love!
“You only will I wed,” I cried,
“And I will make a thousand songs,
And set your name all names above,
And captives bound with leathern thongs
Shall kneel and praise you, one by one,
At evening in my western dun.”
“O Oisin, mount by me and ride
To shores by the wash of the tremulous tide,
Where men have heaped no burial-mounds,
And the days pass by like a wayward tune,
Where broken faith has never been known
And the blushes of first love never have flown;
And there I will give you a hundred hounds;
No mightier creatures bay at the moon;
And a hundred robes of murmuring silk,
And a hundred calves and a hundred sheep
Whose long wool whiter than sea-froth flows,
And a hundred spears and a hundred bows,
And oil and wine and honey and milk,
And always never-anxious sleep;
While a hundred youths, mighty of limb,
But knowing nor tumult nor hate nor strife,
And a hundred ladies, merry as birds,
Who when they dance to a fitful measure
Have a speed like the speed of the salmon herds,
Shall follow your horn and obey your whim,
And you shall know the Danaan leisure;
And Niamh be with you for a wife.”
Then she sighed gently, “It grows late.
Music and love and sleep await,
Where I would be when the white moon climbs,
The red sun falls and the world grows dim.”
And then I mounted and she bound me
With her triumphing arms around me,
And whispering to herself enwound me;
He shook himself and neighed three times:
Caoilte, Conan, and Finn came near,
And wept, and raised their lamenting hands,
And bid me stay, with many a tear;
But we rode out from the human lands.
In what far kingdom do you go,
Ah Fenians, with the shield and bow?
Or are you phantoms white as snow,
Whose lips had life’s most prosperous glow?
O you, with whom in sloping valleys,
Or down the dewy forest alleys,
I chased at morn the flying deer,
With whom I hurled the hurrying spear,
And heard the foemen’s bucklers rattle,
And broke the heaving ranks of battle!
And Bran, Sceolan, and Lomair,
Where are you with your long rough hair?
You go not where the red deer feeds,
Nor tear the foemen from their steeds.
S. Patrick. Boast not, nor mourn with drooping head
Companions long accurst and dead,
And hounds for centuries dust and air.
Oisin. We galloped over the glossy sea:
I know not if days passed or hours,
And Niamh sang continually
Danaan songs, and their dewy showers
Of pensive laughter, unhuman sound,
Lulled weariness, and softly round
My human sorrow her white arms wound.
We galloped; now a hornless deer
Passed by us, chased by a phantom hound
All pearly white, save one red ear;
And now a lady rode like the wind
With an apple of gold in her tossing hand;
And a beautiful young man followed behind
With quenchless gaze and fluttering hair.
“Were these two born in the Danaan land,
Or have they breathed the mortal air?”
“Vex them no longer,” Niamh said,
And sighing bowed her gentle head,
And sighing laid the pearly tip
Of one long finger on my lip.
But now the moon like a white rose shone
In the pale west, and the sun’s rim sank,
And clouds arrayed their rank on rank
About his fading crimson ball:
The floor of Almhuin’s hosting hall
Was not more level than the sea,
As, full of loving fantasy,
And with low murmurs, we rode on,
Where many a trumpet-twisted shell
That in immortal silence sleeps
Dreaming of her own melting hues,
Her golds, her ambers, and her blues,
Pierced with soft light the shallowing deeps.
But now a wandering land breeze came
And a far sound of feathery quires;
It seemed to blow from the dying flame,
They seemed to sing in the smouldering fires.
The horse towards the music raced,
Neighing along the lifeless waste;
Like sooty fingers, many a tree
Rose ever out of the warm sea;
And they were trembling ceaselessly,
As though they all were beating time,
Upon the centre of the sun,
To that low laughing woodland rhyme.
And, now our wandering hours were done,
We cantered to the shore, and knew
The reason of the trembling trees:
Round every branch the song-birds flew,
Or clung thereon like swarming bees;
While round the shore a million stood
Like drops of frozen rainbow light,
And pondered in a soft vain mood
Upon their shadows in the tide,
And told the purple deeps their pride,
And murmured snatches of delight;
And on the shores were many boats
With bending sterns and bending bows,
And carven figures on their prows
Of bitterns, and fish-eating stoats,
And swans with their exultant throats:
And where the wood and waters meet
We tied the horse in a leafy clump,
And Niamh blew three merry notes
Out of a little silver trump;
And then an answering whispering flew
Over the bare and woody land,
A whisper of impetuous feet,
And ever nearer, nearer grew;
And from the woods rushed out a band
Of men and ladies, hand in hand,
And singing, singing all together;
Their brows were white as fragrant milk,
Their cloaks made out of yellow silk,
And trimmed with many a crimson feather;
And when they saw the cloak I wore
Was dim with mire of a mortal shore,
They fingered it and gazed on me
And laughed like murmurs of the sea;
But Niamh with a swift distress
Bid them away and hold their peace;
And when they heard her voice they ran
And knelt there, every girl and man,
And kissed, as they would never cease,
Her pearl-pale hand and the hem of her dress.
