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SELECTIONS 
 
 FROM THE 
 
 POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE 
 
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SELECTIONS 
 
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 POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE 
 
 EDITED WITH A PREFACE 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY 
 
 f 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 AND LONDON 
 1894 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
^ 
 
 Copyright, 1894, 
 By MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 NottoootJ i^regg : 
 
 J. S. Gushing & Co. - Berwick & Smith. 
 Boston, Mass., U.S.A. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 The qualities of Aubrey de Vere's poetry are not 
 far to seek. Lyrical in verse, strong in style, mainly 
 historical in theme, heroic or spiritual in substance, 
 above all placid, it stirs and tranquillizes the soul in 
 the presence of lovely scenes, high actions, and those 
 
 "Great ideas that man was born to learn;" 
 
 and its outlook is upon the field of the soul regenerate, 
 where suffering is remembered only through its purifi- 
 cation, blessed in issues of sweetness, dignity, and 
 peace. It takes wide range, but is predominantly 
 either Bardic or Christian. The sympathy of the poet 
 with the ancient Irish spirit must have been fed with 
 patriotic fervour, akin to renewed inspiration, to permit 
 him to render the old lays of his country with such 
 fidelity to their native genius. Cuchullain once more 
 becomes credible to fancy, — the imagination of a 
 childhood world ; and the songs of Oiseen and Ethell 
 strike with a music as of anvils. The versions of 
 the three monuments of old Irish story — the "Sor- 
 rows of Song " — are our best. The Enghsh lines 
 have the definiteness and precision that belong to 
 
VI PREFACE 
 
 primitive narrative ; and yet each tale is involved in 
 that atmosphere of " the shore of old romance," of 
 the marvellous, the picturesque, the childlike, which 
 appeals to our eyes like the distances of spring — the 
 haze of time lying along the early world. In each of 
 the three mythic poems there are pictures of novel and 
 strange beauty : the boy, Cuchullain, riding laughing 
 home in his car after the deeds of his knigliting-day, 
 with the leashed wide-winged birds flying over him, 
 the six leashed stags following the chariot captive, the 
 bandits' heads upon its front ; or, the lovers, Naisi 
 and Deirdre, hand in hand on the foot-bridge pouring 
 forth the lay that hemmed them with the clansmen of 
 Usnach ; or, King Lir, ''with under-shding arms," by 
 the bed of the gold-woven bridal veil, lifting the chil- 
 dren from its dawn-touched glittering tissue to " the 
 first light from the sky." These are such pictures as 
 Burne-Jones is too often thought to have invented. 
 
 Of all, Cuchullain is the noblest figure in this old 
 Irish verse; and the poem which relates his deeds — 
 with its episodic tales of his youth, the background of 
 his island-boyhood with the friend he was doomed to 
 slay, and the long duel between them which closes in 
 his lament over the dead man he loved and his 
 retirement to the forest — is so inwrought with 
 bravery, pathos, and emotional beauty as to give it 
 the first place, while the hero's Achillean return to 
 the host places it among true epics. The second 
 of the three " Sorrows " — "The Sons of Usnach " — 
 is characterized by a strange processional beauty, as 
 
PREFACE VU 
 
 of a pageant pilgriming, and by a clear spirit of joyful- 
 ness in the midst of the moving cloud of fate, like 
 ''the tempest's heart of calm." But the last — "The 
 Children of Lir " — touches the heart most deeply. 
 The idea of the poem — the first human effort to ex- 
 tend the bounds of Divine Mercy, to reach through 
 the " dark backward and abysm " of the thousand 
 pagan years, and gather to its fold these children to 
 be the first-fruits of Christ in their land — is very 
 noble ; but great as is the idea, it is subdued into 
 a simple idyl of childhood. The poem is, indeed, 
 unique, and the handling (Tennyson treated it less 
 admirably) is exquisite. The children in their home 
 are dear, and in their transformation into swans there 
 is no discord. The swan-nature, already half-human in 
 poetic tradition, blends of itself with the ideal image 
 of childhood ; and the nearness of the little exiles to 
 humanity, after their change, is sustained by their 
 mystical night-long singing overheard by men, and by 
 the tale told their poet hstening solitary by the sea in 
 the sixth century of their woe. In their life with 
 nature, too, a new aspect sympathetic with childhood 
 emerges ; and lastly, though lost, they still live in a 
 world of their own, as children do. This beautiful 
 tradition of the Irish race must become a part of the 
 child-literature of our language. 
 
 The Christian element in this last story prepares the 
 way for the poet's more voluminous and distinctly 
 religious work — and it is with poets of religion that 
 he is to be classed — in which he selects his themes 
 
viii PREFACE 
 
 from the saintly legends of the Church, and shows 
 the abundance and power of that Ufe, idealized in 
 holy tradition, which converted the nations and 
 revivified the world. The Reformation was a source 
 of great mortality in literature ; and the loss which 
 Protestantism sustained in surrendering the Catholic 
 centuries, with their long record of this ideal Ufe 
 among mankind, was a spiritual deprivation to the 
 northern imagination, which the noble lives of three 
 later centuries have not yet made good. So com- 
 plete is the gap now, that the times of which these 
 poems reflect the imaginative beauty have the remote- 
 ness of a golden age, and in reading the verse a sense 
 of dreaminess invades the mind. This portion of the 
 poet's work makes its mass ; and its interest, though 
 various, is so even that one could as easily divide the 
 summer landscape as choose and pick amid its beauty. 
 The subjects are, in the main, from Irish, English, 
 or Roman traditions of the early Church. The 
 tales of St. Patrick, which illustrate the conversion 
 of Ireland, are roughened by the old Bardic strength 
 overcome by the new gospel, and masculine vigour is 
 thus infused into it, while a poetic continuity with the 
 primitive lays is preserved. "Aengus," which is here 
 selected, is a representative instance of these legends, 
 but milder than the most. The tales of Saxon times, 
 which illustrate the conversion of England, are almost 
 pastoral in tone ; and again, " St. Cuthbert's Pente- 
 cost," here given, is, like " Aengus," only a solitary 
 example. Others of this series are sown with fine 
 
PREFACE IX 
 
 imaginative effects, like that of the lonely Julian 
 Tower casting the shadow of Rome on the consecra- 
 tion of Westminster Abbey : — 
 
 " On Saxon feasts she fixed a cold gray gaze; 
 'Mid Christian hymns heard but the old acclaim — 
 'Consul Romanus'; " 
 
 or, with eloquent lines, like those on the Primates of 
 Canterbury : — 
 
 " From their fronts, 
 Stubborned with marble from St. Peter's Rock, 
 The sunrise of far centuries forth shall flame; " 
 
 or, with passages of brief pathos, like Bede's words : — 
 
 " Poor youth ! that love which walks in narrow ways 
 Is tragic love, be sure." 
 
 The poem, devoted to Caedmon, is especially rich in 
 such felicities both of image and phrase. 
 
 So these Christian poems succeed one another, as 
 the poet's memory wanders back to the legends of 
 the Empire on the first estabhshraent of the faith in 
 Roman lands and along Asian shores, or moves 
 through mediaeval times with Joan of Arc and epi- 
 sodes of the Cid that recall Cuchullain in their 
 light-hearted performance of natural deeds, now under 
 the Cross. The beauty of these separate stories is 
 equable and full of a softened charm ; but in them, 
 too, as in the Bardic myths, there abides that distance 
 of time, which makes them remote, as if they were not 
 of our own. They are highly pictorial ; and in read- 
 ing them, each secluded in that silent, old-world air 
 
X PREFACE 
 
 that encompasses it, one feels that here is a modem 
 poet, hke those early painters of pious heart who spent 
 their lives in picturing scenes from the life of Christ ; 
 and one recalls, perhaps, some Convent of San Marco 
 where each monastic cell bears on its quiet walls such 
 scenes from the shining hand of the Florentine on 
 whose face fell heaven's mildest light. These poems 
 of Aubrey de Vere — to characterize them largely — 
 are scenes from the life of Christ in Man ; and there 
 is something in them — in their gladness, their lumi- 
 nousness, their peace — which suggests Fra Angelico, 
 the halo of Christian art. 
 
 Yet one reads to little purpose, if he does not dis- 
 cern also an intellectual element, constant in the poet's 
 work, which gives it mental as well as spiritual charac- 
 ter. It is not so much thought, as comprehension, 
 which his poetry most evinces : that comprehension 
 which is the genius of the historian and grasps the 
 governing principles, follows the essential ideas, 
 watches the doubtful issues of the inward world of 
 conviction and illusion, of which alone the fate is sig- 
 nificant. This philosophic interest in history is most 
 directly expressed in his two dramas, "Alexander 
 the Great" and "St. Thomas of Canterbury," where 
 social movements, so irresistible as to be rightly 
 called providential principles, were centred in great 
 personalities. In these, his eye sees, not the men 
 merely, but ideas greater than they, of which, indeed, 
 they were servants ; and this is true, also, of such 
 single portraits as "Odin," " Constantine," and 
 
PREFACE XI 
 
 " Hildebrand." His prefaces disclose a similar 
 distinctly historical aim in his tales, but their charac- 
 ter as particular narratives renders it less obvious ; 
 the poetical element in them absorbs and conceals the 
 didactic purpose. He has also occasionally inwoven 
 in his verse more abstract and purely logical argument, 
 of which '' The Death of Copernicus " is an example. 
 His sonnets and odes show, in addition, occupation 
 with political and other modern questions. In his 
 single contemporary Irish tale, '' The Sisters " — a tale 
 which makes one regret so complete an absorption of 
 his narrative power in other Hues — the criticism upon 
 Ireland's history has both edge and weight, and its 
 conversational temper is charming. Together with 
 the gaunt reality of "The Year of Sorrow," this story 
 of the actual reveals the heart of a patriot, near to his 
 living land. Indeed, in whatever division of his verse 
 he approaches the subject of Ireland, his style gathers 
 fire, and often, as must be the case, deepens into 
 melancholy passion. This is shown most character- 
 istically in the ideal conception of Ireland, which 
 he sometimes suggests, as a Sacrificial Nation, whose 
 lot is to show forth spiritual virtues under perpetual 
 earthly misfortune, and it is natural to such a mind ; 
 but there is difficulty even in its poetical acceptance, 
 so heavy is the weight of a nation's burden. It is a 
 great conception, but it is not a political idea. It is 
 the young Richard's refuge — "that sweet way I wa:: 
 in to despair." But throughout the entire range of 
 national and religious themes which in a long life-time 
 
XU PREFACE 
 
 the poet has touched, one recognizes a conscientious 
 and keen thoughtfulness as well as the other qualities 
 of warmth, imagination, and delight in natural and 
 moral beauty which are more upon the surface of the 
 verse ; and to miss this reflective temperament would 
 be to lose sight of much of the inward significance 
 of these longer poems. 
 
 Of shorter pieces he has written few in comparison 
 with the body of his work. For one who belongs to the 
 generation of Tennyson and was the youthful friend of 
 Wordsworth, the impersonality of his verse is marked. 
 He paid the tribute to Love, which is required of the 
 gende heart, in a few musical lyrics, usually with the 
 sad cadence ; he paid also his tribute to human liberty 
 and the general hope of man in some fervid sonnets 
 that spoke from the breast ; and, lastly, he paid his 
 tribute to his friends — for he was rich in friendships 
 — laying his loyal laurel upon each remembered 
 grave. Finally — to compress much miscellaneous 
 verse into small space — in " Antar and Zara " he 
 treated a difficult theme of love with a delicacy and 
 truth of feeling and a melodic power that justified its 
 inscription to Tennyson ; in many odes and sonnets 
 he exhibited the love of nature, the sentiment for land- 
 scape and its living creatures, and the sense of the 
 moral power of the external world, which became 
 a true disciple of Wordsworth and continuer of his 
 tradition; and in "The Search after Proserpine," and 
 elsewhere, he is a neighbour to Shelley. In all this 
 portion of his work, which is more nearly related to 
 
PREFACE xni 
 
 his own century, except at rare moments he remains 
 impersonal, and deals with ideas through images, in 
 accordance with the great tradition of poetry from 
 the first, for their own and not for the poet's sake. 
 
 Such, in general, is the poet's work. But it pos- 
 sesses some qualities which so highly distinguish it in 
 modern verse and give it peculiar character beyond 
 what has been indicated, that a word more must be said. 
 One constant element is its praise of the life of the 
 lowly, in the old Christian sense, as the soil of many 
 virtues, and those the noblest and most endearing. 
 The affinities of his subject-matter, both on the national 
 and the religious side, make this natural ; but its 
 source is rather in a true sympathy with lowly lives 
 and knowledge of them, whether among the poor by 
 fate or those who have renounced by choice the things 
 of fortune ; and the ground of this praise — and this 
 is the significant matter — is one that was old when 
 Rousseau was born. So Truth comes into her own 
 again. A second distinguishing element in the verse, 
 as a whole, is its praise of devotion, that loyal sur- 
 render to a man or a cause which is one of the 
 ideal passions of Love, and the vital triumph of the 
 soul. To realize what is denoted by this character- 
 istic, and how sharply it severs old and new, it needs 
 only a thought of the quite different way in which 
 — to take the main instance — Tennyson presents 
 this virtue, in his greatest poem of man's life — how 
 maimed and impotent in Arthur, Guinevere, and 
 Lancelot, how doomed to tragic failure in the lesser 
 
XIV PREFACE 
 
 persons, for Galahad's career is magical, not human ; 
 and the fact that this enfeebling of the principle of 
 devotion is not a trait that, in Tennyson, most 
 strikes a modern reader, measures the distance be- 
 tween the moral ideals that are and those that were. 
 In this, also, Aubrey de Vere returns to the ancient 
 fountains. A. third such element in the verse is its 
 purity, which is due, in part, to the fact that the poet 
 is fond of youth, and fills his poems with many fair 
 figures, fresh and ardent and beautiful, and touches 
 with especial delicacy the tenderness of childhood 
 and the grace of boyhood, so that there is a morning 
 air in his world ; but something is also due to his own 
 limpid sincerity and the clarifying power of that spirit 
 which can but represent virtue, however suffering, as 
 joyful. His heroes are always glad. And lastly, to 
 bring these remarks to an end, faith is an element 
 in this verse, not to be passed over in silence. It is 
 faith of the sort not to be rivalled among our poets by 
 any other than Shelley, — ^. faith in the power of truth 
 to subdue mankind 'to goodness. What to Shelley 
 was dream and vision is here that golden age of the 
 triumph of Christ over the heathen world, when whole 
 nations heard and were baptized. That this is not 
 fanciful paradox a single passage will show, and it 
 affords a striking and useful literary parallel : — 
 
 " They slept not, on the loud-resounding shore 
 In glory roaming. Many a feud that night 
 Perished; and vengeful vows, now mockery made, 
 Lay quenched in their own shame. Far shone the fires 
 
PREFACE XV 
 
 Crowning dark hills with gladness; soared the song; 
 And heralds sped from coast to coast to tell 
 How He the Lord of all, no Power Unknown, 
 But like a man rejoicing in his house, 
 Ruled the glad earth. . . , 
 
 With earliest red of dawn 
 Northward once more the winged war-ships rushed, 
 Swift as of old to that long hated shore — 
 Not now with axe and torch. His Name they bare 
 Who linked in one the nations." 
 
 This is the feast, the chant, the flame of "Laon 
 and Cythna." In this faith, again, there is the funda- 
 mental Christian quahty, that older spirit, of which the 
 other elements that have just been mentioned are also 
 branches. Thus, in all this poetry, however its phases 
 be successively turned to the eye, or itself be inwardly 
 searched, there is one light and one breath — the 
 light of the Spirit and the breath thereof It cannot 
 but have a pecuUar, though in its own century almost 
 an exotic, charm. Joy and peace, the first Christian 
 message, spread abroad with its music ; and, heard or 
 unheard, the song of the poet speeds that old evangel. 
 
NOTE 
 
 Of the poems comprised in the following selections, 
 "Cuchullain" is from "The Foray of Queen Meave," 
 and "Naisi's Wooing" from "The Sons of Usnach " ; 
 "Oiseen and St. Patrick," "An Old Poefs Love," and 
 "Zara to Antar" are from the several groups of poems 
 similarly entitled ; in all other cases, with the exception 
 of the stanza, *A Farewell,' the poems are given entire. 
 A few titles have been inserted by the editor where none 
 was given by the author. The text of "Cuchullain" 
 follows the earlier edition. 
 
 G. E. W. 
 
 Beverly, Mass., 
 September, 1894. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Preface v 
 
 Old Irish Lays i 
 
 " Soul of the Bard ! stand up, like thy harp's majes- 
 
 tical pillar " 2 
 
 CuchuUain 3 
 
 Naisi's Wooing 63 
 
 The Children of Lir . . . . . . -72 
 
 Miscellaneous Poems 113 
 
 Odin, the Man 115 
 
 Oiseen and St. Patrick 
 
 I. The Great Contention 123 
 
 II. Oiseen's Youth 128 
 
 Aengus 133 
 
 The Bard Ethell 141 
 
 St. Cuthbert's Pentecost 154 
 
 King Henry at the Tomb of King Arthur . . .182 
 
 The Infant Bridal 188 
 
 St. Francis and Perfect Joy 199 
 
 The Death of Copernicus 205 
 
 The Yea.r of Sorrow 219 
 
 The Sisters; or. Weal in Woe . , . . . 228 
 xvii 
 
xvm CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Lyrics, Sonnets, and Epigrams 267 
 
 " Not willingly the Muses sing of love " . . . 26S 
 Song (" Sing the old song, amid the sounds dis- 
 persing ") 269 
 
 To (" My hope, in happier days than these ") . 270 
 
 An Old Poet's Love 270 
 
 Trouvere Songs 
 
 I. " I make not songs, but only find " . -273 
 
 IL " Phoebus paced the wooded mountains " . 273 
 
 Peasant's Song ("Hark, the Spring! She calls! ") . 274 
 
 Zara to Antar ........ 275 
 
 Marriage Song (" Love begins upon the heights ") . 275 
 
 Song (" Seek not the tree of silkiest bark ") . . 276 
 
 Lines (" Heart-winged once; self-doomed") . . 277 
 
 A Lament 278 
 
 " They Never Met " - 279 
 
 To 
 
 I. *' She sat amid a soft-eyed company " . 279 
 II. " Happy are they who kiss thee, morn and 
 
 even" 280 
 
 III. " The spring of my sweet life thou madest 
 
 thine " 280 
 
 IV. " Let me be near thee, and I will not touch " 281 
 V. " Pause, lovely Lady, pause ! with downward 
 
 eye" 282 
 
 To an Infant 282 
 
 Human Life 283 
 
 .-Eschylus 284 
 
 Tasso's House at Sorrento 284 
 
CONTENTS xix 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Lyrics, Sonnets, and Epigrams — continued. 
 
 The Renaissance and Savonarola .... 285 
 
 Galatea and Urania; or, Art and Faith . . . 286 
 
 The Poet's Song 287 
 
 Solitude without Vocation 288 
 
 A Poet to a Painter . " 288 
 
 The Poet's Choice 289 
 
 On Reading an Untrue Charge 290 
 
 Poland and Russia 290 
 
 Islam 291 
 
 The American Struggle 292 
 
 On the Centenary of American Liberty . . . 292 
 Epigrams 
 
 I. A Farewell 293 
 
 11. An Epitaph 294 
 
 III. Three Prayers 294 
 
 IV. A Traveller's Grace 294 
 
 V. On a Great Plagiarist 295 
 
 VI. An Epicurean's Epitaph .... 295 
 
 VII. An Epitaph without a Name . . . 296 
 
 VIII. De Via 296 
 
 Memorial Poems 297 
 
 "An Altar I would rear beside the Rhine" . . 298 
 
 Christmas, i860 299 
 
 At Vevey 301 
 
 WiUiam Rowan Hamilton 302 
 
 Edwin, Earl of Dunraven 303 
 
 Sir John Simeon 304 
 
XX CONTENTS 
 
 Memorial Poems — continued. 
 
 Cardinal Newman 30o 
 
 Cardinal Manning 3^7 
 
 Robert Browning 3^7 
 
 Alfred Tennyson 3^8 
 
OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
Soul of the Bard! stand up, like thy harp's majestical 
 pillar! 
 Heart of the Bard, like its arch in reverence bow thee 
 and bend! 
 Mind of the Bard, like its strings be manifold, changeful, 
 responsive : 
 This is the harp God smites, the harp, man's master 
 and friend! • 
 
CUCHULLAIN 
 
 The Foray of Queen Meave relates the story of the inva- 
 sion of Uladh by that Queen, while a spell of enchantment held 
 its people impotent. CuchulLAIN alone arrested her advance ; 
 but, on his retirement, her host ravaged the land. O71 their 
 retreat, the spell being broken, the host of Uladh attacked them, 
 and suffered defeat, which CuCHULLAiN turned into victory. 
 P'ergus is an exiled chief of Uladh, fighting on the side of 
 the invaders. The following passages contain the Deeds of 
 CUCHULLAIN. 
 
 Meantime within Murthemn^'s land its lord, 
 Cuchullain, musing like a listening hound, 
 For many a rumour filled that time the air, 
 Sat in remote Dun Dalgan all alone. 
 Chief city of his realm. On Uladh's verge, 
 Southward, that lesser realm dependent lay. 
 Girt by a racing river. Silent long 
 He watched : at last he heard a sound like wind 
 In woods remote ; and earthward bowed his head ; 
 And said, " That sound is distant thirty leagues, 
 And huge that host " ; then bade prepare his car, 
 And southward sped, counsel to hold as wont 
 With Faythleen nigh to Tara. 
 
 Eve grew dim. 
 When, lo ! a chariot from the woods emerged 
 In swift pursuit ; an old man urged the steeds, 
 A grey old man that chattered evermore, 
 3 
 
4 ' OLD IRISH LA YS 
 
 With blinking eyes that ceased not from amaze, 
 
 Now to himself, now to his charioteer. 
 
 That sight displeased Cuchullain ; ne'ertheless 
 
 He stayed his course ; and Saltain soon drew nigh, 
 
 Clamouring, " O son — and when was son Hke thee — 
 
 Forsake not thou thy father ! In old time, 
 
 Then when some God had laid on me his hand, 
 
 Dectara, my wife, immured me in my house, 
 
 Year after year, and weighed the lessening dole ; 
 
 But thou, to manhood grown, though even to her 
 
 Reverent, didst pluck her from that place usurped. 
 
 Lifting thy poor old father." At that word 
 
 Cuchullain left his car, and kissed his sire. 
 
 And soothed his wandering wits with meat and wine ; 
 
 And spake dissembUng : " Lo, these mantles warm ! 
 
 For thee it was I stored them ! Night is near ; 
 
 Lie down and rest." Thus speaking, with both hands 
 
 He spread them deftly forth, and Saltain slept. 
 
 Then, tethering first the horses of his sire. 
 
 Lastly his own, upon the chill, wet grass 
 
 He likewise lay, and slept not. 
 
 On, at dawn. 
 They drave ; but Faythleen, witch perverse of will 
 That oft through spleenful change her purpose slew. 
 Had broken tryst ; and northward they returned. 
 That day Cuchullain clomb a tree-girt rock 
 And kenned beyond the forest's roof a host 
 Innumerable, the standards of Queen Meave, 
 And Fergus, and the great confederate kings. 
 The warrior eyed them long with bitter smile ; 
 
CUCHULLAIN 5 
 
 He spake few words : " At fifty thousand men 
 I count them." To his father then he turned : 
 " Haste to Emania ! Bid the Red Branch Knights 
 Attend me in Murthemne. I till then 
 Hang on the invaders' flank, a fiery scourge." 
 
 Saltain made answer : " Be it ! northward I ; 
 But Dectara, thy mother and my wife, 
 I will not see till thou art by my side ; 
 For dreadful are her eyes as death or fate ; 
 And many deem her mad." 
 
 He spake, and drave 
 Northward ; nor ceased from chatterings all day long, 
 Since, like a poplar, vocal was the man 
 Not less than visible. Meantime his son 
 Took counsel in his heart, and made resolve 
 To skirt in homeward course that eastern sea. 
 The wood primeval 'twixt him and the foe. 
 Still sallying night and day through alley and glade 
 And taming thus their pride. 
 
 Three days went by. 
 Then stood Cuchullain where great wood-ways met ; 
 And, lo ! betwixt four yews a warrior's grave, 
 The pillar-stone above it ! O'er that stone 
 In mirthful mood he twined an osier wreath, 
 Cyphering thereon his name in Ogham signs ; 
 For thus he said : " On no man unawares 
 Fall I, but warned." The hostile host approached, 
 And halting stood in wonder at that wreath ; 
 Yet none could spell the Ogham. Last drew nigh 
 Fergus, and read it ; on him fell that hour 
 
6 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 Memories full dear, and loud he sang and long ; 
 He sang a warrior's praise, yet named him not ; 
 He sang : " From name of man to name of beast 
 A warrior changed ; then mightiest grew of men ! " 
 And, as he sang, the cheek of Meave grew red. 
 
 Next morn Neara's sons outsped the rest, 
 Car-borne with brandished spears, and, ere the dew 
 Was hfted, came to where Cuchullain sat 
 Beneath an oak, sporting with black-birds twain 
 That followed him for aye. Toward the youths 
 He waved his hand : " Away, for ye are young ! " 
 In answer forth they flung their spears ; he caught 
 
 them, 
 And snapt them on his knee ; next, swift as fire. 
 Sprang on the twain, and slew them with his sword, 
 One blow ; anon he loosed their horses' bits. 
 And they, with madness winged, rejoined the host. 
 Bearing those headless bulks. Forth looked the 
 
 queen : 
 Beheld ; and, trembling, cried : " It might have been 
 Orloff, my son ! " 
 
 That eve, at banquet ranged 
 The warriors questioned Fergus : " Who is best 
 Among the Uladh chiefs? " Ere answer came 
 King Conor's son self-exiled, Conlinglas, 
 Upleaping cried, " Cuchullain is his name ! 
 Cuchullain ! From his childhood man was he ! 
 On Eman Macha ever was his thought, 
 Its walls, its bulwarks, and its Red Branch Knights, 
 The wonder of the world." Then told the prince 
 
CUCHULLAIN 7 
 
 How, when his mother mocked his zeal, that child 
 Fared forth alone, with wooden sword and shield, 
 And fife, and silver ball ; and how he hurled 
 His little spears before him as he ran, 
 And caught them ere they fell ; and how, arrived, 
 He spurned great Eman's gates, and scaled its wall. 
 And hghted in the pleasaurice of the king, 
 His mother's brother, Conor Conchobar ; 
 And how the noble youths of all that land. 
 There trained in warlike arts, had on him dashed 
 With insult and with blows ; and how the child 
 This way and that had hurled them, while the king 
 Who sat that hour with Fergus, playing chess, 
 Gazed from his turret wondering^ 
 
 Next he told 
 How to that child, Setanta first, there fell 
 Cuchullain's nobler name. " To Eman near 
 There dwelt an armourer, Cullain was his name, 
 That earliest rose, and latest with his forge 
 Reddened the night ; mail-clad in might of his 
 The Red Branch Knights forth rode ; the bard, the 
 
 chief. 
 Claimed him for friend. One day, when Conor's self 
 Partook his feast, the armourer held discourse : 
 * The Gods have made my house a house of fame ; 
 The craftsmen grin and grudge because I prosper ; 
 The forest bandits hunger for my goods. 
 Yea, and would eat mine anvil if they might — 
 Trow ye what saves me. Sirs? A Hound is mine ; 
 Each eve I loose him ; lion-like is he ; 
 
8 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 The blood of many a rogue is on his mouth ; 
 The bravest, if they hear him bay far off, 
 Flee like a deer ! ' Setanta's shout rang loud 
 That moment at the gate, and, with it blent. 
 The baying of that hound ! ' The boy is dead,' 
 King Conor cried in horror. Forth they rushed — 
 There stood he, bright and calm, his rigid hands 
 Clasping the dead hound's throat ! They wept for 
 
 joy; 
 The armourer wept for grief. ' My friend is dead ! 
 My friend that kept my house and me at peace : 
 My friend that loved his lord ! ' Setanta heard, 
 Then first, that cry forth issuing from the heart 
 Of him whose labour wins his children's bread — 
 That cry he honours yet. Red-cheeked he spake : 
 'Cullain ! unwittingly I did thee wrong ! 
 I make amends. I, child of kings, henceforth 
 Abide, thy watch-hound, warder of thy house.' 
 Thenceforth the ' Hound of Cullain ' was his name. 
 And Cullain's house well warded." 
 
 Stern of brow. 
 The queen arose : " Enough of fables, lords ! 
 Drink to the victory ! Ere yon moon is dead, 
 We knock at gates of Eman." High she held 
 The crimson goblet. Instant, felt ere heard. 
 Vibration strange troubled the moonlit air ; 
 A long-drawn hiss o'er-ran it ; then a cry. 
 Death-cry of warrior wounded to the death. 
 They rose ; they gazed around ; Cuchullain stood. 
 High on a rock. The swift one said in heart, 
 
CUCHULLAIJSr 9 
 
 " I will not slay her ; yet her pride shall die ! " 
 
 Again that hiss ; instant the golden crown 
 
 Fell from her head ! In wrath she glared around ; 
 
 Once more that hiss long-drawn, and in her hand 
 
 The goblet, shivered, stood ! She cast it down ; 
 
 She cried, " Since first I sat, a queen new-crowned, 
 
 Never such ignominy, or spleen of scorn, 
 
 Hath mocked my greatness ! " Fiercely rushed the 
 
 chiefs 
 Against the aggressor. Through the high-roofed 
 
 woods 
 They saw him distant, like a falhng star 
 Kindling the air with speed. Ere long, close by 
 He stood with sling high holden. At its sound 
 Ever some great one died ! 
 
 The morrow morn 
 Cuchullain reached a lawn ; tall autumn grass 
 Whitened within it, but the beech trees round 
 Were russet brown, the thorn-brakes berry-flushed ; 
 Passing, he raised his spear and launched it forth 
 Earthward ; there stood it buried in the soil 
 Halfway, and quivering. Loud Cuchullain laughed. 
 And cried, " It quivers like the tail of swine 
 Gladdened by acorn feast ! " then drew he rein 
 And with one sword-stroke felled a youngling birch 
 And bound it to that spear, and on its bark. 
 Silvery and smooth, graved with his lance's point 
 In Ogham characters the words : " Beware ! 
 Unless thou know'st what hand this Ogham traced, 
 Twine yonder berries 'mid thy young bride's locks, 
 
10 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 But spare to tempt that hand ! " An hour passed by, 
 And Meave had reached the spot. Chief following 
 
 chief 
 Drew near in turn ; yet none could drag from earth 
 That spear deep-buried. Fergus laughed : " Let be, 
 Connacians ! Task is here for Uladh's hand ! " 
 Then, standing in his car, he clutched the spear 
 And tugged it thrice. The third time 'neath his feet 
 Down crashed the strong-built chariot to the ground. 
 He laughed ! The queen in anger cried : " March 
 
 on ! " 
 The host advanced, disordered. Foremost drave 
 Orloff, Meave's son. That morning he had wed 
 A maid, the loveliest in his mother's court. 
 And yearned to prove his valour in her eyes. 
 Sudden he came to where Cuchullain stood, 
 Pasturing his steeds with grass and flower forth held 
 In wooing, dallying hand. Cuchullain said, 
 "The queen's son this ! I will not harm the youth," 
 And waved him to depart. That stripling turned. 
 Yet, turning, hurled his javelin. As it flew 
 Cuchullain caught it, poised it, hurled it home ; 
 It pierced that youth from back to breast ; he fell, 
 Dead on the chariot's floor. The steeds rushed on. 
 Wind-swift ; and reached the camp. There sat the 
 
 queen 
 Throned in her car, listening the host's applause ; 
 In swoon she fell, and lay as lie the dead. 
 
 Next morn again the invaders marched, nor knew 
 What foe was he who, mocking, thinned their ranks, 
 
CUCHULLAIN 11 
 
 Trampled their pride ; who, lacking spear and car, 
 
 Viewless by day, by night a fleeting fire. 
 
 Dragged down their mightiest, in the death-cry shrill 
 
 Drowning the revel. Fergus knew the man, 
 
 Fergus alone ; nor yet divulged his name, 
 
 Oft muttering : " These be men who fight for Bulls — 
 
 I war to shake a Perjurer from his throne, 
 
 And count no brave man foe." Again at feast 
 
 Ailill made question of the Red Branch Knights. 
 
 Fergus replied : " Cuchullain is their best ; 
 
 I taught him arms ! Hear of his Knighting Day ! 
 
 Northward of Eman hes a pleasaunce green. 
 
 The Arch-Druid, Cathbad, gazer on the stars. 
 
 While there the youths contended, beckoned one 
 
 And whispered : ' Happy shall that stripling prove 
 
 Knighted this day ! Glorious his Hfe, though brief ! ' 
 
 That hour Cuchullain stood beyond the wall 
 
 South of the city, yet he heard that whisper ! 
 
 He heard, and cried : ' Enough one day of life. 
 
 If great my deeds, and helpful ! ' Swift of foot 
 
 He sped to Conor. ' I demand, great king. 
 
 Knighthood this day, and knighthood at thy hand.' 
 
 But Conor laughed : ' Not fifteen years are thine ! 
 
 Withhold thyself yet three.' That self-same hour 
 
 Old Cathbad entered, and his Druid clan. 
 
 And spake : ' King Conor ! by my bed last night 
 
 Great Macha stood, the worship of our race. 
 
 Our strength in realms unseen. "Arise," she said ; 
 
 " To Conor speed ; to him report my will ; 
 
 That youth knighted this day is mine Elect ! 
 
12 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 I, Macha, send him forth ! " 
 
 " ' She spake and passed ; 
 Trembled the place like cliffs o'er ocean caves ; 
 Like thunder underground I heard her wheels 
 In echoes slowly dying.' 
 
 " Fixed and firm 
 King Conor stood. Sternly he made reply : 
 ' Queen Macha had her day and ruled ; far down 
 Doubtless this hour she rules, or rules aloft ; 
 I rule in Eman and this Uladh realm ; 
 I will not knight a stripling ! ' Prophet-like 
 Up-towered old Cathbad, and his sons black-stoled. 
 This way and that they rolled prophetic bolts 
 Three hours, and brake with warnings from the stars 
 And mandates from the synod of the Gods 
 The king's resolve. At last he cried, ' So be it ! 
 Since Gods, like men, grow witless, be it so ! 
 The worse for Eman, and great Macha's land ! 
 Stand forth, my sister's son ! ' He spake and bound 
 The Geisa, and the edicts, and the vows 
 Of that dread Red Branch Order on the boy, 
 And gave him sword and lance. 
 
 " An eye star-keen 
 That boy upon them fixed, and, each on each, 
 Smote them. They snapt in twain. Laughing, he 
 
 cried : 
 ' Good art thou. Uncle mine, but these are base ; 
 I need a warrior's weapons ! ' Conor signed ; 
 Then brought his knaves ten swords, and lances ten j 
 Cuchullain eyed them each and snapt them all, 
 
CUCHULLAIN 13 
 
 The concourse marvelling. ' Varlets,' cried the king, 
 ' Bring forth my arms of battle ! ' These in turn 
 Cuchullain proved ; they brake not. Up they dragged 
 A battle-car. Cuchullain leaped therein ; 
 With feet far set he spurned its brazen floor 
 That roared and sank in fragments. Chariots twelve 
 Successive thus he vanquished. * Uncle mine, 
 Good art thou,' cried the youth ; ' but these are base ! ' 
 King Conor signed, ' My car of battle ! ' Leagh, 
 The charioteer, forth brought it with the steeds ; 
 Cuchullain proved that war-car and it stood. 
 Careless he spake : ' So, well ! The car will serve ! 
 Abide ye my return.' 
 
 " He shook the reins ; 
 He called the horses by their names- well-known ; 
 He dashed through Eman's gateway as a storm. 
 Far off a darksome wood and darksome tower 
 Frowned over Mallok's wave ; therein abode 
 Three bandit chieftains, foes to man ; well pleased 
 Those bandits eyed the on-rushing car and youth. 
 Exulting in their prey. That youth, arrived, 
 Summoned those three to judgment ; forth they 
 
 thronged, 
 They and their clan ; he slew them with his sling, 
 The three ; and severed with his sword their heads, 
 And fixed them on the chariot's front. His mood 
 Changed then to mirthful ; fleeter than the wind 
 Six stags went by him, stateUest of the herd ; 
 Afoot he chased them, caught them, bound them fast 
 Behind the chariot rail. Birds saw he next, 
 
14 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 White as a foam-wreath of their native sea, 
 Spotting the glebe new turned. A net lay near ; 
 He caged them ; next he tied them to his car, 
 Wide-winged, and wailing loud. To Eman's towers 
 Returned he last with laughter ; at its gate 
 The king, the chiefs, grey Druids, maids red-cloaked. 
 Agape to see him ; on his chariot's front 
 The grim heads of those bandits ; in its rear 
 Those stags wide-horned; and, high o'erhead, the 
 birds ! " 
 
 The laughter ceased ; then spake King Conor's son : 
 "Recount the wonder of those fairy steeds 
 That drag Cuchullain's war-car ! " Fergus then, 
 Despite Queen Meave, who plaited still her robe 
 With angry hectic hand, the tale began. 
 
 " Cuchullain paced the herbage thin that clothes 
 SUeve Fuad's summit. On that airy height 
 A wan lake glittered, whitening in the blast. 
 Pale plains around it. From beneath that lake 
 Emerged a horse foam- white ! Cuchullain saw, 
 And straightway round that creature's neck high 
 
 held 
 Locked the lithe arms no struggles could unwind. 
 That courser, baffled, clothed his strength with speed ; 
 From chff to cliff he sped ; cleared at a bound 
 Inlet and rocky rift ; nor stayed his course. 
 Men say, till he had circled Erin's Isle ; 
 Panting then lay he, on his conqueror's knee 
 Resting his head ; thenceforth that conqueror's friend, 
 His ' Liath Macha.' Gentle- souled is she — 
 
CUCHULLAIN 15 
 
 * Sangland,' the wild one's comrade. As the night 
 Sank on those huge red-berried woods of yew, 
 Lough Darvra's girdle, from the ebon wave 
 She issued, darker still. Softly she paced. 
 As though with woman's foot, the grassy marge 
 In violets diapered, and laid her head 
 Upon Cuchullain's shoulder. In his wars 
 Emulous those mated marvels drag his car ; 
 In peace he yokes them never." 
 
 Fergus rose : 
 " Night wanes," he said, " and tasks await my hand." 
 Passing the throne he whispered thus the queen : 
 ''The Hound of Uladh is your visitant 
 Both day and night." The cheek of Meave grew 
 pale. 
 
 II 
 
 Thus ever day by day, and night by night, 
 Through strength of him that 'mid the royal host 
 Passed, and re-passed like thought, the bravest fell 
 For ne'er against the inglorious or the small 
 Cuchullain raised his hand. Then Ailill spake : 
 " Let Fergus seek that champion in the woods. 
 Gift-laden, and withdraw him from his king." 
 But Fergus answered : " Sue and be refused ! 
 That great one loves his country. Heard ye never 
 How when King Conor's sin, that forfeit pledge 
 Plighted with Usnach's sons, had left the Accursed 
 Crownless, and Eman's bulwarks in the dust, 
 
16 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 Her elders on CuchuUain worked, what time 
 
 He came my work of vengeance to complete ? 
 
 They said : ' CuchuUain loves his land o'er all ! 
 
 The man besides, though terrible to foes, 
 
 Is tender to the weak. Through Eman's streets 
 
 Send ye proclaim, " Will any holy maid 
 
 To save the city take her station sole 
 
 On yonder bridge, at parting of the ways, 
 
 That city's Emblem-Victim, robed in black 
 
 Down from her girdle to the naked feet ; 
 
 Above that girdle this alone — the chains 
 
 Of Eman's gate, circUng that virgin throat 
 
 And down at each side streaming ? It may be 
 
 That dread one will relent, pitying in her 
 
 Great Uladh's self despoiled of robe and crown, 
 
 Her raiment bonds and shame." ' Of Eman's maids 
 
 But one, the best and purest, gave consent. 
 
 Alone she stood at parting of the ways ; 
 
 While near and nearer yet that war-car drew. 
 
 Wide-eyed she stood, death-pale ; it stopped ; she 
 
 spake : 
 ' Eman, thy Mother, stands a widow now. 
 Despoiled of crown, her raiment bonds and shame ; 
 And many a famished babe that wrought no ill 
 Lies 'mid her ruins wailing.' To the left 
 The warrior turned his steeds. The land was saved." 
 
 Then spake the kings confederate : " Hard albeit 
 That task, to draw CuchuUain from his charge. 
 Seek him, and proffer terms ! " Fergus next morn 
 Made way through those sea-skirting woods, and cried 
 
CUCHULLAIN 17 
 
 Three times, "Setanta;" and Cuchullain heard. 
 And knew that voice, and, beaming, issued forth, 
 And clasped his ancient master round the neck, 
 And led him to his sylvan cell. Therein 
 Long time they held discourse of ancient days, 
 Heaven-fair through mist of years. The youthful host 
 Set forth their rural feast, whate'er the woods 
 And they that in them dwelt, swine-herds and hinds, 
 Yielded, their best : nor lacked it minstrel strain. 
 Bird-song by autumn chilled, that brake through 
 
 boughs 
 Lit by unwarming sunshine. Banquet o'er, 
 Fergus disclosed the terms of Meave, and gifts 
 By her and xAilill sent. Cuchullain rose 
 And curtly answered : " Never will I break 
 My vow ; nor wrong the land ; nor sell my king." 
 Fergus too royal was to hear surprised. 
 Or grieved, his friend's resolve, nor touched again 
 Upon that pact unworthy. Happier themes 
 Succeeded, mirthful some. Of these the last 
 Made sport of Ailill. Fergus spake : " One night 
 I sped to Meave's pavilion swift of foot ; 
 War-tidings wait not. Ailill from afar 
 Furtively followed, stung by jealous spleen. 
 The queen had passed into the inner tent ; 
 I sought her there. In the outer Ailill marked 
 My sword, that morning thither sent, a loan. 
 For Meave had vowed to out-brave its hilt with gems 
 Blazoning her zone. His wrath was changed to joy ! 
 He snatched it up ; he cried, ^ Hail, forfeit mine ! 
 
18 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 Hail Eric just ! ' and laughed his childish laugh. 
 
 Since then he neither frowns on me nor smiles. 
 
 He will not let me rule his foolish kings ; 
 
 Yet, deeming still my sword a charm 'gainst fate, 
 
 Wears it. An apter one I keep for him ; 
 
 One day 'twill raise a laugh ! " In graver mood 
 
 At parting Fergus spake : " I grant that pact 
 
 Proposed by Meave fitter for her than thee ; 
 
 Yet hide not if thou know'st of terms more meet." 
 
 To whom Cuchullain : " Fergus, terms there be. 
 
 Other and meeter. I divulge them not ; 
 
 Divine them he that seeks them ! " On the morn 
 
 Fergus declared his tidings to the chiefs 
 
 In synod met. A recreant churl arose, 
 
 And thus gave counsel : " Lure Cuchullain here 
 
 On pretext fair; and slay him at the feast." 
 