She bade them bring us to the hall
Where Aengus dreams, from sun to sun,
A Druid dream of the end of days
When the stars are to wane and the world be done.
They led us by long and shadowy ways
Where drops of dew in myriads fall,
And tangled creepers every hour
Blossom in some new crimson flower,
And once a sudden laughter sprang
From all their lips, and once they sang
Together, while the dark woods rang,
And made in all their distant parts,
With boom of bees in honey-marts,
A rumour of delighted hearts.
And once a lady by my side
A sorrow wrapped each merry face,
And, Patrick! by your beard, they wept,
Until one came, a tearful boy;
“A sadder creature never stept
Than this strange human bard,” he cried;
And caught the silver harp away,
And, weeping over the white strings, hurled
It down in a leaf-hid, hollow place
That kept dim waters from the sky;
And each one said, with a long, long sigh,
“O saddest harp in all the world,
Sleep there till the moon and the stars die!”
And now, still sad, we came to where
A beautiful young man dreamed within
A house of wattles, clay, and skin;
One hand upheld his beardless chin,
And one a sceptre flashing out
Wild flames of red and gold and blue,
Like to a merry wandering rout
Of dancers leaping in the air;
And men and ladies knelt them there
And showed their eyes with teardrops dim,
And with low murmurs prayed to him,
And kissed the sceptre with red lips,
And touched it with their finger-tips.
He held that flashing sceptre up.
“Joy drowns the twilight in the dew,
And fills with stars night’s purple cup,
And wakes the sluggard seeds of corn,
And stirs the young kid’s budding horn,
And makes the infant ferns unwrap,
And for the peewit paints his cap,
And rolls along the unwieldy sun,
And makes the little planets run:
And if joy were not on the earth,
There were an end of change and birth,
And Earth and Heaven and Hell would die,
And in some gloomy barrow lie
Folded like a frozen fly;
Then mock at Death and Time with glances
And wavering arms and wandering dances.
“Men’s hearts of old were drops of flame
That from the saffron morning came,
Or drops of silver joy that fell
Out of the moon’s pale twisted shell;
But now hearts cry that hearts are slaves,
And toss and turn in narrow caves;
But here there is nor law nor rule,
Nor have hands held a weary tool;
And here there is nor Change nor Death,
But only kind and merry breath,
For joy is God and God is joy.”
With one long glance for girl and boy
And the pale blossom of the moon,
He fell into a Druid swoon.
And in a wild and sudden dance
We mocked at Time and Fate and Chance
And swept out of the wattled hall
And came to where the dewdrops fall
Among the foamdrops of the sea,
And there we hushed the revelry;
And, gathering on our brows a frown,
Bent all our swaying bodies down,
And to the waves that glimmer by
That sloping green De Danaan sod
Sang, “God is joy and joy is God,
And things that have grown sad are wicked,
And things that fear the dawn of the morrow
Or the grey wandering osprey Sorrow.”
We danced to where in the winding thicket
The damask roses, bloom on bloom,
Like crimson meteors hang in the gloom.
And bending over them softly said,
Bending over them in the dance,
With a swift and friendly glance
From dewy eyes: “Upon the dead
all the leaves of other roses,
On the dead dim earth encloses:
But never, never on our graves,
Heaped beside the glimmering waves,
Shall fall the leaves of damask roses.
For neither Death nor Change comes near us,
And all listless hours fear us,
And we fear no dawning morrow,
Nor the grey wandering osprey Sorrow.”
The dance wound through the windless woods;
The ever-summered solitudes;
Until the tossing arms grew still
Upon the woody central hill;
And, gathered in a panting band,
We flung on high each waving hand,
And sang unto the starry broods.
In our raised eyes there flashed a glow
Of milky brightness to and fro
As thus our song arose: “You stars,
Across your wandering ruby cars
Shake the loose reins: you slaves of God.
He rules you with an iron rod,
He holds you with an iron bond,
Each one woven to the other,
Each one woven to his brother
Like bubbles in a frozen pond;
But we in a lonely land abide
Unchainable as the dim tide,
With hearts that know nor law nor rule,
And hands that hold no wearisome tool,
Folded in love that fears no morrow,
Nor the grey wandering osprey Sorrow.”
O Patrick! for a hundred years
I chased upon that woody shore
The deer, the badger, and the boar.