 Against that recreant Fergus hurled his spear, 
 
 And slew him, and continued : '' Hundreds six, 
 
 Our best, have perished, and our march is slow. 
 
 Now, warriors, hear my counsel, and my terms ; 
 
 Cuchullain scorns your gifts — of such no more ! 
 
 'Twixt southern Erin and my Uladh's realm 
 
 Runs Neeth ; across that river lies a ford ; 
 
 Speak to Cuchullain : ' By that ford stand thou, 
 
 Guarding thy land. Against thee, day by day, 
 
 Be ours to send one champion — one alone. 
 
 While lasts that strife, forbear the host beside ! ' " 
 
 Then roared the kings a long and loud applause. 
 Since wise appeared that counsel ; faith they pledged. 
 And sureties in the hearing of the Gods : 
 
CUCHULLAIN 19 
 
 Likewise Cuchullain, when his friend returned, 
 Made answer : " Well you guessed ! a month or more 
 My strength will hold ; meantime, our Uladh arms." 
 To seal that pact he sought the hostile camp, 
 And shared the banquet. Wondering, all men gazed ; 
 And maidens, Hfted on the warriors' shields. 
 Gladdened, so bright that youthful face. At morn 
 Meave, when the chief departed, kissed his cheek : 
 " Pity," she said, " that such a one should die ! " 
 The one sole time that Meave compassion felt. 
 
 That eve Cuchullain drank the wave of Neeth, 
 And wading reached Murthemn^'s soil, his charge. 
 And knelt, and kissed it. As the sun declined, 
 He clomb a rocky height, and northward gazed, 
 And cried : " Ye Red Branch warriors, haste ! I keep 
 The ford ; but who shall guard it when I die? " 
 
 Next morning by that stream the fight began. 
 Two champions face to face ; and, every morn. 
 Rang out, renewed, that combat ; every eve 
 Again went up from that confederate host 
 The shout of rage. Daily their bravest died. 
 Thirty in thirty days. Feerbraoth fell, 
 And Natherandal, though the Druid horde 
 Above his javelins, carved at set of moon 
 From the ever-sacred holly stem, had breathed 
 Vain consecration, and with futile salve 
 Anointed them ; confuted soon they sailed 
 In ignominy adown that seaward tide 
 With him that hurled them. Eterconnel next, 
 Dalot, and Cuir: — yet he who laid them low 
 
20 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 Was beardless at the lip. While thus they strove, 
 A second month went by. 
 
 Such things beholding, 
 The queen was moved ; and in her grew one day 
 Craving for Cruachan. But on her ear 
 Rolled forth that hour the lowings of that Bull, 
 Cualgn^'s Donn ; for he from Dare's house 
 Had heard, though far, the clamours of the host. 
 And answered rage with rage. Then Meave resolved, 
 " Though all my host should perish to a man, 
 This foot shall tread no more my native plains 
 Save with that Bull in charge ! " 
 
 To her by night 
 Came Caihtin, who ever walked by night 
 Shunning mankind, and Fergus most of all, — 
 Caihtin, father of the Magic Clan, 
 And thus addressed her : " Place in me thy trust ; 
 I hate Cuchullain, for he scorns my spells, 
 Resting his hope on virtue. In thy camp 
 Ferdia bides, a Firbolg feared of all. 
 Win him to meet Cuchullain. They in youth 
 Were friends ; to slay that friend will lay a hand 
 Icy as death upon Cuchullain's heart. 
 Ferdia dies — thus much mine art foreshews ; 
 Then I, since magic spells have puissance most 
 Not on the body sick but spirit depressed. 
 Fall on him with my seven and twenty sons, 
 Magicians all. One are we ; thence with one 
 May fight, thy pledge unflawed. A drop of blood 
 Shed by our swords, though small as beetle's eye. 
 
CUCHULLAIM 21 
 
 Costs him his Hfe." Fiercely the queen replied, 
 " A Firbolg ! Never ! " CaiUtin resumed : 
 "Then send for Lok Mac Favesh ! " 
 
 With the morn 
 Mac Favesh sought her tent. Direful his mien ; 
 Massive his stride ; his body brawny and huge ; 
 For, though of Gaelic race, the stock of Ir, 
 With him was mingled giant blood of old, 
 Wild blood of Nemedh's brood, that hurled sea rocks 
 'Gainst the Fomorian. Oft the advancing tide 
 Drowned both, in battle knit. Before the queen 
 Boastful the sea-king laid his club, and spake : 
 '' Queen, though to combat with a beardless boy 
 Affronts my name, my lineage, and my strength. 
 His petulance shall vex thine eye no more ! 
 Uladh is thine to-morrow ! " At the dawn. 
 By hundreds girt, the great ones of his clan, 
 Down drave he to the ford, and onward strode 
 Trampling the last year's branches strewn hard by 
 That snapped beneath him. Hides of oxen seven , 
 Sustained the brazen bosses of his shield ; 
 And forth he stretched a hand that might have grasped 
 A tiger's throat and choked him. O'er his helm 
 Hovered an imaged demon raven-black. 
 Cuchullain met him ; hours endured the strife, 
 That mountained strength triumphant now, anon 
 Cuchullain's might divine. Then first that might 
 Was fully tasked. Upon the bank that day 
 Stood up a Portent seen by none save him, 
 A Shape not human. Terribly it fixed 
 
22 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 On him alone its never-wandering eye ; 
 
 The dread Mor Reega, she that from the skies 
 
 O'er rules the battle-fields, and sways at will, 
 
 This way or that, the sable tides of death. 
 
 He gazed ; and, though incapable of fear, 
 
 Awe, such as heroes feel, possessed his heart ; 
 
 Its beatings shook his brain ; his corporal mould 
 
 Throbbed as a branch against some river swift ; 
 
 And backward turned his hair like berried trails 
 
 Of thorn athwart the hedge. Three several times 
 
 He saw her, yet fought on. With beckoning hand 
 
 At last that Portent summoned from the main 
 
 A huge sea-snake ; round him it twined its knots ; 
 
 Then on CuchuUain fell the rage from heaven ; 
 
 A sword-blow, and that vast sea-worm lay dead ! 
 
 A sword uplifted, and Mac Favesh fell 
 
 Prone on the shuddering flood. In death he cried : 
 
 " Lay me with forehead turned to Uladh's realm ; — 
 
 They shall not say that fugitive I died." 
 
 CuchuUain wrought his will ; then, bleeding fast. 
 
 Stood upright, leaning on his spear aslant ; 
 
 A warrior battle-wearied. 
 
 From the bank 
 Meantime, the dark magician, Cailitin, 
 He and his sons, with wide and greedy eyes, 
 That still, like one man's eyes, together moved. 
 Had watched that fight, counting each drop that fell 
 Down from Cuchullain's wounds. When faint he 
 
 stood, 
 At once their cry rang out like one man's cry ; 
 
CUCHULLAIN 23 
 
 Like one their seven and twenty javelins flew ; 
 As swift, Cuchullain caught them on his shield ; 
 An instant more, and all that horde accursed 
 Was dealing with him. From the trampled ford 
 Went up a mist of spray that veiled that strife, 
 Though pierced by demon cries, and flash beside 
 Of demon swords. O'er it at last up-towered, 
 On-borne — such power to blend have spirits impure — 
 A single Form — as when o'er seas storm-laid 
 The watery column reels, and draws from heaven 
 The cloud, and drowns the ship — a single Form, 
 And Head, and Hand, clutching Cuchullain's crest ; 
 Even then he sank not. O'er that mist of spray 
 Glittered his sword. There fell a silence strange ; 
 That spell, which made the many one, dissolved ; 
 Slowly that mist dispersed; and on the sands 
 That false Enchanter lay with all his sons. 
 Black, bleeding bulks of death. 
 
 Amid them stood 
 Cuchullain ; near him, seen by him alone, 
 That dread Mor Reega, now benign. She spake : 
 " I hated thee, because thy trust was less 
 In me than Virtue's aid. I hate no more. 
 Be strong ! a trial waits thee worse than this — 
 No man is friend of mine till trial-proved." 
 
 Yet, sad at heart, that eve Cuchullain clomb 
 His wonted rock, and faint with loss of blood, 
 And mused : " My strength must lessen day by day ; " 
 And northward gazed, thus murmuring : " All too 
 late 
 
24 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 To save the land those Red Branch Knights will 
 
 come 
 When I am dead — 
 
 My war- car, and my war- steeds are far off, 
 And I am here alone." That night through grief 
 He slept not ; for the Magic Clan had power, 
 Though dead, to lean above him as a cloud 
 Darkening his spirit, and to grief and shame 
 Changing bright days gone by. 
 
 While thus he sat. 
 He saw, not distant, on the forest floor. 
 In moonbeams clad, though moon was near him none, 
 A pure and princely presence. Lithe his form 
 In youthful prime ; chain armour round him clung, 
 Bright as if woven of diamonds. Glad his eye ; 
 Dulcet his voice as strain from Elfin glen. 
 Far heard o'er waters. Thus that warrior spake : 
 " My child, an ancestor of thine am I, 
 Great Ethland's son, in sacred battle slain. 
 Fencing my people from an aUen foe. 
 Among the Sidils now, and fairy haunts 
 Moon-lit, and under depths of lucent lakes, 
 Gladness I have who in my day had woe. 
 And youth perpetual though I died in age. 
 Thou need'st repose ; for sixty days thine eyes 
 Have closed reluctant. Sleep a three days' sleep, 
 Whilst I, thy semblance bearing, meet thy foes." 
 Thus spake the youth, then sang Lethean song 
 Wedded with virgin song from waters near, 
 And, straight, Cuchullain slept. Three days gone by. 
 
CUCHULLAIN 25 
 
 Again that vision came. '' Arise," he said ; 
 
 The warrior rose ; and lo ! his wounds were healed ; 
 
 Down sped he to the river. 
 
 Waiting there 
 Stood up larion, champion of the queen, — 
 There stood, nor thence returned. Eochar next 
 Perished, then Tubar, Chylair, Alp, and Ord, 
 In all full ninety warriors. Ninety days 
 Had fled successive since that strife began, 
 When, on the ninetieth eve, at set of sun. 
 His strength entire, and victory eagle-winged 
 Fanning his ardent cheek, Cuchullain scaled 
 Once more that specular rock. Within his heart 
 Spirit illusive, that with purpose veiled 
 Oft tries the loftiest most, this presage sang : 
 '' Southward, not distant, thou shalt see them march 
 At last, that Red Branch Order, in their van 
 Thy Conal Carnach ! " Other spectacle 
 Met him, a chariot small with horses small. 
 And, o'er the axle bent, a small old man. 
 Urging them feebly on. It was his sire ! 
 T'wards him Cuchullain rushed ; the old man wept, 
 For gladness wept, and afterwards for woe. 
 Kissing the wounds unnumbered of his son. 
 Reverent, Cuchullain led him to his cell ; 
 Reverent, he placed before him wine and meat ; 
 Nor questioned yet. The old man satisfied, 
 Garrulity returned, though less than once. 
 Now quelled by patriot passion. Thus he spake : 
 " Setanta ! son of mine ! I bring ill news. 
 
26 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 Uladh is mad ; the Red Branch House is mad ; 
 
 Mad as thy mother ; all the world are mad, 
 
 And I that was a mad man twenty years 
 
 Am now of Uladh's sons most nigh to sane. 
 
 Attend my tidings ! Through the realm I sped. 
 
 A mist hung o'er it heavy, and on her sons 
 
 Imbecile spirit, and a heartless mind. 
 
 And base soul-sickness. Evermore I cried, 
 
 * Arise ! the stranger's foot is on your soil ; 
 
 They come to stall their horses in your halls ; 
 
 To slay your sons ; enslave your spotless maids ; 
 
 Alone my son withstands them ! ' Shrewd of eye 
 
 Men answered, ' Merchant ; see thy wares be sound ! 
 
 No lack-wits we ! ' Old seers I saw that decked 
 
 Time-honoured foreheads with a jester's crown. 
 
 I saw an oUamb trample under foot 
 
 His sacred Oghams ; next I saw him grave 
 
 His own blear image on the tide-washed sands. 
 
 Boasting, ' The unnumbered ages here shall stoop, 
 
 Honouring true Wisdom's image.' Shepherds set 
 
 The wolf to guard their fold. The wittol bade 
 
 The losel lead his wife to feast and dance ; 
 
 Young warriors looked on maids with woman's eyes. 
 
 I drave to Dare's Dun ; his loud-voiced sons 
 
 Adored the Donn Cualgn^ as their sire, 
 
 And called their sire a calf To Iliach's tower 
 
 I sped ; he answered, ' What ! the foe ! they come ! 
 
 Climb we yon apple trees, and garner store ! 
 
 Wayfarers need much victual ! ' Onward next 
 
 To Sencha's castle ; on the roof he knelt, 
 
CUCHULLAIN 27 
 
 Self-styled the kingdom's chief astrologer, 
 
 Waiting the unrisen stars. To Olchar's Dun 
 
 I journeyed ; wrapped in rags the strong man lay, 
 
 Thin from long fast; with eyelids well-nigh closed ; 
 
 Not less beneath them lay a gleaming streak : 
 
 ' Awake me not,' he said : ' a dormouse I ! 
 
 Till peace returns I simulate to sleep.' 
 
 I sought the brothers Nemeth ; one his eyes 
 
 Bent on the smoke-wreath from his chimney's top, 
 
 One on the foam- streak wavering down the stream ; 
 
 While each a finger raised, and said, ' Tread light ! 
 
 All earth is grass o'er glass ! ' I sought the mart ; 
 
 Men babbled : ' Bid the Druids find the king ! ' 
 
 I sought the Druids' College ; in a hall, 
 
 Reed-strewn to smother sound, they held debate 
 
 On Firbolg and Dedannan contracts pledged 
 
 Ere landed first the Gael. The Red Branch House 
 
 Was changed to hospital: and knights full-armed 
 
 Nodded o'er lepers' beds. I sought the king ; 
 
 From hall deserted on to hall I roamed ; 
 
 I found him in his armoury walled around 
 
 With mail of warriors dead. There stood, or lay, 
 
 The chiefs by Uladh worshipped. Nearest, crouched 
 
 Great Conal Carnach patting of his sword 
 
 Like nurse that lulls an infant. On his throne 
 
 Sat Conchobar in miniver and gold ; 
 
 His eyes were on his grandsire's shield that breathed 
 
 At times a sigh athwart the steel-lit gloom ; 
 
 Around his lips an idiot's smile was curled : 
 
 ^ What will be, will be,' spake the king at last : 
 
28 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 ' All things go well.' " 
 
 Thus Saltain told his tale. 
 One thing he told not — how, a moment's space, 
 The passion of an old man's scorn had wrought 
 Deliverance strange for that astonished throng. 
 High miracle of nature. He, the man 
 Despised since youth, the laughter of the crowd, 
 Himself restored to youth by change like death, 
 Had rolled his voice abroad, a mighty voice. 
 They heard it ; from their trance they burst ; they 
 
 stood. 
 Radiant once more with mind ! They stood till died 
 The noble anger's latest echo. Then 
 That mist storm-riven put forth once more its hand, 
 And downward dragged its prey. 
 
 Upon his feet. 
 When ceased his father's voice, Cuchullain sprang ; 
 That rage divine which gave him strength divine 
 Had fallen on him from heaven. He raised his 
 
 hands. 
 And roared against the synod of the Gods 
 That suffer shames below. Beyond the stream 
 That host confederate heard and armed in haste, 
 And slept that night in armour. Far away 
 Compassion touched the strong hearts of the Gods, 
 The strongest most — Mor Reega's. Ere that cry 
 Had left its last vibration on the air, 
 High up the Battle-Goddess, adamant-mailed. 
 Was drifting over Uladh. E man's towers 
 Flashed back her helmet's beam. With lifted spea-r 
 
CUCHULLAIN 29 
 
 She smote the brazen centre of her shield 
 
 Three times; and thunder, triple-bolted, rolled 
 
 Three times from sea to sea. The spell was snapped. 
 
 Humanity returned to man ! The first 
 
 Who woke was Leagh, Cuchullain's charioteer ; 
 
 Forth from the opprobrious mist he passed, hke ship 
 
 That cleaves the limit of some low marsh-fog 
 
 And sweeps into main ocean. Forth he rushed, 
 
 Forth to Cuchullain's chariot-house, and dragged 
 
 Abroad that war-car feared of all — men say 
 
 The axle burnt beneath his hand — and yoked 
 
 White Liath Macha, and hi^ comrade black, 
 
 And dashed adown the vacant, echoing streets. 
 
 And passed the gateway towers ; the warders slept ; 
 
 Beyond them, propped against the city wall, 
 
 A cripple crunched his mouldering crust. Still on 
 
 He rushed, the reins forth shaking and the scourge. 
 
 Clamouring and crying : " Haste, Cuchullain's steeds ! 
 
 On, Liath Macha ! Sable Sangland, on ! 
 
 Your master needs you ! Ay ! ye know it now ! 
 
 The blood-red nostril smells the fight far off ! 
 
 On to Murthemne, and Cualgne's hills, 
 
 And Neeth's remembered ford ! " Unseen he drave ; 
 
 So, slowly, clinging still to brake and rock, 
 
 And oft re-settling, vanished from the land 
 
 The insane mist. That hurricane of wheels 
 
 Not less was heard by men who nothing saw ; 
 
 On stony plain, in hamlet and in vale. 
 
 They muttered, as in sleep, " Deliverance comes." 
 
30 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 III 
 
 Meantime the queen, ere dawned that ninetieth morn, 
 
 Mused, ill at ease : " Daily my people die, 
 
 And many a stormy brow on me is bent. 
 
 What if they turn on me like starving hounds 
 
 That rend their huntsman? " In her ear once more 
 
 Sounded the word of Caihtin : " The man 
 
 To fight Cuchullain is the man he loves. 
 
 His death were death to both." Then came the kings 
 
 Confederate, saying, " Send Ferdia forth ! 
 
 Ferdia is the mightiest of our host ; 
 
 Ferdia is Cuchullain's chief of friends ; 
 
 Westward of Alba in the Isle of Skye, 
 
 Scatha, that rock-browed northern warrioress, 
 
 In amplest lore of battles trained them both. 
 
 Except the Gae-Bulg, every feat of arms 
 
 Is known to each alike." 
 
 The queen gave way. 
 She sent her herald to the man she scorned 
 With offers huge, tract vaster than his own, 
 Not barren like his mountains billow -beat, 
 But laughing in the lap of Ai's plains ; 
 A war-car deftly carved and ribbed with brass ; 
 And, for his clansmen, raiment of all dyes. 
 Twelve suits. A stalwart man, yet fair as strong. 
 The Firbolg towered, dark-eyed, dark-haired, pale- 
 faced. 
 Unlike the Gael. Melodious was his voice, 
 But deeper than a Hon's. Ceaseless thought 
 
CUCHULLAIN 31 
 
 On immemorial wrongs — he brooded still 
 
 O'er glories of Moytura and Tailltenn, 
 
 Their great assembhes and their solemn games, 
 
 And kingly graves — had stamped upon his brow 
 
 Perpetual shade ; and ever, on the march. 
 
 If high on crags there stood some Gaelic tomb 
 
 Wind-worn a thousand years, he passed it by 
 
 With face averse, muttering, " New men ! New men ! 
 
 We note not such ! " The herald's task discharged. 
 
 He answered thus, not turning : " Tell your queen 
 
 That I, a Firbolg, serve, but not for hire, 
 
 A cause not mine. Cuchullain is my friend. 
 
 Better I died than he." 
 
 O'er-awed though wroth 
 The queen despatched in stateHer embassage 
 Three warriors, and three ollambs, and three bards. 
 With reverence they addressed him. " Chief and 
 
 Prince ! 
 True prince, though scion of a house deject, 
 The queen, who judges all men by their deeds, 
 This day hath in thine honour made a feast 
 And sues to it thy presence. Kings alone 
 Partake that banquet ; Ailill first, and she 
 Of princesses the fairest, Finobar ! " 
 Scornful the Firbolg answered, " Finobar ! 
 She whose bright face hath frosted with death's white 
 Full four score faces of war-breathing men 
 Sent to that Ford successive ! Let it be ! 
 Tell them I join their feast ; tell them beside 
 Their bribe shall prove base gold ! " 
 
32 OLD IRISH LA YS 
 
 In mantle blue 
 Clasped by a silver torque, and silver belt 
 Enringed with silver rings innumerable, 
 That evening from his tent Ferdia strode 
 With large attendance. Ailill and the queen 
 Received him on their threshold. At the board 
 Princes alone had place. High up, o'er each, 
 Glittered upon the wall his blazoned shield. 
 King Ailill placed Ferdia on his right ; 
 Beyond him sat the Princess. In her ear 
 Her mother whispered as she neared that seat ; 
 She answered with her eyes. 
 
 Well-stricken harp 
 Gladdened that festive throng ; and Ailill told, 
 The rage of hunger lessening by degrees. 
 Full many a tale of the heroic past. 
 When, youthful yet, he ranged 'mid friends and foes - 
 Such men as breathed no longer. Servitors 
 Brimmed oft the goblets ; and Ferdia's brow. 
 As song to song succeeded, tale to tale, 
 Remitted its first sternness. Finobar 
 Unconsciously had dropped her jewelled hand 
 Not far from his ; her large and dusky eyes. 
 Shyly at first from his withdrawn, at last 
 Full frankly met them ; on her hps the smile 
 Increased, though waveringly, then waned, not died, 
 And in it sadness mingled as she spake : 
 '' But late yon harper told us of a dream — 
 My earliest of remembered dreams was sad ; 
 I saw some princess of your earlier stock 
 
CUCHULLAIN 33 
 
 Whose lover late had perished, slain in fight 
 
 By ours, methoiight then recent. At her feet — 
 
 Why there I scarcely know — I made lament : 
 
 ' All thou hast lost for thy sake I renounce ; 
 
 For me, like thee, no bridal rites forever ! 
 
 Dead on thy marriage garland lies mine own. 
 
 For, lo ! the stain accursed is on our sword ; 
 
 Thy race came first ; this Island should be theirs ! ' " 
 
 Ferdia listened ; and the icy pride 
 
 Thawed in his bosom. With a sudden change 
 
 The jubilant music into martial soared, 
 
 Wild battle-chaunt. Upon the warrior's hand. 
 
 Still nigh to hers, there lay a scar. With eye 
 
 Reverently dewed the princess gazed thereon : 
 
 '' Yes, of your war-deeds I have heard so long, 
 
 It seems as though since childhood — Whence that 
 
 wound ? 
 What battle left it there? What sister bound it? 
 I would that sister were my sister too, 
 Partaker of my heart, my hope, my life. 
 I have no youthful friend ! " She paused; again 
 But now with paler cheek, and hurried, spake : 
 " Beware my mother ! She' would send you forth 
 Her knight to meet Cuchullain ! Shun that man ! 
 CuchuUain spares not ; four score warriors dead 
 Avouch it. Chief of Gaels he is ! Ah me ! 
 The last great battle 'twixt the old race and new 
 Would find the same sad ending as the first." 
 The Firbolg frowned ; she faltered, " Am I false. 
 False to my race " — and tears were in her voice — 
 
 D 
 
34 OLD IRISH LA YS 
 
 " False to my race, who cannot wish such ending? " 
 She paused ; again she questioned of his wars; 
 He told her of his sire's. Like one who thinks, 
 Not speaks, she murmured low, '' A soothsayer 
 Thus warned my mother — I was then a child — 
 ' Bring not that maid to war-fields ! She shall die 
 Grieving for some dead warrior.' " 
 
 Speaking thus, 
 Though false, the princess lied not. 
 
 Changed once more 
 The martial songs to amorous and of mirth, 
 And once again the torches' golden flame 
 Laughed on the cup new-brimmed. Again she spake, 
 That lovesome one : " I love not songs of love ! 
 Better the war- song ! Best, methinks, of all 
 That lullaby, half war and sorrow half. 
 Breathed by some bride while o'er her wounded lord 
 Softly descends the sleep : — so softly sank 
 Cold dews of evening on this flower still wet." 
 She took it from her breast, and held it near ; 
 He smelt it ; kissed it ; kept it. With a smile 
 She added, *' For your sister? Have you one? 
 If so, 'tis likely she resembles me. 
 I'hey chide me oft : ' No Gaelic face is thine. 
 Dark-eyed, dark-browed, a rebel since its birth ! ' " 
 She ceased ; again she spake : " Even now, methinks, 
 That lullaby I spake of I can hear ! 
 Is it for thee, my friend, or CuchuUain? " 
 That hand, of flower amerced, drew nearer yet 
 To his. That smile had passed. Tearful she turned 
 
CUCHULLAIN 35 
 
 On him those luminaries of love and death, 
 Her eyes, like stars in midnight waters glassed ; 
 Turned them, but spake no longer. Through his 
 
 brain 
 Shivered their shrouded lustre ; through his blood. 
 The sanguine currents from the warrior's heart 
 Long sad, to female sympathies unused. 
 Drank up at once that splendour, and the tears 
 That splendour's strange eclipse. 
 
 And yet, that hour, 
 Seen in some loneHer region of his soul. 
 Another presence, O how different ! stood. 
 Again, that hour, he saw those guileless eyes, 
 Blue as the seas they gazed on ; saw once more 
 That hair like winter sunshine, brow snow-white. 
 That unvoluptuous form and virginal. 
 That love-unwakened breast with love for all, 
 Those hands that knew not what their touch con- 
 ferred. 
 Those blithesome, wave-washed, scarce divided feet : — 
 The huge cliff smiled upon her ; seemed to say, 
 "Ah, little nursUng mine ! Ah, tender child 
 Of winds and rocks untender ! " 
 
 Had he loved ? 
 Sadness is celibate and eremite. 
 His converse long had been with injuries past, 
 In Scatha's Isle with frowning crags and clouds — 
 Ay, but with one beside, a friend, his nearest, 
 Who loved the daughter of that warrioress 
 And sued Ferdia's help in love. Ferdia 
 
36 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 Had never spoken love ; nor thought, "I love ; " 
 And yet, that hour, was false. 
 
 A hundred harps 
 Rang out together, and the feast was o'er. 
 Murmured the rose-red lips ; but what they said 
 He heard not. Mournfully at last withdrew 
 That hand so near to his — he had not touched it — 
 Those eyes, like eyes fated thenceforth to bear 
 One image on till death. She joined her mother. 
 
 The queen, as he departed, took his hand. 
 Alone they stood ; she spake : " That noble scorn, 
 Which spurned a bribe, approves a Firbolg's worth. 
 'Twas Ailill sent that herald ; 'twas not I. 
 I know you now, and proffer royal terms 
 Confirmed by guarantee of all our kings. 
 Accept this combat ; and the princess wed ! 
 Ferdia ! I have made that offer thrice 
 To three dead warriors with the king's consent, 
 Never, till now, with hers ! " 
 
 He pledged his word. 
 The battle day was fixed ; the morrow morn. 
 She took that glittering torque whose splendours 
 
 clasped 
 Her mantle red ; with it his mantle bound. 
 Then with attendance to his tent he passed. 
 
 Meantime, that night within his forest lair 
 In dreams Cuchullain lay, and saw in dreams, 
 Not recent fights, but ocean and that Isle 
 Where with Ferdia he had dwelt in youth, 
 With Scatha — and another. And in dream 
 
CUCHULLAIN 37 
 
 He mused : "The dearest of my friends survives. 
 These wars will pass ; Ferdia, then, and I, 
 Thenceforth, are one for aye ! " That self-same hour 
 The Firbolg slowly woke from troubled sleep, 
 Murmuring, as one in trance, " Against my friend ! 
 Against my only friend ! " His clansmen watched 
 With gloomy brows his arming. One sole man 
 They feared — that man, Cuchullain. Morn the while 
 Was dawning, though she raised nor glowing cheek 
 Nor ardent eyes, with silver wand not gold 
 Striking the unkindling portals of the East ; 
 And, ere the sun had risen,. Ferdia bathed 
 Three times his forehead in the frosty stream ; 
 And bade his charioteer attend ; and drave, 
 Begirt by stateliest equipage of war, 
 Down to the river's brim. In regal pomp 
 The host confederate followed, keen to watch, 
 With Meave, and Ailill, and with Finobar, 
 All passions of a fight unmatched till then 
 On warfields of the immemorial world ; 
 While clustered here and there, on rock or mound, 
 Minstrel and food-purveyor, groom, and leech. 
 With healing herbs and charms. 
 
 The sun arose, 
 And smote the forest roof, dew-saturate, 
 As onward dashed through woodlands to the Ford 
 Cuchullain's war-car. Nearer soon it rolled. 
 Crushing the rocks. Above those wondrous steeds 
 That Great One glittered through low mist of morn, 
 Splendour gloom-veiled. Ferdia's charioteer 
 
38 OLD IRISH LA YS 
 
 Half heard, half saw him. Spirit-rapt, yet awed, 
 Perforce thus sang he, standing near the marge : 
 
 " I hear the on-rushing of the Car ! I see 
 There throned that warrior, not of mortal mould, 
 Swathed in the morning. Dreadful are his wheels ; 
 Dreadful as breaker arched, when on its crest 
 Stands Fear, and Fate upon the rock-strewn shore ; 
 But not sea-rocks they crush, those brazen wheels. 
 But realms, and peoples, and the necks of men. 
 
 *' I see the War-Car ! Terrible it comes. 
 Four-peaked ; and o'er those peaks a shadowy pall 
 Pavilioning dim crypt and caves of death. 
 I see it by the gleam of spears high held. 
 The glare of circling Spirits. Lo ! the same 
 I saw far northward drifting, months gone by, 
 Ere yet that madness quelled the northern land." 
 
 Then cried Ferdia, stationed where huge trees 
 Shut out unwelcome vision : " For a bribe 
 Thou seest these portents, singing of my death !" 
 
 Once more, in agony prophetic, he : 
 " The man within that car is Uladh's Hound ! 
 What hound? No stag-hound of the storm-swept 
 
 hills ; 
 No watch-hound watching by a merchant's store. 
 The hound he is that tracks the steps of doom ; 
 The hound of realms o'er-run, and hosts that fly ; 
 The hound that laps the blood ! " 
 
 Again he sang : 
 "The Hound of Uladh is a hound with wings ; 
 A hound man-headed ! Yea, and o'er that head 
 
CUCHULLAIN 39 
 
 Victory and empire, like two eagles paired, 
 Sail onward, tempest-pinioned. Endless morn. 
 Before him fleeting over seas and lands. 
 With shaft retorted, lights his chariot-beam. 
 That chariot stays not, turns not ; on it comes, 
 Like torrent shooting from a tall cliff's brow, 
 Level long time ; then downward borne ! " 
 
 "A bribe !" 
 Once more Ferdia cried ; " A bribe ! a lie ! 
 Traitor ! for Ailill's gold and gold of Meave, 
 Thou sing'st thy master's death-song ! " 
 
 By the stream 
 Cuchullain stood, nor yet he knew his foe ; 
 That foe who slowly to the Ford advanced. 
 Full panoplied, and in his hand a spear. 
 Long gazed they, each on each. Cuchullain spake : 
 " Welcome howe'er thou com'st, Ferdia ! Once 
 In Scatha's Isle far otherwise thou camest. 
 Morn after morn, with tidings fresh of war, 
 Plaything and pastime of our brother brands. 
 This day thou com'st invader of my land 
 Murthemne, bulwark broad of Uladh's realm ; 
 Thou com'st to burn my cities, spoil my flocks — 
 A change there is, Ferdia ! " Stern of brow, 
 The Firbolg answered : " Friends we were ; not peers ; 
 The younger thou. 'Twas thine to yoke my steeds ; 
 Arm me for fight. A stripling hopes this day 
 With brandished spear to make a mountain flee ! 
 Son of the Gael ! long centuries since, thy race 
 Trampled my race ; their vengeance hour is near ; 
 
40 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 I bid thee to depart ! " To him his friend : 
 
 " Ferdia, in the old days on Scatha's Isle 
 
 Thou wert my tribe, my house, my stock, my race ! 
 
 Questioned I then on battle-plain, or when 
 
 On frosty nights we crouched beneath one rug. 
 
 Ancestral claims, traditions of the clan? — 
 
 A change there is, Ferdia ! " 
 
 Thus with words 
 Or mild, or stern, in hope to save not slay. 
 Those friends contended. Sternest was the man 
 Whose conscience most aggrieved him, 
 
 " To this Ford 
 Thou cam'st the first, old comrade ! choice of arms 
 Is therefore thine by right ; " Cuchullain spake. 
 Ferdia chose the javelin. Arrow-swift, 
 While still the charioteers brought back the shaft, 
 The missiles flew. Keen-eyed as ocean bird 
 That, high in sunshine poised, glimpses his prey 
 Beneath the wave, and downward swooping slays him, 
 Each watched the other's movements, if an arm 
 Lifted too high, or buckler dropped too low. 
 Left bare a rivet. Long that fight endured. 
 Three times exhausted sank their hands ; three times 
 They sat on rocks for respite, each the other 
 Eying askance, not silent : " Lo the man 
 Who shields an ox-like or a swine-like race 
 That strikes no blow itself! " or thus : "Ah, pledge 
 Of amity eterne in old time sworn ! 
 Ferdia, vow thy vow henceforth to maids ! 
 The man-race nothing heeds thee ! " 
 
CUCHULLAIN 41 
 
 Evening fell, 
 And stayed perforce that combat. Slowly drew 
 The warriors near ; and, as they noted, each. 
 The other bleeding, friendship unextinct 
 In all its strength returned ; round cither's neck 
 That other wound his arms and kissed him thrice. 
 That night their coursers in the self-same field 
 Grazed, side by side ; that night their charioteers 
 With rushes gathered from the self-same stream 
 Made smooth their masters' beds, then sat themselves 
 By the same fire. Cuchullain sent the half 
 Of every healing herb that lulled his wounds 
 To staunch Ferdia's ; while to him in turn 
 Ferdia sent whate'er of meats or drinks 
 Held strengthening power or cordial, to allay 
 Distempered nerve or nimble spirit infuse, 
 In equal portions shared. 
 
 The second morn 
 They met at sunrise. " Thine the choice of arms." 
 The Firbolg spake. The Gael made answer, " Spears ! " 
 Then leaped the champions on their battle-cars 
 And launched them into battle. Dire their shock. 
 In fiery orbits wheeling now ; anon. 
 Wheel locked in wheel. Profounder wounds by far 
 That day than on the first the warriors gored, 
 Since closer was the fight. With laughing lip 
 Not less that eve Cuchullain sang the stave 
 That chides in war " Fomorian obstinacy." 
 Again at eve drew near they, slower now 
 For pain, and interwove fraternal arms ; 
 
42 OLD IRISH LA YS 
 
 Again their coursers in the self-same field 
 Grazed side by side, and from the self-same stream 
 Again their charioteers the rushes culled ; 
 Again they shared alike both meats and drinks ; 
 Again those herbs allaying o'er their wounds 
 With incantations laid. 
 
 Forlorn and sad 
 Peered the third morning o'er the vaporous woods, 
 The wan grey river with its floating weed 
 And bubble unirradiate. From the marge 
 Cuchullain sadly marked the advancing foe : 
 " Alas, my brother ! beamless is thine eye ; 
 The radiance lives no longer on thy hair ; 
 And slow thy step." The doomed one answered calm 
 " Cuchullain, slow of foot but strong of hand 
 Fate drags his victim to the spot decreed. 
 The choice to-day is mine ; I choose the sword." 
 So spake the Firbolg ; and they closed in fight ; 
 And straightway from his heart to arm and hand 
 Rushed up the strength of all that buried race 
 By him so loved ! Once more it swelled his breast. 
 Re-clothed in majesty each massive limb, 
 And flashed in darksome light of hair and eye. 
 Resplendent as of old. Surpassing deeds 
 They wrought, while circled meteor-like their swords. 
 Or fell hke heaven's own bolt on shield or helm. 
 Long hours they strove, till morning's purer gleam 
 Vanished in noon. Sharper that day their speech ; 
 For, in the intenser present, years gone by 
 Hung but like pallid, thin horizon clouds 
 
CUCHULLAIN 43 
 
 O'er memory's loneliest limit. Evening sank 
 Upon the dripping groves and shuddering flood, 
 With rainy wailings. Not as heretofore 
 Their parting. Haughtily their mail they tossed, 
 Each to his followers. In the self-same field 
 That night their coursers grazed not ; neither sat 
 Their charioteers beside the self-same fire ; 
 Nor sent they, each to other, healing herbs. 
 
 Ere morn the Firbolg drank the strength of dreams, 
 Picturing his race's wrong ; and trumpet blasts 
 Went o'er him, blown from fields of ancient wars ; 
 And thus he mused, half-wakened : " Not for Meave ; 
 Not for the popular suffrage ; not for her, 
 That maid who fain had held me from the snare, 
 Fight I that fight whose end shall crown this day. 
 O race beloved, this day your vengeance dawns 
 Red in the East ! The mightiest of the Gaels 
 Goes down before me ! What if both should die ? 
 So best ! Thus too the Firbolg is avenged ! " 
 So mused he. Stately from his couch he rose, 
 And armed himself, sedate. Upon his breast 
 He laid, in iron sheathed, a huge, flat stone. 
 For thus he said : " Though many a feat of arms 
 Is mine, from Scatha learned, or else self-taught. 
 The Gae-Bulg is Cuchullain's ! " On his head 
 He fixed his helm, and on his arm his shield. 
 Sable as night, with fifty bosses bound, 
 All brass ; the midmost like a noontide sun. 
 
 Cuchullain eyed him as he neared the Ford, 
 And spake to Leagh : " This day, if thou shouldst 
 mark 
 
44 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 This hand or slack or sluggish, hurl, as wont, 
 Sharp storm of arrowy railing from thy lips, 
 That so the battle-anger from on high 
 May flame on me." The choice of arms was his. 
 He chose " the Ford-Feat." On the Firbolg's brow 
 A shadow fell : — " All weapons there," he mused, 
 " Have place alike ; if on him falls the rage. 
 He will not spare the Gae-Bulg ! " 
 
 Well they knew, 
 Both warriors, that the fortunes of that day 
 Must end the conflict ; that for one, or both, 
 The sun that hour ascending shone his last. 
 Therefore all strength of onset till that hour 
 By either loosed or hoarded, craft of fight 
 Reined in one moment but to spring the next 
 Forward in might more terrible, compared 
 With that last battle, was a trivial thing ; 
 Whilst every weapon, javelin, spear, or sword. 
 Lawful ahke that day, scattered abroad 
 Huge flakes of dinted mail ; from every wound 
 Bounded the life-blood of a heart athirst 
 For victory or for death. The vernal day 
 Panted with summer ardours, while aloft 
 Noontide, a fire-tressed Fury, waved her torch, 
 Kindhng the ht grove and its younghng green 
 From the azure-blazing zenith. Waxed the heat : — 
 So waxed the warriors' frenzy. Hours went by. 
 That day they sought not rest on rock or mound. 
 Held no discourse. Slowly the sun declined ; 
 And as wayfarers tired, when twilight falls. 
 
CUCHULLAIN 45 
 
 Advance with strength renewed, so they, refreshed, 
 
 Surpassed their deeds at morning. With a bound 
 
 CuchuUain, from the bank high springing, ht 
 
 Full on the broad boss of Ferdia's shield. 
 
 His dagger-point down turned. With spasm of arm 
 
 Instant the Firbolg from its sable rim 
 
 Cast him astonished. Upward from the Ford 
 
 Again CuchuUain reached that shield ; again 
 
 With spasm of knee Ferdia flung him far, 
 
 While Leagh in scorn reviled him : " As the flood 
 
 Shoots on the tempest's blasts its puny foam, 
 
 The oak-tree casts its dead leaf on the wave. 
 
 The mill-wheel showers its spray, the shameless woman 
 
 Hurls on the mere that babe which was her shame, — 
 
 So hurls Ferdia forth that fairy- child 
 
 Whom men misdeemed for warrior ! " 
 
 Then from heaven 
 Came down upon CuchuUain, like the night, 
 The madness-wrath. The Foes confronted met ; 
 Shivered their spears from point to haft ; their swords 
 Flashed lightnings round them. Fate-compelled, their 
 
 feet 
 Drew near, then reached, that stream which backward 
 
 fled, 
 Leaving its channel dry. While raged that fight, 
 Cuchullain's stature rose, huge bulk, immense, 
 Ascending still ; as high Ferdia towered, 
 Like Fomor old or Nemed from the sea, — 
 Those shields — their covering late from foot to helm — 
 Shrinking, so seemed it, till above them beamed 
 
46 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 Shoulders and heads. So close that fight, their crests, 
 
 That waved defiance, mingled in mid air ; 
 
 While all along the circles of their shields 
 
 And all adown their swords, ran, mad with rage, 
 
 Viewless for speed, the demons of dark moors 
 
 And war-sprites of the valleys, Bocanachs 
 
 And Banacahs, whose scream, so keen its edge. 
 
 Might shear the centuried forest as the scythe 
 
 Shears meadow grass. To these in dread response 
 
 Thundered far off, from sea-caves billow-beat 
 
 And halls rock-vaulted 'neath the eternal hills. 
 
 That race Tuatha, giant once, long since 
 
 To pigmy changed, that forge from molten ores 
 
 For aye their clanging weapons, shield or spear, 
 
 On stony anvils, waiting the day decreed 
 
 Of vengeance on the Gael. That tumult scared 
 
 The horses of the host of Meave, that brake 
 
 From war-car or the tethering rope, and spread 
 
 Ruin around. Camp-followers first, then chiefs 
 
 Innumerable, were dragged along, or lay 
 
 'Neath broken axle, dead. The end was nigh. 
 
 Cuchullain's shield, sphntered upon his arm. 
 
 Served him no more ; and through his fenceless side 
 
 Ferdia drave the sword. Then first the Gael 
 
 Hurled forth this taunt : " The Firbolg, bribed by 
 
 Meave, 
 Has sold his ancient friend ! " Ferdia next, 
 " No Firbolg he, that man in Scatha's Isle, 
 Who won a maid, then left her !" Backward stepped 
 CuchuUain paces three ; he reached the bank ; 
 
CUCHULLAIiV 47 
 
 He uttered low, " The Gae-Bulg ! " Instant, Leagh 
 Within his hand had lodged it. Bending low, 
 Low as that stream — the war-game's crowning feat — 
 He launched it on Ferdia's breast. The shield, 
 The iron plate beneath, the stone within it, 
 Like shallow ice-films 'neath a courser's hoof. 
 Burst. All was o'er. To earth the warrior sank ; 
 Dying, he spake : " Not thine this deed, O friend ; 
 'Twas Meave who winged that bolt into my heart ! " 
 
 Then ran Cuchullain to that great one dead. 
 And raised him in his arms, and laid him down 
 Beside the Ford, but on its northern bank. 
 Not in that realm by Ailill swayed and Meave. 
 Long time he looked the dead man in the face ; 
 Then by him fell in swoon. " Cuchullain, rise ! 
 The men of Erin be upon thee ! Rise ! " 
 Thus Leagh. He answered, waking, " Let them come ! 
 To me what profit if I live or die ? 
 The man I loved is dead ! " 
 
 But by the dead 
 Cuchullain stood ; and thus he made lament : 
 " Ferdia ! On their head the curse descend. 
 Who sent thee to thy death ! We meet no more ; 
 Never while sun, and moon, and earth endure. 
 