O Patrick! for a hundred years
t evening on the glimmering sands,
Beside the piled-up hunting spears,
These now outworn and withered hands
Wrestled among the island bands.
O Patrick! for a hundred years
We went a-fishing in long boats
With bending sterns and bending bows,
And carven figures on their prows
Of bitterns and fish-eating stoats.
O Patrick! for a hundred years
The gentle Niamh was my wife;
But now two things devour my life;
he things that most of all I hate:
Fasting and prayers.
S. Patrick. Tell On.
Oisin. Yes, yes,
For these were ancient Oisin’s fate
Loosed long ago from Heaven’s gate,
For his last days to lie in wait.
When one day by the tide I stood,
I found in that forgetfulness
Of dreamy foam a staff of wood
From some dead warrior’s broken lance:
I turned it in my hands; the stains
Of war were on it, and I wept,
Remembering how the Fenians stept
Along the blood-bedabbled plains,
Equal to good or grievous chance:
Thereon young Niamh softly came
And caught my hands, but spake no word
Save only many times my name,
In murmurs, like a frighted bird.
We passed by woods, and lawns of clover,
And found the horse and bridled him,
For we knew well the old was over.
I heard one say, “His eyes grow dim
With all the ancient sorrow of men”;
And wrapped in dreams rode out again
With hoofs of the pale findrinny
Over the glimmering purple sea.
Under the golden evening light,
The Immortals moved among the fountains
By rivers and the woods' old night;
Some danced like shadows on the mountains
Some wandered ever hand in hand;
Or sat in dreams on the pale strand,
Each forehead like an obscure star
Bent down above each hooked knee,
And sang, and with a dreamy gaze
Watched where the sun in a saffron blaze
Was slumbering half in the sea-ways;
And, as they sang, the painted birds
Kept time with their bright wings and feet;
Like drops of honey came their words,
But fainter than a young lamb’s bleat.
“An old man stirs the fire to a blaze,
In the house of a child, of a friend, of a brother.
He has over-lingered his welcome; the days,
Grown desolate, whisper and sigh to each other;
He hears the storm in the chimney above,
And bends to the fire and shakes with the cold,
While his heart still dreams of battle and love,
And the cry of the hounds on the hills of old.
But we are apart in the grassy places,
Where care cannot trouble the least of our days,
Or the softness of youth be gone from our faces,
Or love’s first tenderness die in our gaze.
The hare grows old as she plays in the sun
And gazes around her with eyes of brightness;
Before the swift things that she dreamed of were done
She limps along in an aged whiteness;
A storm of birds in the Asian trees
Like tulips in the air a-winging,
And the gentle waves of the summer seas,
That raise their heads and wander singing,
Must murmur at last, ‘Unjust, unjust’;
And ‘My speed is a weariness,’ falters the mouse,
And the kingfisher turns to a ball of dust,
And the roof falls in of his tunnelled house.
But the love-dew dims our eyes till the day
When God shall come from the sea with a sigh
And bid the stars drop down from the sky,
And the moon like a pale rose wither away.”
BOOK II
Now, man of croziers, shadows called our names
And then away, away, like whirling flames;
And now fled by, mist-covered, without sound,
The youth and lady and the deer and hound;
"Gaze no more on the phantoms,” Niamh said,
And kissed my eyes, and, swaying her bright head
And her bright body, sang of faery and man
Before God was or my old line began;
Wars shadowy, vast, exultant; faeries of old
Who wedded men with rings of Druid gold;
And how those lovers never turn their eyes
Upon the life that fades and flickers and dies,
Yet love and kiss on dim shores far away
Rolled round with music of the sighing spray:
Yet sang no more as when, like a brown bee
That has drunk full, she crossed the misty sea
With me in her white arms a hundred years
Before this day; for now the fall of tears
Troubled her song.
I do not know if days
Or hours passed by, yet hold the morning rays
Shone many times among the glimmering flowers
Woven into her hair, before dark towers
Rose in the darkness, and the white surf gleamed
About them; and the horse of Faery screamed
And shivered, knowing the Isle of Many Fears,
Nor ceased until white Niamh stroked his ears
And named him by sweet names.
A foaming tide
Whitened afar with surge, fan-formed and wide,
Burst from a great door marred by many a blow
From mace and sword and pole-axe, long ago
When gods and giants warred. We rode between
The seaweed-covered pillars; and the green
And surging phosphorus alone gave light
On our dark pathway, till a countless flight
Of moonlit steps glimmered; and left and right
Dark statues glimmered over the pale tide
Upon dark thrones. Between the lids of one
The imaged meteors had flashed and run
And had disported in the stilly jet,
And the fixed stars had dawned and shone and set,
Since God made Time and Death and Sleep: the other
Stretched his long arm to where, a misty smother,
The stream churned, churned, and churned — his lips apart,
As though he told his never-slumbering heart
Of every foamdrop on its misty way.
Tying the horse to his vast foot that lay
Half in the unvesselled sea, we climbed the stair
And climbed so long, I thought the last steps were
Hung from the morning star; when these mild words
Fanned the delighted air like wings of birds:
“My brothers spring out of their beds at morn,
A-murmur like young partridge: with loud horn
They chase the noontide deer;
And when the dew-drowned stars hang in the air
Look to long fishing-lines, or point and pare
An ashen hunting spear.
O sigh, O fluttering sigh, be kind to me;
Flutter along the froth lips of the sea,
And shores the froth lips wet:
And stay a little while, and bid them weep:
Ah, touch their blue-veined eyelids if they sleep,
And shake their coverlet.
When you have told how I weep endlessly,
Flutter along the froth lips of the sea
And home to me again,
And in the shadow of my hair lie hid,
And tell me that you found a man unbid,
The saddest of all men.”
A lady with soft eyes like funeral tapers,
And face that seemed wrought out of moonlit vapours,
And a sad mouth, that fear made tremulous
As any ruddy moth, looked down on us;
And she with a wave-rusted chain was tied
To two old eagles, full of ancient pride,
That with dim eyeballs stood on either side.
Few feathers were on their dishevelled wings,
For their dim minds were with the ancient things.
"I bring deliverance,” pearl-pale Niamh said.
“Neither the living, nor the unlabouring dead,
Nor the high gods who never lived, may fight
My enemy and hope; demons for fright
Jabber and scream about him in the night;
For he is strong and crafty as the seas
That sprang under the Seven Hazel Trees,
And I must needs endure and hate and weep,
Until the gods and demons drop asleep,
Hearing Aodh touch the mournful strings of gold.”
“Is he so dreadful?”
“Be not over-bold,
But fly while still you may.”
And thereon I:
“This demon shall be battered till he die,
And his loose bulk be thrown in the loud tide.”
“Flee from him,” pearl-pale Niamh weeping cried,
“For all men flee the demons”; but moved not
My angry king-remembering soul one jot.
There was no mightier soul of Heber’s line;
Now it is old and mouse-like. For a sign
I burst the chain: still earless, nerveless, blind,
Wrapped in the things of the unhuman mind,
In some dim memory or ancient mood,
Still earless, nerveless, blind, the eagles stood.
And then we climbed the stair to a high door;
A hundred horsemen on the basalt floor
Beneath had paced content: we held our way
And stood within: clothed in a misty ray
I saw a foam-white seagull drift and float
Under the roof, and with a straining throat
Shouted, and hailed him: he hung there a star,
For no man’s cry shall ever mount so far;
Not even your God could have thrown down that hall;
Stabling His unloosed lightnings in their stall,
He had sat down and sighed with cumbered heart,
As though His hour were come.
We sought the part
That was most distant from the door; green slime
Made the way slippery, and time on time
Showed prints of sea-born scales. while down through it
The captive’s journeys to and fro were writ
Like a small river, and where feet touched came
A momentary gleam of phosphorus flame.
Under the deepest shadows of the hall
That woman found a ring hung on the wall,
And in the ring a torch, and with its flare
Making a world about her in the air,
Passed under the dim doorway, out of sight,
And came again, holding a second light
Burning between her fingers, and in mine
Laid it and sighed: I held a sword whose shin
No centuries could dim, and a word ran
Thereon in Ogham letters, “Manannan”;
That sea-god’s name, who in a deep content
Sprang dripping, and, with captive demons sent
Out of the sevenfold seas, built the dark hall
Rooted in foam and clouds, and cried to all
The mightier masters of a mightier race;
And at his cry there came no milk-pale face
Under a crown of thorns and dark with blood,
But only exultant faces.
Niamh stood
With bowed head, trembling when the white blade shone,
But she whose hours of tenderness were gone
Had neither hope nor fear. I bade them hide
Under the shadows till the tumults died
Of the loud-crashing and earth-shaking fight,
Lest they should look upon some dreadful sight;
And thrust the torch between the slimy flags.