 " Ferdia ! Far away in Scatha's Isle 
 A great troth bound us, and a vow life-long. 
 Never to raise war- weapons, each on each. 
 'Twas Finobar that snared thee ! She shall die. 
 
 " Ferdia ! dearer to my heart wert thou 
 Than all beside, if all were joined in one. 
 
48 OLD IRISH LA YS 
 
 Dear was thy clouded face and darksome eye ; 
 Thy deep, sad voice ; thy words so wise and few; 
 Dear was thy silence ; dear thy slow, grave ways, 
 Not boastful like the Gael's." 
 
 Silent he stood, 
 While Leagh in reverence from the dead man's breast 
 Loosened his mail. There shone the torque of Meave ; 
 There, where the queen had fixed it, yet it lay. 
 CuchuUain clutched it. " Ha ! that torque I spurned ! 
 Dark gem ill-lifted from the seas of Death ! 
 Swart planet bickering from the heavens of Fate ! 
 With what a baleful beam thou look'st on me ! 
 'Twas thou, 'twas thou, not I, that slew'st this man " — 
 He dashed it on the rock, and with his heel 
 Crushed it to fragments. 
 
 Then, as one from trance 
 Waking, once more he spake : " O me — O me ! 
 That I should see that face so great and pale ! 
 To-day face-whitening death is on that face ; 
 And in my hand my sword ; — 'tis crimson yet. 
 That day, when he and I triumphed in fight 
 By Formait's lake o'er Scatha's pirate foes, 
 The woman fetched a beaker forth of wine. 
 And made us drink it both ; and made us vow 
 Friendship eterne. O friend, my hand this day 
 Tendered a bloody beaker to thy lip." 
 
 Again he sang : " Queen Meave to Uladh's bound 
 Came down ; and dark the deed that grew thereof ; 
 Came down with all the hosting of her kings ; 
 And dark the deed that grew thereof. We two 
 
CUCHULLAIN 49 
 
 Abode with Scatha in her northern Isle, 
 
 Her pupils twinned. The sea-girt warrioress, 
 
 That honoured few men, honoured us alike ; 
 
 We ate together of the self-same dish ; 
 
 We couched together 'neath the self-same shield ; 
 
 Now living man I stand, and he lies dead ! " 
 
 He raised again his head ; once more he sang : 
 " Each battle was a game, a jest, a sport, 
 Till came, fore-doomed, Ferdia to the Ford ; 
 I loved the warrior though I pierced his heart. 
 Each battle was a game, a jest, a sport. 
 Till stood, self-doomedj Ferdia by the Ford, — 
 Huge lion of the forestry of war, 
 Fair, central pillar of the House of Fame ! 
 But yesterday he towered above the world ; 
 This day he lies along the earth, a shade." 
 
 IV 
 
 Silence amid the wide, confederate camp ; 
 No clang of sword or shield ; no warrior's tread. 
 Striding to Meave, with battle-gage down flung 
 For him who kept the Ford. But when six days 
 Were past, and none had seen that threatening helm, 
 There went abroad a rumour, " He is dead." 
 
 Six days, and in Cuchullain's cell no change. 
 The bud grew large ; the earlier violet died ; 
 He neither spake nor moved. His wounds were 
 deep ; 
 
50 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 Deeper his grief; for that cause ampler power 
 They gained, that clan accursed of Cailitin, 
 With ghostly spells darkening the warrior's heart. 
 As lie the dead, he lay. 
 
 One eve, what time 
 The setting sun levelled through holly brakes 
 Unnumbered dagger-points of jewelled light, 
 And 'neath the oak-stem burned a golden spot, 
 Leagh, standing near his couch, reproached him thus : 
 " In time of old the greatness of thy spirit 
 Had ever strength to salve thy corporal griefs ; 
 But now through coward heart thou makest no fight. 
 Dying as old men die." Cuchullain heard ; 
 But answered nought. 
 
 Next day, while near them buzzed 
 At noon the gilded insect swarm, with sound 
 That stung the fever in his nerves, he spake : 
 " While lived Ferdia, wounds to thee were jest : 
 Thy grief it is that drags thee to the pit ; 
 Grief ; and for what ? Of treasons worse is none 
 Than sorrow when thy country's foe is dead ! 
 Not man is he, the man who dies of grief." 
 He spake ; Cuchullain fixed a vacant eye 
 On that sad, wrathful face. 
 
 Then hastened Leagh 
 To where those giant coursers, side by side, 
 Stood tethered 'mid green grass and meadow-sweet 
 Within a lawn ; and led them to a stream. 
 And bade them drink ; and later led them home ; 
 And placed their corn before them, and they ate. 
 
CUCHULLAIN 51 
 
 Next spake he : " Horses ye : and yet ye know 
 To eat at need, while men self-sentenced starve ! " 
 Thus of that man whom most he loved on earth 
 He made complaint. Liath, the lake's white son, 
 Tossed high his head in anger. By his side 
 Sangland, his dusky comrade, sadly ate, 
 Moistening with tears l:er barley. 
 
 Late that eve 
 Cuchullain beckoned Leagh : " To Conor speed. 
 Speak thus : ' Put on thine arms and save thy land, 
 Since now the Hound that kept thy gate is dead. 
 Make no delay ! ' " At midnight Leagh went forth, 
 Though loth to leave his master to the care 
 Of cowherd rude, or swineherd. Tenderer aid 
 Ere long consoled him. Beauteous as the dawn. 
 Next morn, two shepherd boys, seeking a lamb. 
 Came on the sick man in his forest nook. 
 Long time they gazed on him compassionate ; 
 With voice benign and tendance angel-like 
 Onward into his confidence they crept ; 
 His Hps with milk, the purest, they refreshed ; 
 They placed the dewy wood-flowers in his hand ; 
 They sang him ballads old, not battle-songs — 
 Too loud such songs they deemed — but Fairy lore, 
 Or tale of lovers fleeing tyrant's rage ; 
 Among the last unwittingly they sang 
 '' Cuchullain's Wooing ; " how the youth had found 
 Eimer, the loveliest lady of the land 
 Within her bowery pleasaunce, girt with maids 
 Harping, or broidering fair in scarf deep-dyed 
 
52 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 Blossom or bird ; how long he sued ; and how- 
 She answered, '* Woo my sister : woo not me ! " 
 How, glorying in her loveliness, her sire 
 Had sworn no chief should ever call her wife. 
 Who won her not by valour ; how that youth 
 Had scaled his rock, and slain his guards, and forth, 
 Through all the blazing ruins of that keep, 
 Led her by hand, a downward-looking bride, 
 Majestic, unconsenting, undismayed. 
 But likewise unreluctant. As they sang 
 Above that suffering face there passed a smile ; 
 And where that smile had lain there crept a tear ; 
 And, in few minutes more, asleep he sank, 
 Who had not slept nine days. . . 
 
 . . . That night in Uladh's camp 
 Was silence strange and dread. By dying men 
 Sat men sore wounded. Scornful of their foe 
 And burning for revenge, the North had spurned 
 Science of war, their boast, and left, death-strewn. 
 Full half their host. Between their tents and Meave's, 
 All that long night, the buriers of the dead 
 Groped their sad way with red, earth-grazing torch, 
 Turning the white face up in search of friend. 
 Brother, or son. But in the tent of Meave 
 Triumph ruled all ; a hundred spake at once, 
 Each man his deeds recounting. Far apart 
 Sat Fergus ; on his brow alone was shade. 
 
CUCHULLAIN 53 
 
 Righteous that vengeance ; but his country's blood 
 Gladdened not him. Of those that marked him, some 
 Had reverence for his sadness ; lesser souls, 
 That long had hated, loathed the man that hour. 
 Sudden the din surceased. Far other sound 
 Quelled it ; from Uladh's sorrowing camp it swelled, 
 A jubilant cry soaring from earth to heaven ! 
 Then flashed the eyes of Fergus, and he cried : 
 " Cuchullain lives ! That sound is Uladh's shout. 
 What time the host he enters ! " With a brow. 
 Gloomy as night, the queen replied : " 'Tis false ! 
 We know that in that forest, months gone by, 
 Cuchullain perished ! " Sitent stood they long. 
 Listening. At last rang out far different note. 
 As piteous as the first was full of joy, 
 A funeral keen world-wide. Then cried the queen : 
 " Cuchullain lived ! Cuchullain lives no more ! 
 Wounded and weak he came to aid his own ; 
 Too great such effort for a wasted frame. 
 That was Cuchullain's death-dirge ! " Fierce she 
 
 stood ; 
 Glorying she spake ; and with attendance passed 
 Forth from the hall of banquet to her tent ; 
 But, as she passed, she heard at either side — 
 She and her ladies with her — trembling heard. 
 Swift as dead leaves by tempest borne o'er rocks, 
 The rushing of a panic-stricken host 
 Invisible, though now the dawn was grey, — 
 A host t'ward Shenan flying ! High o'er head 
 A dulcet strain, unutterably sad, 
 
54 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 When ceased that phantom rush of fugitive feet, 
 Drifted far northward. Then the queen was ware 
 These were her country's gods that left her host. 
 The legend adds that in her tent that hour 
 Faythleen, the witch, she saw, who sat and wove 
 A mystic web and sang a mystic song, 
 Seen but by her : — and, later, o'er her bed 
 Men say that Orloff bent, her buried son, 
 And spake : " This day the battle shall be fought 
 Of Gairig and Ilgairig." 
 
 He, meanwhile. 
 The lord of all the battles, where was he, 
 CuchuUain ? Many a weary day and week 
 Within his loved Murthemne's woods he lay. 
 Sore-wounded man, nigh death. Those shepherd 
 
 youths 
 Tended him still, or sang beside his bed ; 
 And ofttimes o'er his face the tears of Leagh 
 In passionate gust descended. But the might 
 Unholy of the clan of Cailitin, 
 That nightly hung above him like a cloud. 
 Began to wither, when that mist accursed. 
 Which bound with Imbecility the land. 
 Drifted from Uladh's borders. On the breast 
 Pellucid, likewise, of Murthemne's streams 
 Benignant spirits scattered flowers and herbs, 
 With healing virtue dowered. He, morn and eve 
 In those clear currents laid, renewed his youth ; 
 And, pure as infant's, came again that flesh 
 Where festered late his wounds. At last, revived, 
 
CUCHULLAIN 55 • 
 
 He passed, car-borne to Eman, north. The fields 
 
 Devastated, and wail from foodless glens, 
 
 Filled him, as on he sped, with wrathful strength. 
 
 Next, tidings came of Conor's southward march : 
 
 Exultingly he followed. On that night 
 
 Of overthrow he reached the royal camp. 
 
 Far off they kenned his car, and raised that shout 
 
 Heard never save for him. When near he drew. 
 
 Way-worn and wearied, and around him gazed. 
 
 And saw that sight, and thought, " Too late ; too 
 
 late ! " 
 His cheek down sank upon the breast of Leagh, 
 And all men deemed him dead. Then rose that wail. 
 To Meave auspicious sound. 
 
 There are who deem 
 Cuchullain's tent that night was near the Well, 
 Where, purer far, more late the royal maids, 
 Fedelm and Ethna, met that saint, who gave 
 To God the isle of Fate. Then, too, that Well 
 Blessing diffused, they say ; for from its brink 
 A runnel o'er the pebbles ran, with sound 
 So sweetly tuned that on the warrior sank 
 Deep seal of peace divine. The war-shouts near, 
 To him thus harboured, seemed but ocean's sighs 
 Round islands ever calm. Next came, on winds 
 Fresher than earth's, divinities more high. 
 He thought, than those that late from elfin meres 
 Amid Murthemne's woods had dewed his face ; 
 And loftier songs were sung ; and balmier flowers. 
 In holier fountains bathed, were softlier pressed 
 
56 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 On bosom and brow ; while shone before his eyes 
 
 Visions more fair than lordhest battle-field, 
 
 Though what they meant he knew not, nor divined — 
 
 High-towered temples cruciform, that rose 
 
 Far-seen o'er wood and street ; and from their gates 
 
 Vestal procession issuing white, that wound 
 
 Through precincts low, where only dwelt the poor. 
 
 The halt, the lame, the blind ; and song he heard, 
 
 With spiritual pathos changing sense to soul, 
 
 " The end of all is peace." In silence slid 
 
 The constellations down the western sky ; 
 
 And endless seemed the going of that night. 
 
 And measureless that joy. 
 
 At break of day 
 Came Conal Carnach and the Red Branch Knights 
 To see the sick man's face. Thereon the dawn 
 Laughed, with glad beam ; and, lo ! where long had 
 
 lain 
 Pallor of death, now burned a healthful red. 
 Not less they dared not touch him ; since with him 
 Geisa it was, if any broke his rest. 
 They left him, and the battle-storm rang out. 
 Warned by defeat, Uladh had raised ere morn, 
 fronting her camp, three bulwarks ; at the first 
 And distant most, three hours the conflict raged. 
 It fell at last. When rose the conquerors' shout, 
 Leagh to Cuchullain crept, and touched him not, 
 Yet knelt and whispered, " Heard you not that sound ? " 
 And thus Cuchullain answered still in trance : 
 " I heard the runnels in Murthemne's woods, 
 
CUCHULLAIN 57 
 
 Snow-swoU'n in spring." Then Leagh stood up and 
 
 mused, 
 '' The hue of health is on his face, and yet, 
 Because he will not wake, the land is shamed." 
 Next, round the second bulwark raged the war, 
 Hour after hour ; heroic deeds were done ; 
 Heroic deaths were died-; at last it fell ; 
 Again, and nearer, rose the conquerors' shout ; 
 Again, with bolder foot and forehead flushed, 
 Leagh to Cuchullain moved, and touched him not, 
 But, bending, murmured, " Heard you not that sound ? " 
 And he, without awaking, answered thus : 
 " I heard the birds in Elmer's pleasaunce sing. 
 Honouring our marriage morn." Then Leagh went 
 
 forth 
 Groaning, and smote his hands, and wept aloud : 
 '' Because he will not wake, the host must die ! " 
 i\round the loftiest bulwark and the last 
 Once more for hours the battle raged ; it fell ! 
 And louder thrice that shout went up. The gaze 
 Of Leagh was on him fixed ; he heard it not ; 
 Slowly it died ; and as it died the wail 
 Came feebly forth from Uladh's host. A wail. 
 Since those old days of Cullain and his hound, 
 To him was thrilling more than battle shout. 
 A change went o'er his face ; hke fire it shone ; 
 Within his tent he stood, midway ! Then, lo ! 
 A marvel ! for the wounded man, that slept 
 All day with bandages enswathed, up-towered 
 Full-armed for fight, a champion, spear in hand, 
 
58 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 Work of some god ! Swift from his tent he strode. 
 Without the hand of man there stood his car, 
 And those immortal steeds, pawing the air. 
 Like shapes with pinions clad. A moment more, 
 And forward to Ilgairig's slope they dashed. 
 '•'Let but the armies see him," inly mused 
 Leagh, "and the work is done ! " 
 
 Onward they sped 
 But not unnoted by that demon brood 
 That hate the works of justice. From below. 
 Writhing in torment of their rage, they heaved 
 The grassy surface upward into waves, 
 Now swelling, now descending. Strong albeit. 
 The immortal steeds staggered. Cuchullain cried : 
 " What ! children of the tempest-wakened lakes, 
 Saw ye till now no billows ? Yours they are ! 
 To others fatal, they but fawn on you ! 
 Exult ye in your native element, 
 And waft your lord to vengeance ! " They obeyed ; 
 They reached Ilgairig's summit. 
 
 On he sped. 
 Mantled with sunset. Terrible he shone ! 
 Both armies saw him — knew him ! Onward yet ; 
 While from his golden arms and golden car 
 Lightnings went forth incessant. In his van 
 Victory and Fear their pinions spread. He reached 
 Ilgairig's southern verge ; he reined his steeds ; 
 High in his car he stood ; with level hand 
 Screening his eyes, he scanned that battle-field, 
 His future course decreeing. 
 
CUCHULLAIN 59 
 
 On and on 
 Adown that slope he flashed and o'er that plain 
 Like zigzag siinshaft o'er the autumnal world ; 
 And ever where he came the host of Meave 
 Gave way before him. On and ever on ! 
 And now the nearest of those bulwarks three 
 He reached, and o'er its ruins swept, back driving 
 The conquerors late, now conquered. On and on ! 
 And ever through that foe, thick-packed, he clave 
 A lane of doom and death. Ere long they reached 
 The second rampart. There it was he slew 
 The great ones of Clan Libna, and the clans 
 Guaire and Murdoc. Fiery faces thronged 
 The air around him, and the voice of Gods 
 Made smooth his way triumphant. 
 
 On and on ! 
 Nor ceased he ever hurling left and right 
 Destruction from his sHng ; nor slackened sleet 
 Of javelins winged with fate. That brazen urn. 
 With death-stones heaped, exhausted not its store, 
 Replenished ever as by hand unseen ; 
 Work of some God ! That brazen cirque, not less, 
 Where stood his javeUns ranged, was never void ; 
 Work of some God ! The on-rolling wheels de- 
 voured 
 Those serried ranks ; the war-steeds trampled down. 
 Reached was that rampart furthest of the three. 
 There in her war-car sat the queen ; in front 
 The Maineys Seven were ranged ; his sword forth 
 flashed : 
 
60 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 Four perished of the seven. Then faced the queen 
 Westward, and fled amazed. 
 
 He marked her flight ; 
 Eastward he turned. As on he carved his course, 
 Not now a lane alone of doom and death 
 But ever widening valleys ruin-strewn 
 Bore witness of his transit, for behind 
 Closed ever up Cuchullain's household clans, 
 Murthemne's and Cuailgn^'s. Perished there 
 The Ossorians, and the Olnemacian chiefs. 
 And many a champion famed from Slaney's bank 
 To Lee and Laune, from Caiseal's crested rock 
 To Beara's strand. Who died not, fled, and left 
 Yet ampler, 'tvvixt the bristhng flanks of war. 
 That vacant space ; and as the dolphin oft. 
 Raptured by gladness of clear summer seas 
 While flames the noon on purple billows, swims 
 All round and round some ship full-sailed, — so he 
 Circled on foot at times that car wind-swift. 
 Mocking its slowness ; then, with airy bound, 
 Once more within it beamed. His boyhood's mirth 
 Returned upon him. On the chariot's floor 
 He marked those brazen balls — the sport that time 
 Of men way- faring — snatched them up, tossed high, 
 While yet careering round the blood-stained field. 
 Then caught them as they fell — a gUttering ring 
 They girt that glittering head. Not less his eye. 
 Watchful, pursued the flying foe ; his hand 
 Brought down to earth the fleetest. 
 
 From the crests 
 
CUCHULLAIN 61 
 
 Of those twinned hills down rushed the total strength, 
 At last, of Uladh. Universal flight 
 Shook the vast field. The bravest men and best, 
 Caught by its current, on were dragged like trees. 
 The sport of winter flood. Chieftain and king 
 Sought, each, his home. Meave, with a remnant small. 
 Reached Shenan's bridgeless tide; and there had 
 
 fallen. 
 Stretching to towered Ath-Luain helpless hands, 
 Save that Cuchullain, 'mid the narrower way 
 Standing with arms extended, terrible, 
 Abashed that host pursuing : " Stand ye back ! 
 One day I shared her feast ; she shall not die ! " 
 He spake, and set by Shenan's wave his shield. 
 Next morn the UHdians, where that shield had stood, 
 In silence stern planted three pillar-stones, 
 White daughters of the tempest-beaten hills. 
 In Ogham graved, " Vanquished by Uladh's sons. 
 Here fled the invader, Meave." 
 
 Fergus alone, 
 The Exile- King, and they, the Exile Band, 
 Fled not that day. Though few, and bleeding fast, 
 Fearless upon a cloudy crag they stood. 
 Phalanx prepared to die, prepared not less 
 Dearly to sell their lives, while past them streamed 
 That panic-stricken throng. The host pursuing 
 Looked up, yet swerved not from their course. Once 
 
 more, 
 Returning from the vengeance, they looked up ; 
 Then passed, in silence, by. 
 
62 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 That eve, men say, 
 While slowly paced CuchuUain t'ward the camp. 
 Bosomed 'twixt Gairig's and Ilgairig's hills, 
 Lamenting strains of Goddesses were heard — 
 For whatsoe'er was female loved the man, 
 If earthly female, with a human love. 
 If heavenly, with a love compassionate — 
 Lamenting strains, that, ere his youth had passed, 
 That starry head must He, by Fate's decree. 
 Amid the dust of death. CuchuUain turned ; 
 Softly he answered : " Goddesses benign ! 
 Why weep ye? I was Uladh's Mastiff-Hound : 
 The mastiff lives not long. What better lot 
 For him than this ; — the bandits chased, to die 
 Beside his master's gate ? " 
 
NAISrS WOOING 
 
 The maiden, Deirdre, at whose birth it had heeti prophesied 
 that she should bring destruction upon Uladh, lived secluded in 
 an island, by the will of CONOR, the King, who destined her for 
 himself. There she heard the fame of the Three Heroes, the 
 Son of Usnach, whose fate she was. The folloiuing passage re- 
 lates her meeting with Naisi, eldest of the Three. 
 
 One day it chanced that, while the March wind's 
 breath 
 
 Was softening round the daffodil's first bud, 
 Their shepherd old had saved a lamb from death. 
 
 And slain the wolf, and in their gateway stood ; 
 And, as the wounded creature bled, below 
 A crimson blood-pool stained the last night's snow. 
 