A dome made out of endless carven jags,
Where shadowy face flowed into shadowy face,
Looked down on me; and in the self-same place
I waited hour by hour, and the high dome,
Windowless, pillarless, multitudinous home
Of faces, waited; and the leisured gaze
Was loaded with the memory of days
Buried and mighty. When through the great door
The dawn came in, and glimmered on the floor
With a pale light, I journeyed round the hall
And found a door deep sunken in the wall,
The least of doors; beyond on a dim plain
A little runnel made a bubbling strain,
And on the runnel’s stony and bare edge
A dusky demon dry as a withered sedge
Swayed, crooning to himself an unknown tongue:
In a sad revelry he sang and swung
Bacchant and mournful, passing to and fro
His hand along the runnel’s side, as though
The flowers still grew there: far on the sea’s waste
Shaking and waving, vapour vapour chased,
While high frail cloudlets, fed with a green light,
Like drifts of leaves, immovable and bright,
Hung in the passionate dawn. He slowly turned:
A demon’s leisure: eyes, first white, now burned
Like wings of kingfishers; and he arose
Barking. We trampled up and down with blows
Of sword and brazen battle-axe, while day
Gave to high noon and noon to night gave way;
And when he knew the sword of Manannan
Amid the shades of night, he changed and ran
Through many shapes; I lunged at the smooth throat
Of a great eel; it changed, and I but smote
A fir-tree roaring in its leafless top;
And thereupon I drew the livid chop
Of a drowned dripping body to my breast;
Horror from horror grew; but when the west
Had surged up in a plumy fire, I drave
Through heart and spine; and cast him in the wave
Lest Niamh shudder.
Full of hope and dread
Those two came carrying wine and meat and bread,
And healed my wounds with unguents out of flowers
That feed white moths by some De Danaan shrine;
Then in that hall, lit by the dim sea-shine,
We lay on skins of otters, and drank wine,
Brewed by the sea-gods, from huge cups that lay
Upon the lips of sea-gods in their day;
And then on heaped-up skins of otters slept.
And when the sun once more in saffron stept,
Rolling his flagrant wheel out of the deep,
We sang the loves and angers without sleep,
And all the exultant labours of the strong.
But now the lying clerics murder song
With barren words and flatteries of the weak.
In what land do the powerless turn the beak
Of ravening Sorrow, or the hand of Wrath?
For all your croziers, they have left the path
And wander in the storms and clinging snows,
Hopeless for ever: ancient Oisin knows,
For he is weak and poor and blind, and lies
On the anvil of the world.
S. Patrick. Be still: the skies
Are choked with thunder, lightning, and fierce wind,
For God has heard, and speaks His angry mind;
Go cast your body on the stones and pray,
For He has wrought midnight and dawn and day.
Oisin. Saint, do you weep? I hear amid the thunder
The Fenian horses; armour torn asunder;
Laughter and cries. The armies clash and shock,
And now the daylight-darkening ravens flock.
Cease, cease, O mournful, laughing Fenian horn!
We feasted for three days. On the fourth morn
I found, dropping sea-foam on the wide stair,
And hung with slime, and whispering in his hair,
That demon dull and unsubduable;
And once more to a day-long battle fell,
And at the sundown threw him in the surge,
To lie until the fourth morn saw emerge
His new-healed shape; and for a hundred years
So warred, so feasted, with nor dreams nor fears,
Nor languor nor fatigue: an endless feast,
An endless war.
The hundred years had ceased;
I stood upon the stair: the surges bore
A beech-bough to me, and my heart grew sore,
Remembering how I had stood by white-haired Finn
Under a beech at Almhuin and heard the thin
Outcry of bats.
And then young Niamh came
Holding that horse, and sadly called my name;
I mounted, and we passed over the lone
And drifting greyness, while this monotone,
Surly and distant, mixed inseparably
Into the clangour of the wind and sea.
“I hear my soul drop down into decay,
And Manannan’s dark tower, stone after stone.
Gather sea-slime and fall the seaward way,
And the moon goad the waters night and day,
That all be overthrown.
“But till the moon has taken all, I wage
War on the mightiest men under the skies,
And they have fallen or fled, age after age.
Light is man’s love, and lighter is man’s rage;
His purpose drifts and dies.”
And then lost Niamh murmured, “Love, we go
To the Island of Forgetfulness, for lo!
The Islands of Dancing and of Victories
Are empty of all power.”
“And which of these
Is the Island of Content?”
“None know,” she said;
And on my bosom laid her weeping head.
BOOK III
Fled foam underneath us, and round us, a wandering and
milky smoke,
High as the Saddle-girth, covering away from our glances
the tide;
And those that fled, and that followed, from the foam-pale
distance broke;
The immortal desire of Immortals we saw in their faces, and
sighed.
I mused on the chase with the Fenians, and Bran, Sceolan,
Lomair,
And never a song sang Niamh, and over my finger-tips
Came now the sliding of tears and sweeping of mist-cold
hair,
And now the warmth of sighs, and after the quiver of lips.
Were we days long or hours long in riding, when, rolled in
a grisly peace,
An isle lay level before us, with dripping hazel and oak?
And we stood on a sea’s edge we saw not; for whiter than
new-washed fleece
Fled foam underneath us, and round us, a wandering and
milky smoke.
And we rode on the plains of the sea’s edge; the sea’s edge
barren and grey,
Grey sand on the green of the grasses and over the dripping
trees,
Dripping and doubling landward, as though they would
hasten away,
Like an army of old men longing for rest from the moan of
the seas.
But the trees grew taller and closer, immense in their wrinkling
bark;
Dropping; a murmurous dropping; old silence and that one
sound;
For no live creatures lived there, no weasels moved in the
dark:
Long sighs arose in our spirits, beneath us bubbled the ground.
And the ears of the horse went sinking away in the hollow
night,
For, as drift from a sailor slow drowning the gleams of the
world and the sun,
Ceased on our hands and our faces, on hazel and oak leaf,
the light,
And the stars were blotted above us, and the whole of the
world was one.
Till the horse gave a whinny; for, cumbrous with stems of
the hazel and oak,
A valley flowed down from his hoofs, and there in the long
grass lay,
Under the starlight and shadow, a monstrous slumbering
folk,
Their naked and gleaming bodies poured out and heaped in
the way.
And by them were arrow and war-axe, arrow and shield and
blade;
And dew-blanched horns, in whose hollow a child of three
years old
Could sleep on a couch of rushes, and all inwrought and
inlaid,
And more comely than man can make them with bronze and
silver and gold.
And each of the huge white creatures was huger than
fourscore men;
The tops of their ears were feathered, their hands were the
claws of birds,
And, shaking the plumes of the grasses and the leaves of the
mural glen,
The breathing came from those bodies, long warless, grown
whiter than curds.
The wood was so spacious above them, that He who has
stars for His flocks
Could fondle the leaves with His fingers, nor go from His
dew-cumbered skies;
So long were they sleeping, the owls had builded their nests
in their locks,
Filling the fibrous dimness with long generations of eyes.
And over the limbs and the valley the slow owls wandered
and came,
Now in a place of star-fire, and now in a shadow-place wide;
And the chief of the huge white creatures, his knees in the
soft star-flame,
Lay loose in a place of shadow: we drew the reins by his side.
Golden the nails of his bird-claws, flung loosely along the
dim ground;
In one was a branch soft-shining with bells more many than
sighs
In midst of an old man’s bosom; owls ruffling and pacing
around
Sidled their bodies against him, filling the shade with their
eyes.
And my gaze was thronged with the sleepers; no, not since
the world began,
In realms where the handsome were many, nor in glamours
by demons flung,
Have faces alive with such beauty been known to the salt
eye of man,
Yet weary with passions that faded when the sevenfold seas
were young.
And I gazed on the bell-branch, sleep’s forebear, far sung
by the Sennachies.
I saw how those slumberers, grown weary, there camping
in grasses deep,
Of wars with the wide world and pacing the shores of the
wandering seas,
Laid hands on the bell-branch and swayed it, and fed of
unhuman sleep.
Snatching the horn of Niamh, I blew a long lingering note.
Came sound from those monstrous sleepers, a sound like the
stirring of flies.
He, shaking the fold of his lips, and heaving the pillar of his
throat,
Watched me with mournful wonder out of the wells of his
eyes.
I cried, “Come out of the shadow, king of the nails of gold!
And tell of your goodly household and the goodly works of
your hands,
That we may muse in the starlight and talk of the battles of
old;
Your questioner, Oisin, is worthy, he comes from the Fenian
lands.”
Half open his eyes were, and held me, dull with the smoke
of their dreams;
His lips moved slowly in answer, no answer out of them
came;
Then he swayed in his fingers the bell-branch, slow dropping
a sound in faint streams
Softer than snow-flakes in April and piercing the marrow
like flame.
Wrapt in the wave of that music, with weariness more than
of earth,
The moil of my centuries filled me; and gone like a sea-
covered stone
Were the memories of the whole of my sorrow and the
memories of the whole of my mirth,
And a softness came from the starlight and filled me full to
the bone.
In the roots of the grasses, the sorrels, I laid my body as low;
And the pearl-pale Niamh lay by me, her brow on the midst
of my breast;
And the horse was gone in the distance, and years after years
'gan flow;
Square leaves of the ivy moved over us, binding us down to
our rest.
And, man of the many white croziers, a century there I
forgot
How the fetlocks drip blood in the battle, when the fallen
on fallen lie rolled;
How the falconer follows the falcon in the weeds of the
heron’s plot,
And the name of the demon whose hammer made
Conchubar’s sword-blade of old.
And, man of the many white croziers, a century there I
forgot
That the spear-shaft is made out of ashwood, the shield out
of osier and hide;
How the hammers spring on the anvil, on the spearhead’s
burning spot;
How the slow, blue-eyed oxen of Finn low sadly at evening
tide.