 Sudden, there swooped to earth a raven black. 
 And feasted on that blood. As in a dream 
 
 The maiden watched it long : at last she spake. 
 Whilst o'er her grave face ran a laughing gleam : 
 
 " These be Love's colours, black, and red, and white ; 
 
 Yet love, we know, is nought, when judged aright ! 
 
 ^'' These be Love's colours, white, and black, and red. 
 
 Some little foolish maid, to love inclined. 
 Might say : * Though all should love me, none shall wed, 
 
 Until in one dear face those three I find ; 
 Not raven locks alone, or front of snow. 
 But on the heroic cheek the battle's glow ! ' " 
 63 
 
64 OLD IRISH LA YS 
 
 Beside the girl stood Levarcam ; she smiled, 
 
 And spake : " Good sooth, your shaft hath hit its 
 mark ; 
 
 Vea, doubtless, you were born a prophet's child ! 
 For Naisi's front is white, his tresses dark ; 
 
 And still of him men say, ' On Naisi's cheek 
 
 Not roses, but red dawns of battles break ! ' " 
 
 Then to the flash from Deirdre's peerless eyes 
 Her nurse made answer : " Naisi ! who is he ? 
 
 Warrior there treads not under Erin's skies 
 
 But knows the man, — the swiftest of those Three ! 
 
 No hounds they need ; alone they chase, each morn, 
 
 The stag, and downward drag him head and horn ! 
 
 " Ever at Uladh's feasts the clansmen say, — 
 ' Place ye the sons of Usnach side by side, 
 
 A rock behind them, or some cromlech grey ; 
 Then blow a trump o'er Erin, far and wide. 
 
 And range her hosts against them, face to face, — 
 
 Those Three shall hew them down, and homeward 
 chase ! ' 
 
 " Their singing is the best all Uladh boasts ; 
 
 Of all her sons most courteous they and kind ; 
 To heaven devoutest of her countless hosts ; 
 
 Softly along his path they lead the blind ; 
 Submission made, no more remember ill, 
 Nor ever kissed a maid against her will. 
 
NAISrS WOOING 65 
 
 " To these the clans send embassies from far 
 Laden with gifts, and suing, * Grant us aid ! 
 
 Rule us in battle's hour, and head our war ! ' 
 But women say, ' How well their mother prayed 
 
 For sons both mild and valiant ! ' Lo, a ray 
 
 Of her sweet countenance lives in theirs this day ! " 
 
 Here Levarcam a moment stopped for breath ; 
 
 Then Deirdre rose and sought the neighbouring 
 strand ; 
 Ice-bound it was, and cold that hour as death, — 
 
 To her 'twas warm as mead by May breeze fanned ; 
 She paced along its pebbly beach for hours. 
 And to her feet its shingles felt like flowers. 
 
 Returned, more lofty looked she than at morn ; 
 
 With more of inward gladness, yet less gay ; 
 More confident, though lost her girlish scorn 
 
 In some half womanhood's benigner ray ; 
 Smiling, she met her nurse's smile, and then, 
 ''Naisi," she said, ''will love me ! Who cares when?" 
 
 The maiden paused ; she mused ; again she spake, 
 Fixing on Levarcam those marvellous eyes : 
 
 "Three be Love's colours — white, and red, and black : 
 White, for the sake of Love's white sanctities ; 
 
 And red, for Love must war on many a foe ; 
 
 And black, since Love, though crowned, must end in 
 woe." 
 
 F 
 
66 OLD IRISH LA YS 
 
 Again she mused : — " Yes, Love must war ! Who 
 fears ? 
 
 Though Love must fight, he fights in love, not hate ! 
 Some glorious conflict rages through the years ; 
 
 Great Love must take therein his part, elate. 
 And woe comes last. On raven pinions borne 
 Night comes not less ; but after night comes morn ! " 
 
 From that time Naisi's name she named no more ; 
 
 Nothing she seemed to lack, nothing to crave ; 
 Her heart through spiritual realms was strong to soar, 
 
 Self-lifted, as from windless seas the wave ; 
 A spirit of strength from earthly bonds escaped. 
 She trod, — her body's self but spirit draped ; — 
 
 A spirit of strength and swiftness onward borne 
 Through luminous realms all resonant and free. 
 
 Happier because unwinged, like endless morn 
 With silver feet circling the sphered sea ; 
 
 And still her lonely thought with song was blent ; 
 
 And, bird-like, still she warbled as she went. 
 
 For music then, like warfare, not from art 
 Grew up laborious ; born of frank good-will, 
 
 'Twas Joy's loud clarion in the generous heart ; 
 
 Through pains more perfect grew the harper's skill ; 
 
 Yet still, from purest soul and noblest breast, 
 
 The minstrelsy, perforce, became the best. 
 
NAISI'S WOOING 67 
 
 Deirdre, besides, on Naisi's music musing — 
 
 That strain far-famed she once had heard in dream — 
 
 Through some strange craft of Nature's sweet infusing 
 Unconscious, copied it. A hly's gleam 
 
 Shines thus, reflected in the lake below. 
 
 More softly, green for green, and snow for snow. 
 
 Once, too, she marked two mated eagles flying 
 Far from their cliff, her little lake above, 
 
 Sunward in strength, and clapped her hands loud 
 crying,— 
 " On, wedded Spirits, on ! for this is Love ! 
 
 No woodland murmurs yours, and thraldom none ! 
 
 Sail on till buried in the ascending sun ! " 
 
 That vision shaped her life. Through wild and wood 
 Long hours that morn had Naisi chased the stag. 
 
 It took the wave and vanished. Silent stood. 
 At noon, the hunter on a jutting crag ; 
 
 His eye upon a tower-crowned island fell ; 
 
 Thereon it fastened, bound as by a spell. 
 
 "There hes," he mused, "that wondrous-countenanced 
 child. 
 
 Like some poor bird a captive from its birth. 
 In that lone island, year by year, exiled. 
 
 How httle she suspects her grace and worth ! 
 Our household foe, ere long, will clutch that hand — 
 Is yon a causeway leading to the land? " 
 
68 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 An hour had fled, and lo ! that bridge he paced. 
 
 Ere long, no child, but, sparkling like a flower. 
 The imprisoned maid, nor startled nor shame-faced, 
 
 Passed by the youth, advancing from her bower 
 With breeze-like step, yet down-dropped lids of snow 
 " Ah foot," he cried, " more light than foot of doe ! ' 
 
 An instant back she flashed her magic eyes. 
 And from her laughing lip the answer leaped : 
 
 "Where stags are none, the doe must monarchise ! " 
 Some ballad old it was, but never steeped 
 
 Till then with such strange sweetness to his ear. 
 
 Was it reproof or challenge, vague yet dear? 
 
 Naisi rejoined : " A monarch rules this land ; 
 
 For you he destines Erin's proudest throne ! 
 Ah, but for that how many a warrior's brand " — 
 
 " His realm," she said, '' is his ; my heart mine own. 
 A maiden I have lived ; maiden would die." 
 The warrior fixed on hers his strong grey eye. 
 
 That eye, though young and sweet with such clear 
 light, 
 
 Had marshalled many a death-strewn battle-field ; 
 Had watched the meeting tides of many a fight ; 
 
 Taught many a proud, inviolate fort to yield. 
 With gaze as frank and clear thus answered she, — 
 " I know you well ! the eldest of those Three ! 
 
NA/S/'S WOOING 69 
 
 "Where are your brothers? She, whom nurse I call, 
 Has told me all the Three are kind and brave. 
 
 Fain would I sister be to each and all ; 
 
 Fain, too, my life from love tyrannic save ! " 
 
 " Their sister you shall be," the youth replied ; 
 
 " Mine if you will ; but, none the less, my bride ! " 
 
 He spake ; then, for the maiden's safety fearing, 
 With passion changed, continued : " Spurn my suit ! 
 
 The king will slay thee ! " She, the warrior nearing, 
 Held forth both hands, and gazed upon him mute ; 
 
 And last, in love's high truth — and truth is best — 
 
 Made answer, "Thine!" He snatched her to his 
 breast. 
 
 Thence lifting soon a countenance glad yet tearful. 
 She spake : " Your knighthood stands consummate 
 now ! 
 
 Since a true maid, of Conor's wrath not fearful, 
 
 Has heard, and with her own has crowned your vow. 
 
 Forth, on your task decreed ! Fly hence, and prove 
 
 Ten years in battle-fields what might hath Love ! 
 
 '• In ten years bring me back your trophied spoils 
 From every land and clime ; for mine they are ! 
 
 I, that inspired, can well requite your toils ; 
 Ever till then, my spirit hke a star 
 
 O'er you shall hang ! Farewell ! yet, ere you go, 
 
 Sing ! for how great your songs, long since I know." 
 
70 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 So, hand in hand, upon that causeway standing, 
 Those youthful lovers measure after measure 
 
 Poured forth, their bosoms more and more expanding 
 At once with music's zeal and love's pure pleasure ; 
 
 For Deirdre still her voice with Naisi's twined, 
 
 All-perfect harmony though undesigned. 
 
 And though till then no war-song she had sung, 
 That hour her song grew warlike as his own ; 
 
 And, o'er her heaven-like beauty as he hung. 
 His war-songs tender grew, and sweet of tone ; 
 
 And still they sang, till now, through woods loud ring- 
 ing, 
 
 The men of Erin, east and west, came winging. 
 
 And found those lovers in that lonely haunt, — 
 That sunset round them glowing and above ; 
 
 And saw the forests flash, the blue waves pant ; 
 And heard that mingled praise of war and love. 
 
 Then ceased that pair, and softly smiled, and said, — 
 
 " What makes us glad is this : we two are wed ! " 
 
 But when, to many a questioner replying. 
 
 They found that they had only met that noon. 
 
 The lovers laughed a sweet-voiced laughter, crying, — 
 " We thought we had been wedded many a moon ! 
 
 Great love, it seems, lives long in little time ; 
 
 Yet shall great love be ever in his prime ! 
 
NAISI'S WOOING 71 
 
 •'• Perchance of iis some future bard shall say, — 
 ' Their bright, swift life went o'er them like a breath 
 
 Of stormy southwind in the merry May ; 
 And brief their unfeared, undivided death : ' 
 
 For unto those who love, and love aright, 
 
 Life is Love's day; and Death his long, sweet night." 
 
 But straight the men of Erin cried aloud, — 
 
 ''The king, the king ! " and Naisi's brothers twain, 
 
 Ainli and Ardan, though to help him vowed 
 At need, not less to break that troth were fain ; 
 
 " Beware," they cried ; " since Cathbad long ago 
 
 Foretold that Babe was born for Uladh's woe ! " 
 
 Yet, when within those lovers' eyes they saw 
 Wild mirth alone, and blank astonishment, 
 
 They deemed the thing divine ; and, though with awe, 
 Their spirits on the high adventure bent, 
 
 And council took, and with one mind decreed 
 
 That self-same night o'er Uladh's bound to speed. 
 
 This therefore was the order of their going : 
 .A hundred warriors marching in the van ; 
 
 A hundred maidens next with veils loose flowing ; 
 A hundred clansmen last, of Usnach's clan, 
 
 And each a greyhound leading in a cord ; 
 
 Swiftly with these they trod the moonlit sward. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF LIR 
 
 Deus dedit carmina in nocte. Job xxxv. io 
 
 CANTO I 
 
 the stepmother's malediction 
 
 Ere yet great Miledh's sons to Erin came, 
 Lords of the Gael, Milesian styled more late, 
 
 An earlier tribe — Tuatha was their name. 
 
 Likewise Dedannan — ruled the Isle of Fate ; 
 
 A tribe that knew nor clan, nor priest, nor bard. 
 
 Wild as the waves, and as the sea-cliffs hard. 
 
 Some say that race of old from Greece exiled 
 Long time had sojourned in the frozen North, 
 
 Roaming Norwegian wood and Danish wild ; 
 To Erin thence more late they issued forth, 
 
 And thither brought two gifts both loved and feared, 
 
 The Lia Fail, and Ogham lore revered. 
 
 Fiercer they were, not manlier, than the Gael ; 
 
 Large-handed, swift of foot, dark-haired, dark-eyed, 
 With sudden gleams athwart their faces pale, 
 
 Transits of fancies swift, or angry pride ; 
 Strange lore they boasted, imped by insight keen. 
 Blackened at times by gusts of causeless spleen. 
 72 
 
THE CHILDREN OE LIR 73 
 
 These, when the white fleet of the Gael drew nigh 
 Green Erin's shore — their heritage decreed — 
 
 O'er-meshed, through rites unholy, earth and sky 
 With sudden gloom. The invaders took no heed. 
 
 But dashed through dark their galleys on the strand ; 
 
 Then clapped their hands, and laughing leaped to land. 
 
 Around them drew Tuatha's race in guile. 
 
 Unarmed, with mocking voice and furtive mien, 
 
 And scoffed : '' Not thus your fathers fought erewhile ! 
 Say, call ye warriors knaves that creep unseen. 
 
 While true men sleep, up inlet dim and fiord. 
 
 Filching the land they proved not with their sword?" 
 
 Then to the Gael their bard, Amergin, spake : 
 " Sail forth, my sons, nine waves across the deep. 
 
 And, when this island-race are armed, come back ; 
 Take then their realm by force ; and, taking, keep ! " 
 
 The Gael sailed forth, nine waves ; then turned, and 
 gazed — 
 
 Night wrapt the isle, and storm by magic raised ! 
 
 Round Erin's shores like leaves their ships were blown ; 
 
 Strewn on her reefs lay bard and warrior drowned ; 
 Not less the Gael upreared ere long that throne, 
 
 Two thousand years through all the West renowned. 
 O'er Taillten's field God held the scales of Fate ; 
 That last dread battle closed the dire debate. 
 
74 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 There fell those three Tuatha queens who gave 
 
 The land their names — they fell by death dis- 
 crowned ; 
 
 There many a Gaelic chieftain found his grave ; 
 Thenceforth the races twain adjusted bound 
 
 And right, at times by league, at times by war ; 
 
 Nor any reigned as yet from shore to shore. 
 
 Still, here and there, Tuatha princes ruled, 
 
 Now in green vale, and now on pale blue coast, — 
 
 A warrior one, and one in magic schooled ; 
 The graver made Druidic lore their boast, 
 
 And knew the secret might of star and leaf; 
 
 Grey-haired King Bove stood up of these the chief. 
 
 Southward by broad Lough Derg his palace stood ; 
 
 Northward, beside Emania's lonely mere. 
 In Finnaha, embowered 'mid lawn and wood, 
 
 King Lir abode, a warrior, not a seer ; 
 Well loved was he, plain man with great, true heart. 
 Who loathed, despite his race, the sorcerer's art. 
 
 Five centuries lived he ere that better light 
 
 Gladdened the earth from Bethlehem ; ne'ertheless 
 
 He judged his land with justice and with might, 
 Tempering the same at times with gentleness ; 
 
 And gave the poor their due ; and made proclaim, — 
 
 " Let no man smite the old ; the virgin shame." 
 
THE CHILDREN OF UR 75 
 
 His prime was spent in wars ; in middle life 
 He bade a youthful princess share his throne ; 
 
 Nor e'er had monarch yet a truer wife, 
 
 With tenderer palm or voice of sweeter tone. 
 
 The one sole lady of that race was she 
 
 Sun-haired, with large eyes azure as the sea. 
 
 She moved amid the crafty as a child ; 
 
 Amid the lawless, chaste as unsunned maid ; 
 Amid the unsparing, as a turde mild ; 
 
 Wondering at wrong ; too gentle to upbraid ; 
 Yet many a fell resolve, as she rode by, 
 Died at its birth — the ill-thinker knew not why ! 
 
 Sadness before her fled. In years long past. 
 As on a cliff the warriors sang their songs, 
 
 A harper maid, with eyes that stared aghast. 
 Had chaunted, — '' Not to us this isle belongs ! 
 
 The Fates reserve it for a race more true. 
 
 Ye children of Dedannan's stock, than you ! 
 
 '&' 
 
 And, since she scorned her music to abate, 
 
 Nor ceased to freeze their triumph with her dirge. 
 
 The princes and the people rose in hate, 
 
 And hurled her harp and her into the surge ; 
 
 Yet still, halfway 'twixt midnight and the morn, 
 That dirge swelled up, by tempest onward borne ! 
 
76 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 Remembering oft this spectre of his youth, 
 King Lir would sit, a frown upon his brow ; 
 
 Then came the queen with words of peace and truth : 
 " Mourn they that sinned ! A child that hour wert 
 thou ! 
 
 Thou rul'st this land to-day; in years to be 
 
 Who best deserves shall wield her sovereignty." 
 
 Then would the monarch doff his sullen mood 
 With kingly joy, and, bright as May-day's morn. 
 
 Ride forth amid his hounds through wild and wood, 
 Thrilling far glens with echoes of his horn ; 
 
 Or meet the land's invaders face to face, 
 
 Well pleased, and homeward hew them with disgrace. 
 
 Thus happy lived the pair, and happier far 
 
 When four fair children graced the royal house. 
 
 Fairer than flowers, more bright than moon or star 
 Shining through vista long of forest boughs : 
 
 Finola was the eldest, eight years old ; 
 
 The yearling. Conn, best loved of all that fold. 
 
 These beauteous creatures with their mother shared 
 Alike her blissful nature and sweet looks. 
 
 Like her swan-soft, swan-white, blue-eyed, bright- 
 haired, 
 With voices musical as birds or brooks ; 
 
 Beings they seemed reserved for some great fate. 
 
 Mysterious, high, elect, and separate. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF LIR 77 
 
 At times they gambolled in the sunny sheen ; 
 
 At times, Fiacre and Aodh at her side, 
 Finola paced the high-arched alleys green, 
 
 At once their youthful playmate and their guide ; 
 A mother-hearted child she walked, and pressed 
 That infant, daily heavier, to her breast. 
 
 Great power of Love, that, wide as heaven, dost brood 
 O'er all the earth, and doest all things well ! 
 
 Light of the wise, and safeguard of the good ! 
 Nowhere, methinks, thou better lov'st to dwell 
 
 Than in the hearts of innocents that still. 
 
 By dangerous love untempted, work Love's will ! 
 
 Thou shalt be with them when the sleet-wind blows 
 Not less than in the violet-braided bower ; 
 
 Through thee 'mid desert sands shall bud the rose. 
 The wild wave anthems sing ! In trial's hour 
 
 A germ of thine shall breed that quenchless Faith, 
 
 Amaranth of Ufe, and asphodel of death. 
 
 Ah, lot of man ! Ah, world whose life is change ! 
 
 Ah, sheer descent from topmost height of good 
 To deepest gulf of anguish sudden and strange ! 
 
 A nation round their monarch's gateway stood ; 
 All day there stood they, whispering in great dread : 
 The herald came at last — " Our Queen is dead ! " 
 
78 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 In silence still they stood, an hour and more, 
 
 Till through the West had sunk the great red sun, 
 
 And from the castle wall and turrets hoar 
 The latest crimson utterly had gone ; 
 
 At last the truth had reached them ; then on high 
 
 An orphaned People hurled its funeral cry. 
 
 They hurled it forth again, and yet again, — 
 The dreadful wont of that barbaric time ; 
 
 Cry after cry, that reached the far-off main, 
 
 And, echoing, seemed from cloud to cloud to 
 climb ; 
 
 Then lifted hands Hke creatures broken-hearted, 
 
 Or sentenced men ; and homeward, mute, departed. 
 
 Fast-speeding Time, albeit the wounded wing 
 He may not bind, brings us at least the crutch. 
 
 Winter was over, and the on- flying Spring 
 
 Grazed the sad monarch's brow with heavenly touch. 
 
 And raised the head, now whitening, from the ground. 
 
 And stanched, not healed, the heart's eternal wound. 
 
 King Bove, chief sovereign of the dark-haired race. 
 Sent to him saying, " Quit thee like a man ! 
 
 The Gaels, our scourge, and Erin's sore disgrace. 
 Advance, each day, their armies, clan by clan ; 
 
 Against them march thy host with mine, and take 
 
 To wife my daughter, for thy children's sake." 
 
THE CHILDREN OF LIR 79 
 
 Lir sadly mused ; but answered : " Let it be ! " 
 
 And drave with fifty chariots in array 
 To where the land's chief river like a sea, 
 
 There named Lough Derg, spreads out in gulf and 
 bay, 
 And many a woody mountain sees its face 
 Imaged in that clear flood with softened grace. 
 
 There with King Bove the widowed man abode 
 Two days amid great feastings. On the third 
 
 The king led forth his daughter — o'er her glowed 
 A dim veil jewel-tissued — with this word : 
 
 " Behold thy wife ! The world proclaims her fair ; 
 
 I know her strong to love, and strong to dare." 
 
 And Lir made answer : " Fair she is as when 
 A mist-veiled yew, red-berried, stands in state ; 
 
 Can love, you say ! Love she my babes ! and then 
 With her my love shall bide ; if not — my hate." 
 
 And she, a crimson on her dusky brow. 
 
 Replied, — " If so it be, then be it so 1 " 
 
 King Lir, a fortnight more in revels spent. 
 Made journey to his castle in the North 
 
 With her, his youthful consort, well content ; 
 Arrived, in rapture of their loving mirth 
 
 Forth rushed into his arms his children four. 
 
 Bright as those wavelets on their blue lake's shore ; 
 
80 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 On whom the new queen cast a glance oblique 
 
 One moment's space ; then, flinging wide her arms, 
 
 With instinct changed, and impulse lightning-like, 
 Clasped them in turn, and wondered at their charms, 
 
 And cried, — " If e'er a stepmother could love, 
 
 I of that tribe renowned will tenderest prove." 
 
 And so, by her great loving of those four, 
 Still from her husband won she praises sweet, 
 
 And plaudits from his people, more and more ; 
 Her own she called them ; nor was this deceit ; 
 
 She loved them with a fitful love — a will 
 
 To make them or to mar, for good or ill. 
 
 She wooed them still with shows, with flowers, with 
 fruit ; 
 Daily for them new sports she sought and found ; 
 Yet, if their father praised them, she was mute. 
 
 And, when he placed them on his knee, she frowned, 
 Murmuring, — "How blue their eyes! their cheek 
 
 how pale ! 
 Their voices too are voices of the Gael ! " 
 
 Meantime, as month by month in grace they grew, 
 Their father loved them better than before ; 
 
 And so, one eve, their slender cots he drew 
 Each from its place remote, and lightly bore, 
 
 And laid them ranged before his royal bed ; 
 
 And o'er the four a veil gold-woven spread, — ■ 
 
THE CHILDREN OF LIR 81 
 
 Their mother's bridal-veil ; and still, as dawn 
 Was in its glittering tissue caged and caught, 
 
 He left his couch, and, that light veil withdrawn, 
 Before his children stood in silent thought ; 
 
 And, if they slept, he kissed them in their sleep, 
 
 Then watched them with clasped hands in musings 
 deep. 
 
 And, if they slept not, from their balmy nest 
 With under-sliding arms he raised them high, 
 
 And clasped them each, successive, to his breast. 
 Or on them flashed the first light from the sky ; 
 
 Then laid him by his mute, sleep-feigning bride, 
 
 And slept once more ; and oft in sleep he sighed. 
 
 Which things abhorring, she her face averse 
 
 Turned all day steadfast from the astonished throng 
 
 And next, as one that broods upon a curse. 
 She sat in her sick-chamber three weeks long, 
 
 And never raised her eyes, nor made complaint. 
 
 Dark as a fiend and silent as a saint. 
 
 Lastly to Lir she spake : " Daily I sink 
 
 Downward to death. I wither in my prime ; 
 
 Home to my father I would speed, and drink 
 Once more the breezes of my native clime ; 
 
 All night in sleep along Lough Derg I strayed. 
 
 And wings of strength about my shoulders played. 
 
82 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 "These four — thy children — with me I will take 
 To please my father's eye ; he loves them well ; 
 
 Thou too, whene'er thy leisure serves, shalt make 
 Thither thy journey." xA.ll the powers of Hell 
 
 Thrilled at that speech in penal vaults below ; 
 
 But Lir, no fraud suspecting, answered, — " Go ! " 
 
 Therefore, next morn, when earliest sunrise smote 
 Green mead to golden near the full-fed stream, 
 
 They caught four steeds, that grazed thereby remote, 
 And yoked abreast beside the chariot-beam ; 
 
 And, when the sun was sinking toward the West, 
 
 By Darvra's lake drew rein, and made their rest. 
 
 Then the bad queen, descending, round her cast 
 A baleful look of mingled hate and woe. 
 
 And with those babes into a thicket passed. 
 And drew a dagger from her breast ; and, lo ! 
 
 She struck them not, but only wailed and wailed — 
 
 In her so strongly womanhood prevailed. 
 
 The mood was changed. She smiled that smile 
 which none 
 How wise soe'er, beholding, could resist, 
 And drew those children to her, one by one ; 
 
 Then wailed once more, and last their foreheads 
 kissed. 
 And cried with finger pointing to the lake, — 
 " Hence ! and in that clear bath your pastime take ! " 
 
THE CHILDREN OF LIR 83 
 
 She spoke, and from their silken garb forth-sliding, 
 Ere long those babes were sporting in the bay ; 
 
 And, as it chanced, the eddy past them gUding 
 
 Wafted a swan's plume ; 'twas less white than they ; 
 
 Frowning, the queen beheld them, and on high 
 
 Waved thrice her Druid wand athwart the sky. 
 
 Then, standing on the marge, wan-cheeked, wide- 
 eyed, 
 
 As near they drew, awe-struck and wondering. 
 Therewith she smote their golden heads, and cried, — 
 
 " Fly hence, ye pale-faced children of the king ! 
 Cleave the blue mere, or on through ether sail ; 
 No more his loved ones, but a dolorous tale ! " 
 
 Straightway to snow-white swans those children turned ; 
 
 And, sideway as they swerved, the creatures four 
 Fixed on her looks with human grief that yearned ; 
 
 Then slowly drifted backward from the shore ; 
 While loud with voice unchanged, Finola cried, — 
 '' Bad deed is thine, false queen and bitter bride ! 
 
 " Bad deed, afflicting babes that harmed thee not ; 
 
 Bad deed, and to thyself an evil dower ; 
 Disastrous more than ours shall be thy lot ! 
 
 Thou too Shalt feel the weight of Druid power ; 
 From age to age thy penance ne'er shall cease ; 
 Our doom, though long it lasts, shall end in peace." 
 
84 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 Then rang a wild shriek from that dreadful shape : 
 " Long, long, ay long shall last those years of woe ! 
 
 Here on this lake from misty cape to cape 
 Three centuries ye shall wander to and fro ; 
 
 Three centuries more shall stem with heavier toil 
 
 Far Alba's waves, the black sea- strait of Moyle. 
 
 " Lastly three centuries, where the Eagle-Crest 
 O'er-looks the western deep and Inisglaire, 
 
 Upon the mountain waves that know not rest 
 Shall be your rolhng palace, foul or fair, 
 
 Till comes the Tailkenn, sent to sound the knell 
 
 Of darkness, and ye hear his Christian bell." 
 
 Lo, as a band of lilies, white and tall. 
 
 Beneath a breeze of morning bend their head, 
 
 High held in virgin state majestical, 
 
 So meekly cowered those swans in holy dread. 
 
 Hearing that promised Tailkenn's blissful name ! 
 
 For they long since had heard in dream the same. 
 
 Then fell a dew of meekness on the proud, 
 
 Noting their humble heart ; and drooped her front; 
 
 And sorrow closed around her like a cloud ; 
 And thus, with other voice than was her wont, 
 
 To those soft victims of her wrath she cried : 
 
 "Woe, woe ! Yet Fate must rule, whate'er betide ! 
 
THE CHILDREN OF LIR 85 
 
 " The deed is done ; but thus much I concede : 
 In you the human heart shall never fail, 
 
 Changed though ye be and masked in feathery weed ; 
 Your voice shall sweet remain as voice of Gael ; 
 
 And all who hear your songs shall sink in trance, 
 
 And, sleeping, dream some great deliverance." 
 
 She spake, and smote her hands ; and, at her word, 
 Once more the attendants caught the royal steeds 
 
 Grazing in peace beside the horned herd 
 
 Amid the meadow flowers and yellow weeds ; 
 
 And fiercely through the night that dark one drave, 
 
 And reached Lough Derg, what time above its wave 
 
 The sun was rising ; and at set of sun 
 
 Entered once more her father's palace gate ; 
 
 Seated thereby, his nobles, every one. 
 
 Arose and welcomed her with loving state ; 
 
 She answered naught, but sternly past them strode 
 
 And found her girlhood's bower, and there abode.' 
 
 But when of Lir King Bove had made demand. 
 
 She answered thus : " Enough ! My Lord is 
 naught ; 
 Nor will he trust his children to thy hand. 
 
 Lest thou shouldst slay them." Long in silent 
 thought 
 The old man stood, then murmured in low tone, — 
 " I loved those children better than mine own ! " 
 
86 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 That night in dream King Lir had anguish sore, 
 And southward, ere the dawn, rode far away 
 
 With many a chief to see his babes once more 
 Beside Lough Derg ; and, lo ! at close of day, 
 
 Nighing to Darvra's lake, the westering sun 
 
 In splendour on the advancing horsemen shone. 
 
 Straightway from that broad water's central stream 
 Was heard a clang of pinions and swift feet — 
 
 Unchanged at heart, those babes had caught that 
 gleam ; 
 Instant from far had rushed, their sire to greet. 
 
 Spangling the flood with silver spray ; and ere 
 
 That sire had reached the margin, they were there. 
 
 Then, each and all, clamorous they made lament, 
 Recounting all their wrong, and all the woe ; 
 
 And Lir, their tale complete, his garments rent. 
 Till then transfixed like marble shape ; and, lo ! 
 
 Three times, heart-grieved, that concourse raised 
 their cry. 
 
 Piercing the centre of the low-hung sky. 
 
 But Lir knelt down upon the shining sand. 
 
 And cried, — " Though great the might of Druid 
 charms. 
 
 Return, and feel once more your native land. 
 
 And find once more, and fill, your father's arms ! " 
 
 And they made answer : " Till the Tailkenn come. 
 
 We tread not land ! The waters are our home." 
 
THE CHILDREN OF LIR 87 
 
 But when Finola saw her father's grief, 
 
 She added thus : '' Albeit our days are sad, 
 
 The twihght brings our pain in part rehef ; 
 
 And songs are ours by night that make us glad ; 
 
 Yea, each that hears our music, though he grieve, 
 
 Rejoices more. Abide, for it is eve." 
 
 So Lir, and his, couched on the wave-lipped sod 
 All night ; and ever, as those songs up-swelled, 
 
 A mist of sleep upon them fell from God, 
 
 And healing Spirits converse with them held ; 
 
 And Lir was glad all night ; but with the morn 
 
 Anguish returned ; and thus he cried, forlorn : 
 
 " Farewell ! The morn is come ; and I depart. 
 
 Farewell ! Not wholly evil are things ill ! 
 Farewell, Finola ! Yea, but in my heart 
 
 With thee I bide ; there liv'st thou changeless still ; 
 O Aodh ! O Fiacre ! the night is gone — 
 Farewell to both ! Farewell, my little Conn ! " 
 
 Southward the childless father rode once more, 
 And saw at last beyond the forests tall 
 
 The great lake and the palace on its shore ; 
 And, entering, onward passed from hall to hall 
 
 To where King Bove majestic sat and crowned. 
 
 High on a terrace with his magnates round ; 
 
88 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 A Stately terrace clustered round with towers, 
 
 And jubilant with music's merry din, 
 Beaten by resonant waves, and bright with flowers ; 
 
 There — but apart — she stood that wrought the sin, 
 Like one that broods on one black thought alone 
 Seen o'er a world of happy hopes o'erthrown. 
 
 The throng made way; onward the wronged one 
 strode 
 To Bove, sole-throned and lifting in his hand 
 For royal sceptre that Druidic rod 
 
 Which gave him o'er the Spirit-world command ; 
 Then, pointing to that traitress, false as fair, 
 That wronged one spake : " There stands the mur- 
 deress ! — there ! " ^ 
 
 Straight on the King Druidic insight fell ; 
 
 And, mirrored in his mind as cloud in lake, 
 His daughter's crime, distinct and visible. 
 
 Before him stood. He turned to her and spake : 
 " Thou hear'st the charge. How makest thou reply?" 
 And she : "The deed is mine ! I wrought it ! I ! " 
 
 Then spake King Bove with countenance like night : 
 " Of all dread shapes that traverse earth or sea. 
 
 Or pierce the soil, or urge through heaven their flight. 
 Say, which abhorrest thou most?" And answered 
 she : 
 
 "The shape of Spirits Accursed that ride the storm. " 
 
 And he : " Be thine henceforth that demon form ! " 
 
THE CHILDREN OF LIE 89 
 
 He spake, and lifted high his Druid Wand. 
 
 T'vvard him, perforce, she drew; she bowed her 
 head ; 
 Down on that head he dropped it ; and beyond 
 
 The glooming lake, with bat-like wings outspread 
 O'er earth's black verge, the shrieking Fury passed ; 
 Thenceforth to circle earth while earth shall last. 
 
 As when, on autumn eve from hill or cape 
 That slants into grey wastes of western sea, 
 
 The sun long set, some shepherd stares agape 
 
 At cloud that seems through endless space to flee 
 
 On raven pinions down the moaning wind, — 
 
 Thus on that Fury stared they, well-nigh blind. 
 
 Then spake the king with hoary head that shook, — 
 " I loved thy babes ; now, therefore, let us go 
 
 Northward, and on their blameless beauty look. 
 
 Though changed, and hear their songs ; for this I 
 know 
 
 By Druid art, they sing the whole night long. 
 
 And heaven and earth are solaced by their song." 
 
 Northward ere dawn they rode with a great host ; 
 
 And loosed their steeds by Darvra's mirror clear, 
 What time purpureal evening, like a ghost. 
 
 Stepped from the blue glen on the glimmering 
 mere ; 
 And camped where stood the ruminating herds 
 With heads forth leaning t'vvard those human birds. 
 
90 OLD IRISH LA YS 
 
 And ever o'er the wave those swans would come 
 To hear man's voice and tell their tale to each, 
 
 Swift as the wind and whiter than the foam ; 
 Yet never mounted they the bowery beach, 
 
 -\nd still 5wer\-ed backward from the beckoning hand, 
 
 Revering thus their stepmother's command. 
 
 And ever, when the sacred night descended, 
 While with those ripples on the sandy bars 
 
 The sighing woods and winds low murmurs blended, 
 Their music fell upon them from the stars, 
 
 And they gave utterance to that gift divine 
 
 In silver song or anthem cr)-5talline. 
 
 Who heard that strain no more his woes lamented ; 
 
 The exiled chief forgat his place of pride ; 
 The prince, ill-crowned, his ruthless deed repented ; 
 
 The childless mother and the %Wdowed bride, 
 Amid their locks, tear- wet and loosely straying. 
 Felt once again remembered touches pla>ing. 
 
 The words of that high music no one knew ; 
 
 Yet all men felt there lived a meaning there. 
 Immortal, mar\ ellous, searching, strengthening, true, 
 
 The pledge of some great future, strange and fair, 
 When sin shall lose her might, and cleansing woe 
 Shall on the Just some starry crown bestow. 
 
THE CHILDREX OF LIR 91 
 
 Lulled by that strain, the prophet king let drop 
 In death his Druid-Staff by DanTa's side ; 
 
 And there, in later years, with happy hope 
 
 King Lir, that mystic requiem listening, died : 
 
 And there those blissful sufferers bore their wrong 
 
 All day in weeping and ail night in song. 
 
 Not once, 'tis whispered in that ancient stor\-, 
 They raised their voice God's justice to arraign : 
 
 All patient suffering is expiator}' ; 
 
 Their doom was linked with hope of Erin's gain ; 
 
 And, hke the Holy Elders famed of old. 
 
 Those babes on that high promise kept their hold. 
 
 And they saw great towers built, and saw them fall : 
 And saw the httle seedhng tempest-sown : 
 
 And generations under torch and pall 
 
 Borne fonh to narrow graves ere long grass-grown ; 
 
 And all these things to them were as a dream. 
 
 Or shade that sleeps on some fast-hurr}-ing stream. 
 
 More numerous daily flocked to that still shore 
 Peace-lo\-ing spirits ; yea, the Gaehc clans 
 
 And tribes Dedannan, foemen there no more, 
 
 From the same fountains brimmed their flowing 
 cans. 
 
 And washed their kirtles in the same pure rills. 
 
 And brought their corn-sheaves to the self-same mills. 
 
92 OLD IRISH LA YS 
 
 Thus, though elsewhere the sons of Erin strove 
 From Aileach's coast and Uladh's marble cliffs 
 
 To where by banks of Lee, and Beara's cove, 
 
 The fishers spread their nets and launched their 
 skiffs, 
 
 Round Darvra's shores remained inviolate peace ; 
 
 There, too, the flocks and fields had best increase. 
 
 In that long strife the Gael the victory won ; 
 
 Tuatha's race, Dedannan, disappeared ; 
 Yet still the conqueror whispered, sire to son : 
 
 " Their progeny survives, half scorned, half feared, — 
 The Fairy Host ; and mansions bright they hold 
 On moonlight hills, and under waters cold. 
 
 " To snare the Gael, perpetual spells they weave ; 
 
 O'er the wet waste they bid the meteor glide ; 
 They raise illusive cliffs at morn and eve 
 
 On wintry coasts ; sea-mantled rocks they hide ; 
 And shipwrecked sailors eye them o'er the waves. 
 Dark shapes pygmean couchant in sea-caves. 
 
 " Some say that, 'mid the mountains' sunless walls, 
 They throng beneath their stony firmament, 
 
 An iron-handed race. At intervals 
 
 Through chasm stream-cloven, and through rocky 
 rent, 
 
 The shepherd hears their multitudinous hum, 
 
 As of far hosts approaching, swift yet dumb. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF LIR 93 
 
 " 111 those dread vaults, Magian and Alchemist, 
 Supreme in every craft of brain and hand, 
 
 The mountains' mineral veins they beat and twist ; 
 And on red anvils forge them spear and brand 
 
 For some predestined battle. Yea, men say 
 
 The island shall be theirs that last great day ! " 
 
 CANTO II 
 
 THE PENANCE OF THE INNOCENTS 
 
 What time, forth sliding from the Eternal Gates, 
 The centuries three on earth had lived and died, 
 
 Thus spake Finola to her snowy mates : 
 " No more in this soft haven may we bide. 
 
 The second Woe succeeds ; that heavier toil 
 
 On Alba's waves, the black sea-strait of Moyle." 
 
 Then wept to her in turn the younger three : 
 " Alas, the sharp rocks and the salt sea-foam ! 
 
 Thou, therefore, make the lay, ere yet we flee 
 From this our exile's cradle, sweet as home ! " 
 
 And thus Finola sang, while, far and near. 
 
 The men of Erin wept that strain to hear : 
 
 '' Farewell, Lough Darvra, with thine isles of bloom ! 
 
 Farewell, familiar tribes that grace her shore ! 
 The penance deepens on us, and the doom. 
 
 Farewell ! The voice of man we list no more. 
 Till he, the Tailkenn, comes to sound the knell 
 Of darkness, and rings out his gladsome bell." 
 
94 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 Thus singing, 'mid their dirge the sentenced soared 
 Heaven-high; then, hanging mute on plumes out- 
 spread, 
 
 With downcast eye long time that lake explored ; 
 And, lastly, with a great cry northward sped. 
 
 Then was it Erin's sons, listening that cry, 
 
 Decreed : "The man who slays a swan, shall die." 
 
 Three days against the northern blast on- flying. 
 To Fate obedient and the Will Divine, 
 
 They reached, what time the crimson eve was lying 
 On Alba's isles and ocean's utmost line. 
 
 That huge sea- strait, whose racing eddies boil 
 
 'Twixt Erin and the cloud-girt headland, Moyle. 
 
 There anguish fell on them ; they heard the booming 
 Of league-long breakers white ; and gazed on waves 
 
 Wreck-strewn, themselves entombed, and all-en- 
 tombing. 
 Rolling to labyrinths dim of red-roofed caves ; 
 
 And streaming waters broad, as with one will, 
 
 In cataracts from grey shelves descending still. 
 
 There, day by day, the sun more early set ; 
 
 And through the hollows of the high-ridged sea, 
 Which foamed around their rocky cabinet, 
 
 The whirlwinds beat them more remorselessly ; 
 And winter followed soon ; and, ofttimes, storms 
 Shrouded for weeks the mountains' frowning forms. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF LIR 95 
 
 In time all ocean omens they had learned ; 
 
 And once, as o'er the darkening deep they roved, 
 Finola, who the advancing woe discerned, 
 
 Addressed them : " Little brothers, well beloved, 
 Though many a storm hath tried us, yet the worst 
 Comes up this night ; now, therefore, ere it burst, 
 
 " Devise we swiftly, if, through God's high Will, 
 Billow or blast divides us each from each. 
 
 Some refuge-house wherein, when winds are still. 
 To meet once more — low rock or sandy beach ; " 
 
 And answer thus they made : " One spot alone 
 
 This night can yield us refuge, Carickrone." 
 
 They spake, and sudden thunder shook the world, 
 And blackness wrapped the seas, and lightnings 
 rent; 
 
 And, each from each, abroad those swans were hurled 
 By solid water-scud. Outworn and spent, 
 
 At last, that direful tempest over-blown, 
 
 Finola scaled their trysting-rock — alone. 
 
 But when she found no gentle brother near. 
 And heard the great storm roaring far away. 
 
 Anguish of anguish pierced her heart, and fear. 
 And thus she made her moan and sang her lay : 
 
 " Death-cold they lie along the far sea-tide : 
 
 Would that as cold I drifted at their side ! " 
 
96 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 Thus as she sang, behold, the sun uprose, 
 
 And smote a swan that on a wave's smooth crest 
 
 Exhausted lay, like one by pitiless foes 
 
 Trampled, and looking but to death for rest ; 
 
 He also clomb that rock, though weak and worn, 
 
 With bleeding feet, and pinions tempest-torn. 
 
 Aodh was he ! He couched him by her side ; 
 
 Straight, her right wing Finola o'er him spread. 
 Ere long, beneath the rock. Fiacre she spied, 
 
 Wounded yet more ; yet soon he hid his head 
 'Neath her left wing, her nestling's wonted place, 
 And slept content in that beloved embrace. 
 
 But still Finola mused with many a tear, — 
 " Alas for us, of little Conn bereff ! " 
 
 Then Conn came floating by, full blithe of cheer. 
 For he, secure within a craggy cleft. 
 
 Had slept all night ; and now once more his nest 
 
 He made beneath his snowy sister's breast. 
 
 And, as they slept, she sang : " Among the flowers 
 Of old we played, where princes quaffed their wine 
 
 But now for flowery fields sea-floods are ours ; 
 And now our wine-cup is the bitter brine. 
 
 Yet, brothers, fear no ill ; for God will send 
 
 At last his Tailkenn, and our woes find end." 
 
THE CHILDREN OF LIR 97 
 
 And God, Who of least things has tenderest thought, 
 Looked down on them benignly from on high. 
 
 And bade that bitter brine to enter not 
 
 Their scars, unhealed as yet, lest they should die ; 
 
 And nearer sent their choicest food full oft. 
 
 And clothed their wings with plumage fine and soft. 
 