But in dreams, mild man of the croziers, driving the dust
with their throngs,
Moved round me, of seamen or landsmen, all who are winter
tales;
Came by me the kings of the Red Branch, with roaring of
laughter and songs,
Or moved as they moved once, love-making or piercing the
tempest with sails.
Came Blanid, Mac Nessa, tall Fergus who feastward of old
time slunk,
Cook Barach, the traitor; and warward, the spittle on his
beard never dry,
Dark Balor, as old as a forest, car-borne, his mighty head
sunk
Helpless, men lifting the lids of his weary and death-making
eye.
And by me, in soft red raiment, the Fenians moved in loud
streams,
And Grania, walking and smiling, sewed with her needle of
bone.
So lived I and lived not, so wrought I and wrought not,
with creatures of dreams,
In a long iron sleep, as a fish in the water goes dumb as a
stone.
At times our slumber was lightened. When the sun was on
silver or gold;
When brushed with the wings of the owls, in the dimness
they love going by;
When a glow-worm was green on a grass-leaf, lured from
his lair in the mould;
Half wakening, we lifted our eyelids, and gazed on the grass
with a sigh.
So watched I when, man of the croziers, at the heel of a
century fell,
Weak, in the midst of the meadow, from his miles in the
midst of the air,
A starling like them that forgathered 'neath a moon waking
white as a shell
When the Fenians made foray at morning with Bran,
Sceolan, Lomair.
I awoke: the strange horse without summons out of the
distance ran,
Thrusting his nose to my shoulder; he knew in his bosom
deep
That once more moved in my bosom the ancient sadness of
man,
And that I would leave the Immortals, their dimness, their
dews dropping sleep.
O, had you seen beautiful Niamh grow white as the waters
are white,
Lord of the croziers, you even had lifted your hands and wept:
But, the bird in my fingers, I mounted, remembering alone
that delight
Of twilight and slumber were gone, and that hoofs impatiently
stept.
I died, “O Niamh! O white one! if only a twelve-houred day,
I must gaze on the beard of Finn, and move where the old
men and young
In the Fenians' dwellings of wattle lean on the chess-boards
and play,
Ah, sweet to me now were even bald Conan’s slanderous
tongue!
“Like me were some galley forsaken far off in Meridian isle,
Remembering its long-oared companions, sails turning to
threadbare rags;
No more to crawl on the seas with long oars mile after mile,
But to be amid shooting of flies and flowering of rushes and
flags.”
Their motionless eyeballs of spirits grown mild with mysterious
thought,
Watched her those seamless faces from the valley’s glimmering
girth;
As she murmured, “O wandering Oisin, the strength of the
bell-branch is naught,
For there moves alive in your fingers the fluttering sadness
of earth.
“Then go through the lands in the saddle and see what
the mortals do,
And softly come to your Niamh over the tops of the tide;
But weep for your Niamh, O Oisin, weep; for if only your
shoe
Brush lightly as haymouse earth’s pebbles, you will come
no more to my side.
“O flaming lion of the world, O when will you turn to your
rest?”
I saw from a distant saddle; from the earth she made her
moan:
“I would die like a small withered leaf in the autumn, for
breast unto breast
We shall mingle no more, nor our gazes empty their sweetness
lone.
“In the isles of the farthest seas where only the spirits come.
Were the winds less soft than the breath of a pigeon who
sleeps on her nest,
Nor lost in the star-fires and odours the sound of the sea’s
vague drum?
O flaming lion of the world, O when will you turn to your
rest?”
The wailing grew distant; I rode by the woods of the wrinkling
bark,
Where ever is murmurous dropping, old silence and that one
sound;
For no live creatures live there, no weasels move in the dark:
In a reverie forgetful of all things, over the bubbling ground.
And I rode by the plains of the sea’s edge, where all is barren
and grey,
Grey sand on the green of the grasses and over the dripping
trees,
Dripping and doubling landward, as though they would
hasten away,
Like an army of old men longing for rest from the moan of
the seas.
And the winds made the sands on the sea’s edge turning and
turning go,
As my mind made the names of the Fenians. Far from the
hazel and oak,
I rode away on the surges, where, high as the saddle-bow,
Fled foam underneath me, and round me, a wandering and
milky smoke.
Long fled the foam-flakes around me, the winds fled out of
the vast,
Snatching the bird in secret; nor knew I, embosomed apart,
When they froze the cloth on my body like armour riveted
fast,
For Remembrance, lifting her leanness, keened in the gates
of my heart.
Till, fattening the winds of the morning, an odour of new-
mown hay
Came, and my forehead fell low, and my tears like berries
fell down;
Later a sound came, half lost in the sound of a shore far
away,
From the great grass-barnacle calling, and later the shore-
weeds brown.
If I were as I once was, the strong hoofs crushing the sand
and the shells,
Coming out of the sea as the dawn comes, a chaunt of love
on my lips,
Not coughing, my head on my knees, and praying, and wroth
with the bells,
I would leave no saint’s head on his body from Rachlin to
Bera of ships.
Making way from the kindling surges, I rode on a bridle-
path
Much wondering to see upon all hands, of wattles and
woodwork made,
Your bell-mounted churches, and guardless the sacred cairn
and the rath,
And a small and a feeble populace stooping with mattock
and spade,
Or weeding or ploughing with faces a-shining with much-
toil wet;
While in this place and that place, with bodies unglorious,
their chieftains stood,
Awaiting in patience the straw-death, croziered one, caught
in your net:
Went the laughter of scorn from my mouth like the roaring
of wind in a wood.
And before I went by them so huge and so speedy with
eyes so bright,
Came after the hard gaze of youth, or an old man lifted his
head:
And I rode and I rode, and I cried out, “The Fenians hunt
wolves in the night,
So sleep thee by daytime.” A voice cried, “The Fenians a
long time are dead.”
A whitebeard stood hushed on the pathway, the flesh of his
face as dried grass,
And in folds round his eyes and his mouth, he sad as a child
without milk;
And the dreams of the islands were gone, and I knew how
men sorrow and pass,
And their hound, and their horse, and their love, and their
eyes that glimmer like silk.
And wrapping my face in my hair, I murmured, “In old age
they ceased”;
And my tears were larger than berries, and I murmured,
“Where white clouds lie spread
On Crevroe or broad Knockfefin, with many of old they
feast
On the floors of the gods.” He cried, “No, the gods a long
time are dead.”
And lonely and longing for Niamh, I shivered and turned
me about,
The heart in me longing to leap like a grasshopper into her
heart;
I turned and rode to the westward, and followed the sea’s
old shout
Till I saw where Maeve lies sleeping till starlight and
midnight part.
And there at the foot of the mountain, two carried a sack
full of sand,
They bore it with staggering and sweating, but fell with
their burden at length.
Leaning down from the gem-studded saddle, I flung it five
yards with my hand,
With a sob for men waxing so weakly, a sob for the Fenians'
old strength.
The rest you have heard of, O croziered man; how, when
divided the girth,
I fell on the path, and the horse went away like a summer fly;
And my years three hundred fell on me, and I rose, and walked
on the earth,
A creeping old man, full of sleep, with the spittle on his
beard never dry”.
How the men of the sand-sack showed me a church with its
belfry in air;
Sorry place, where for swing of the war-axe in my dim eyes
the crozier gleams;
What place have Caoilte and Conan, and Bran, Sceolan,
Lomair?
Speak, you too are old with your memories, an old man
surrounded with dreams.
S. Patrick. Where the flesh of the footsole clingeth on the
burning stones is their place;
Where the demons whip them with wires on the burning
stones of wide Hell,
Watching the blessèd ones move far off, and the smile on
God’s face,
Between them a gateway of brass, and the howl of the angels
who fell.
Oisin. Put the staff in my hands; for I go to the Fenians, O
cleric, to chaunt
The war-songs that roused them of old; they will rise,
making clouds with their Breath,
Innumerable, singing, exultant; the clay underneath them
shall pant,
And demons be broken in pieces, and trampled beneath
them in death.
And demons afraid in their darkness; deep horror of eyes
and of wings,
Afraid, their ears on the earth laid, shall listen and rise up
and weep;
Hearing the shaking of shields and the quiver of stretched
bowstrings,
Hearing Hell loud with a murmur, as shouting and mocking
we sweep.
We will tear out the flaming stones, and batter the gateway
of brass
And enter, and none sayeth “No” when there enters the
strongly armed guest;
Make clean as a broom cleans, and march on as oxen move
over young grass;
Then feast, making converse of wars, and of old wounds,
and turn to our rest.
S. Patrick. On the flaming stones, without refuge, the limbs
of the Fenians are tost;
None war on the masters of Hell, who could break up the
world in their rage;
But kneel and wear out the flags and pray for your soul that
is lost
Through the demon love of its youth and its godless and
passionate age.
Oisin. Ah me! to be shaken with coughing and broken with
old age and pain,
Without laughter, a show unto children, alone with remembrance
and fear;
All emptied of purple hours as a beggar’s cloak in the rain,
As a hay-cock out on the flood, or a wolf sucked under a
weir.
It were sad to gaze on the blessed and no man I loved of old
there;
I throw down the chain of small stones! when life in my body
has ceased,
I will go to Caoilte, and Conan, and Bran, Sceolan, Lomair,
And dwell in the house of the Fenians, be they in flames or at
feast. |