 And ever, as the spring advanced, the sea 
 
 Put on a kindlier aspect. Cliffs, deep-scarred. 
 
 To milder airs gave welcome festively 
 
 Upon their iron breasts and foreheads hard, 
 
 And, while about their feet the ripples played. 
 
 Cast o'er the glaring deep a friendlier shade. 
 
 And when at last the full midsummer panted 
 Upon the austere main and high -peaked isles 
 
 And hills that, like some elfin land enchanted, 
 
 Now charmed, now mocked the eye with phantom 
 smiles, — 
 
 More far round Alba's shores the swans made way 
 
 To Islay's beach and cloud-loved Colonsay. 
 
 The growths, beside their native lake oft noted, 
 In that sublimer clime no more they missed ; 
 
 Jewels, not flowers, they found where'er they floated. 
 Emerald and sapphire, opal, amethyst, 
 
 Far-kenned through watery depths or magic air. 
 
 Or trails of broken rainbows, here and there. 
 
98 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 Round Erin's northern coasts they drifted on 
 From RathUn isle to Fanad's beethng crest, 
 
 And where, in frowning sunset steeped, forth shone 
 The " Bloody Foreland" gazing t'ward the west ; 
 
 Yet still with duteous hearts to Moyle returned — 
 
 To love their place of penance they had learned. 
 
 One time it chanced that, onward as they drifted. 
 Where Banna's current joins that stormy sea, 
 
 A princely company, with banners lifted, 
 
 Rode past on snow-white steeds and sang for glee ; 
 
 At once they knew those horsemen, form and face, 
 
 Their native stock, Tuatha's ancient race ! 
 
 T'ward them they sped ; their sorrows they recounted ; 
 
 The warriors could not aid them, and rode by. 
 Then higher than of old their anguish mounted ; 
 
 And farther rang through heaven their piteous cry ; 
 And when it ceased, this lay Finola sang, 
 While all the echoing rocks and caverns rang : 
 
 "Whilom in purple clad we sat elate ; 
 
 The warriors watched us at their nut-brown mead ; 
 But now we roam the waters desolate, 
 
 Or breast the languid beds of waving weed ; 
 Our food was then fine bread ; our drink was wine ; 
 This day on sea-plants sour we peak and pine. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF LIR 99 
 
 " Whilom our four small cots of pearl and gold 
 Lay, side by side, before our father's bed. 
 
 And silken foldings kept us from the cold ; 
 
 But now on restless waves our couch is spread ; 
 
 And now our bed-clothes are the white sea-foam ; 
 
 And now, by night, the sea-rock is our home." 
 
 Not less from them such sorrows swiftly passed, 
 Since evermore one thought their bosoms filled — 
 
 That father's home. That haunt, in memory glassed, 
 Childhood perpetual o'er their lives distilled ; 
 
 And, coast what shore they might, green vale and 
 plain 
 
 Bred whiter flocks, men said, more golden 
 
 gram. 
 
 The years ran on ; the centuries three went by. 
 
 Finola sang : "■ The second Woe is ended ! " 
 Obedient then, once more they soared on high ; 
 
 Next morn, on Erin's western coast descended, 
 While sunrise flashed from misty isles far seen. 
 Now gold, now fiecked with streaks of luminous green. 
 
 And there for many a winter they abode. 
 Harbouring in precincts of the setting sun ; 
 
 And mourned by day, yet sang at night their ode, 
 As though in praise of some great victory won, 
 
 Some conqueror more than man, some heavenly crown 
 
 Slowly o'er all creation settling down. 
 
100 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 There once — what time a great sun in decHne 
 Had changed to gold the green back of a wave 
 
 That showered a pasture fair with diamond brine, 
 Then sank, anon uprising from its grave 
 
 Went shouldering onward, higher and more high, 
 
 And hid far lands, and half eclipsed the sky — 
 
 There once a shepherd, Aibhric, high of race. 
 
 Marked them far off, and, marking them, so loved 
 
 That to the ocean's verge he rushed apace. 
 
 With hands outspread. Shoreward the creatures 
 moved ; 
 
 And, when he heard them speak with human tongue. 
 
 That love he felt grew tenderer and more strong. 
 
 Day after day, they told that youth their tale ; 
 
 Wide-eyed he stood, and inly drank their words ; 
 And, later, harping still in wood and vale, 
 
 He fitted oft their sorrow to his chords ; 
 And thus to him in part men owe the lore 
 Of all those patient sufferers bare of yore. 
 
 For bard he was ; and still the bard-like nature 
 Hath reverence, as for virtue, so for woe ; 
 
 And ever finds, in trials of the creature, 
 The great Creator's purpose, here below. 
 
 To hft by lowering, and through anguish strange 
 
 To fit for thrones exempt from chance or change. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF LIR 101 
 
 There first the Four had met that sympathy 
 
 Yearned for so long; and yet, that treasure found, 
 
 So much the more, ere long, calamity 
 
 Tasked them, thus strengthened ; tasked, and closed 
 them round ; 
 
 And higher yet fierce winds and watery shocks 
 
 Dashed them thenceforth upon the pitiless rocks. 
 
 At last from heaven's dark vault a night there fell, 
 The direst they had known. The high-heaped seas, 
 
 Vanquished by frost, beneath her iron spell 
 Abased their haughty crests by slow degrees. 
 
 The swans were frozen upon that ice-plain frore ; 
 
 Yet still Finola sang, as oft before : 
 
 " Beneath my right wing, Aodh, make thy rest ! 
 
 Beneath my left, Fiacre ! My httle Conn, 
 Find thou a warmer shelter 'neath my breast, 
 
 As thou art wont ; thou art my little son ! 
 Thou, God, that all things mad'st, and lovest all. 
 Subdue things great ! Protect the weak, the small ! " 
 
 But evermore the younger three made moan ; 
 
 And still their moans more loud and louder grew 
 And still Finola o'er that sea of stone 
 
 For their sake fragments of wild waiHngs threw ; 
 And ever as she sang, the on-driving snow 
 Choked the sweet strain ; yet still she warbled low. 
 
102 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 Then, louder when she heard those others grieve, 
 And found that song might now no more avail, 
 
 She said : " Believe, O brothers young, believe 
 In that great God, whose help can never fail ! 
 
 Have faith in God, since God can ne'er deceive ! " 
 
 And, lo ! those weepers answered, — '' We believe ! " 
 
 So thus those babes, in God's predestined hour. 
 
 Through help of Him, the Lord of Life and Death, 
 
 Inly fulfilled with light and prophet power. 
 
 Believed, and perfect made their Act of Faith ; 
 
 And thenceforth all things, both in shade and shine, 
 
 To them came softly and with touch benign. 
 
 First, from the southern stars there came a breeze, 
 On-wafting happy mist of moonlit rain ; 
 
 And, when the sun ascended o'er the seas, 
 
 The ice was vanquished ; and the watery plain. 
 
 And every cloud, with rapture thrilled and stirred ; 
 
 And, lo ! at noon the cuckoo's voice was heard ! 
 
 And since with that rough ice their feet were sore, 
 God for their sake a breeze from Eden sent. 
 
 That gently raised them from the ocean's floor. 
 And in its bosom, as an ambient tent. 
 
 Held them suspense ; and, with a dew of balm, 
 
 God, while they slept, made air and ocean calm. 
 
THE CHILDREN OE LIR 103 
 
 Likewise a beam auroral forth he sped, 
 That flushed that tent aerial, like a rose. 
 
 Each morn, and roseate odours o'er it shed 
 
 The long day through. And still, at evening's 
 close. 
 
 They dreamed of those rich bowers and alleys green, 
 
 Wherein with Lir their childish sports had been. 
 
 And thrice they dreamed that, in the morning grey,' 
 They gathered there red roses drenched with dew ; 
 
 But, lo ! a serpent 'neath the roses lay ; 
 
 Then came the Tailkenn, and that serpent slew ; 
 
 And round the Tailkenn's tonsured head was light 
 
 That made the morning more than noonday bright. 
 
 Thus wrapt, thus kindled, in sublimer mood 
 
 Heaven-high they soared, and flung abroad their 
 strain, 
 
 O'er-sailing huge Croagh- Patrick swathed in wood, 
 Or Acaill, warder of the western main, 
 
 Or Arran Isle, that time heroic haunt. 
 
 Since Enda's day Religion's saintlier vaunt. 
 
 And many a time they floated farther south, 
 Where milder airs endear sea- margins bleak. 
 
 To that dim Head far seen o'er Shenan'"s mouth. 
 Or Smerwick's ill-famed clifl" and winding creek, 
 
 Or where on Brandon sleeps Milesius' son. 
 
 With all his shipwrecked warriors round him — Donn. 
 
104 OLD IRISH LA YS 
 
 The centuries passed : her loud, exultant lay 
 Finola sang, their time of penance done, 
 
 And ended : " Lo, to us it seems a day ; 
 
 Not less the dread nine hundred years are run ! 
 
 Now, brothers, homeward be our flight ! " And they 
 
 Chanted triumphant : '' Home, to Finnaha ! " 
 
 Up from the sea they rose, in widening gyre. 
 And hung suspended 'mid the ethereal blue. 
 
 And saw, far flashing in the sunset's fire, 
 
 A wood-girt lake whose splendour well they 
 knew ; 
 
 And flew all night ; and reached at dawn its shore — 
 
 Ah, then rang out that wail ne'er heard before ! 
 
 There, where the towers of Lir of old had stood. 
 Lay now the stony heap and rain-washed rath ; 
 
 And through the ruin-mantling alder-wood 
 
 The forest beast had stamped in mire his path : 
 
 And desolate were their mother's happy bowers. 
 
 So fair of old with fountains and with flowers ! 
 
 More closely drew the orphans each to each. 
 
 'Twas then Finola raised her dirge on high. 
 As nearer yet they drifted to the beach 
 
 In hope one fragment of past days to spy : 
 " Upon our father's house hath fallen a change ; 
 And, as a dead man's face, this place is strange ! 
 
THE CHILDREN OF LIR 105 
 
 " No more the hound and horse ; no more the horn ! 
 
 No more the warriors winding down the glen ! 
 Behold, the place of pleasaunce is forlorn, 
 
 And emptied of fair women and brave men ; 
 The wine-cup now is dry ; the music fled — 
 Now know we that our father, Lir, is dead ! " 
 
 She sang, and ceased, though long the feathered 
 throat 
 
 Panted with passion of the unuttered song. 
 At last she spake, with voice that seemed remote, 
 
 Like echoed voice of one the tombs among : 
 " Depart we hence ! Better the exile's pain ! " 
 And they : " Return we to rough waves again ! " 
 
 Yet still along that silver mere they lingered, 
 Oaring their weeping way by lawn and cape, 
 
 Till evening, purple-stoled and dewy-fingered. 
 
 O'er heaven's sweet face had woven its veil of 
 crape ; 
 
 And tenderer came from darkening wood and wild 
 
 The voice far off of woman or of child. 
 
 And when, far travelling through the fields of ether, 
 The stars successive filled their thrones of light. 
 
 Still to that heaven the glimmering lake beneath her 
 Gave meet response, with music answering light ; 
 
 For still, wherever sailed that mystic four. 
 
 With minstrelsy divine that lake ran o'er. 
 
106 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 But when the rising sun made visible 
 
 The night-mist hovering long o'er banks of reed, 
 They cast their broad wings on a gathering swell 
 
 Of wind that, late from eastern sea-caves freed. 
 Waved all the island's oakwoods t'ward the West ; 
 And seaward swooped at eve, and there found 
 rest. 
 
 And since they knew their penance now was over. 
 Penance that tasks true hearts to purify. 
 
 Happier were they than e'er was mortal lover, 
 Happy as Spirits cleansed that, near the sky, 
 
 Feel, 'mid that shadowy realm expiatory, 
 
 Warm on their hds, the unseen, yet nearing, glory. 
 
 Thenceforth they roamed no more, at Inisglaire 
 Their change awaiting. In its blissful prime 
 
 That island was, men say, as Eden fair, — 
 The swan-soft nursling of a changeful clime, 
 
 With amaranth-lighted glades, and tremulous sheen 
 
 Of trees full-flowered on earth no longer seen. 
 
 Not then the waves with that still site contended ; 
 
 On its warm sandhills pansies always bloomed ; 
 And ever with the inspiring sea-wind blended 
 
 The breath of gardens violet-perfumed ; 
 And daisies whitened lawn and dell, and spread 
 At sunset o'er green hills their under-red. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF LIE 107 
 
 Faint as that blush which hghts some matron's cheek, 
 Tenderly pleased by gentle praise deserved ; 
 
 That island's winding coast, from creek to creek, 
 Like curves of shells, with dream-like beauty 
 swerved ; 
 
 And midmost spread a lake, from mortal eyes 
 
 Vanished this day, hke man's lost paradise. 
 
 Around that lake, with oldest oakwoods shaded, 
 Were all things that to eye are witching most, 
 
 Green slopes dew-drenched, and gray rocks ivy- 
 braided ; 
 Yet speechless was the region as a ghost ; 
 
 No whisper shook those woods ; no tendril stirred ; 
 
 Nor e'er within the cave was ripple heard. 
 
 A home for Spirits, not home for man, it seemed ; 
 
 Or Limbo meet for body-waiting Souls — 
 Of such in Pagan times the poets dreamed ; 
 
 That stillness, which invests the unmoving poles, 
 Above it brooded. In its circuit wide 
 A second Darvra lived — but glorified. 
 
 Upon its breast perpetual light there lay, 
 Undazzling beam, and uncreated light ; 
 
 For lake and wood the sunshine drank all day. 
 And breathed it softly forth to cheer the night, — 
 
 A silver twilight, pure from cloud or taint. 
 
 Like aureole round the forehead of a saint. 
 
108 OLD IRISH LA YS 
 
 There dwelt those swans ; there louder anthems 
 chanted ; 
 
 There first they sang by day rapt song and hymn, 
 Till all those birds the western coasts that haunted 
 
 Came flying far o'er ocean's purple rim, 
 Scorning thenceforth wild cHff and beds of foam ; 
 And made, then first, that sacred isle their home. 
 
 So passed three years. When dawned the third May 
 morn, 
 
 The Four, while slowly rose the kindling mist 
 Showing the first white on the earliest thorn. 
 
 Heard music o'er the waters. List — O list ! 
 'Twas sweet as theirs — more sweet — yet terrible, 
 At first ; and sudden trembling on them fell. 
 
 A second time it sounded. Terror died. 
 
 And rapture came instead, and mystic mirth, 
 
 They knew not whence ; and thus Finola cried : 
 " Brothers ! the Tailkenn treads our Erin's earth ! " 
 
 And as the lifted mist gave view more large. 
 
 They saw a blue bay with a fair green marge. 
 
 On that green marge there rose an Altar-stone ; 
 
 Before it, robed in white, with tonsured head, 
 Stood up the kingly Tailkenn all alone ; 
 
 Not far behind, in reverence, not in dread. 
 With low bent brows a princely senate knelt. 
 Girding that altar as with golden belt. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF LIR 109 
 
 Marvelling, as on they sailed, that rite they saw ; 
 
 But, when a third time pealed that Tailkenn's bell, 
 They, too, their halleluias, though with awe. 
 
 Blended with his. The 111 Spirits heard their knell, 
 And, shrieking, fled to penal dungeons drear ; 
 And straight, since now those blissful Four drew near. 
 
 Saint Patrick stretched above the wave his hand. 
 And thus he spake — and wind and wave were 
 stilled — 
 
 " Children of Lir, re-tread your native land. 
 For now your long sea-penance is fulfilled ! " 
 
 Then, lo ! Finola raised the funeral cry : 
 
 " We tread our native land that we may die ! " 
 
 And thus she made the lay, and thus she sang : 
 " Baptize us, priest, while living yet we be ! " 
 
 And louder soon her dirge-like anthem rang : 
 " Lo, thus the Children's burial I decree; 
 
 Make fair our grave where land and ocean meet, 
 
 And t'ward thy holy Altar place our feet. 
 
 " Upon my left. Fiacre ; upon my right 
 
 Let Aodh sleep ; for such their place of rest, 
 
 Secured to each by usage day and night ; 
 And lay my little Conn upon my breast ; 
 
 Then on a low sand pillow raise my head, 
 
 That I may see his face though I be dead." 
 
110 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 She spake ; and on the sands they stept — the Four — 
 Then, lo ! from heaven there came a miracle. 
 
 Soon as they left the wave, and trod the shore. 
 The weight of bygone centuries on them fell ; 
 
 To human forms they changed, yet human none ; — 
 
 Dread, shapeless weights of wrinkles and of bone. 
 
 A moment, prone the wildered creatures lay ; 
 
 Then, slowly, up that breadth of tawny sand. 
 Like wounded beast that can but crawl, made way 
 
 With knee convulsed, and closed and clutching 
 hand, — 
 Nine-centuried forms, still breathing mortal breath. 
 Though shrouded in the cerements pale of death. 
 
 That concourse on them gazed with many a tear ; 
 
 Yet no man uttered speech or motion made. 
 Till now the Four had reached that altar-bier, 
 
 Their ghastly pilgrimage's goal, and laid 
 Before its base their bodies, one by one. 
 And faces glistening in the rising sun. 
 
 There lying, loud they raised the self-same cry. 
 
 As Patrick o'er them signed the conquering Sign, — 
 
 " Baptize us, holy Tailkenn, for we die ! " 
 The saint baptized them in the name Divine, 
 
 And, swift as thought, their happy spirits at last 
 
 To God's high feast and singing angels passed. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF LIR 111 
 
 Now hear the latest wonder. While, low-bowed, 
 That concourse gazed upon the reverend dead. 
 
 Behold, like changeful shapes in evening cloud. 
 Vanished those time-worn bodies ; and, instead. 
 
 Inwoven lay four children, white and young, 
 
 With silver-lidded eyes and lashes long. 
 
 Finola lay, once more an eight years' child ; 
 
 Upon her right hand Aodh took his rest. 
 Upon her left Fiacre ; — in death he smiled ; 
 
 Her little Conn was cradled on her breast ; 
 And all their saintly raiment shone as bright 
 As sea-foam sparkhng on a moonlit night ; 
 
 Or, as their snowy night-clothes shone of old, 
 
 When now the night was past, and Lir, their sire. 
 
 Upraised them from the warm cot's silken fold. 
 And bade them watch the sun's ascending fire. 
 
 And watched himself its beam, now here, now there. 
 
 Flashed from white foot, blue eyes, or golden hair. 
 
 The men who saw that death-bed did not weep, 
 But gazed till sunset upon each fair face ; 
 
 And then with funeral psalm, and anthems deep. 
 Interred them at that sacred altar's base. 
 
 And graved their names in Ogham characters 
 
 On one white tomb; and, close beneath them, 
 Lir's. 
 
112 OLD IRISH LAYS 
 
 Those Babes were Erin's Holy Innocents, 
 
 And first-fruits of the land to Christ their Lord, 
 
 Though born within the unbeliever's tents : 
 Figured in them the Gael his God adored, — 
 
 That later-coming, holier Gael, who won 
 
 Through Faith the birthright, though the younger son. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
ODIN, THE MAN 
 
 Forth with those missives, Chiron, to the Invader ! 
 Hence, and make speed; they scathe mine eyes like 
 
 fire. 
 Pompeius, thou hast conquered ! What remains? 
 Vengeance !. Man's race has never dreamed of such; 
 So slow, so sure. Pompeius, I depart. 
 I might have held these mountains yet four days; 
 The fifth had seen them thine — 
 I look beyond the limit of this night. 
 Four centuries I need; then comes mine hour. 
 
 What saith the Accursed One of the Western World? 
 I hear even now her trumpet ! Thus she saith : 
 "I have enlarged my borders; iron reaped 
 Earth's field all golden. Strenuous fight we fought; 
 I left some sweat-drops on that Carthage shore, 
 Some blood on Gallic javelins. That is past! 
 My pleasant days are come. My couch is spread 
 Beside all waters of the Midland Sea; 
 By whispers lulled of nations kneeling round; 
 Illumed by light of balmiest climes; refreshed 
 By winds from Atlas and the Olympian snows. 
 Henceforth my foot is in delicious ways; 
 Bathe it, ye Persian fountains ! Syrian vales, 
 All roses, make me sleepy with perfumes ! 
 Caucasian cliffs, with martial echoes faint, 
 "5 
 
116 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Flatter light slumbers; charm a Roman dream ! 
 I send you my Pompeius; let him lead 
 Odin in chains to Rome ! " Odin in chains ! 
 Were Odin chained, or dead, that God he serves 
 Could raise a thousand Odins. — 
 Rome's Founder-King, beside his Augur standing, 
 Noted twelve ravens borne in sequent flight 
 O'er Alba's crags. They emblemed centuries twelve, 
 The term to Rome conceded. Eight are flown; 
 Remain but four. Hail, sacred brood of night ! 
 Henceforth my standards bear the Raven Sign, 
 The bird that hoarsely haunts the ruined tower; 
 The bird sagacious of the field of blood 
 Albeit far off. Four centuries I need. 
 Then comes my day. My race and I are one. 
 O Race beloved and holy ! From my youth 
 Where'er a hungry heart impelled my feet, 
 Whate'er I found of glorious, have 1 not 
 Claimed it for thee, deep-musing? Ignorant, first. 
 For thee I wished the golden ingots piled 
 In Susa and Ecbatana : — ah fool ! 
 At Athens next, treading where Plato trod, 
 For thee all triumphs of the mind of man. 
 And Phidian hand inspired ! Ah fool, that hour 
 Athens lay bound, a slave ! Later to Rome 
 In secrecy by Mithridates sent 
 To search the inmost of his hated foe. 
 For thee I claimed that discipline of Law 
 Which made her State one camp. Fool, fool once 
 more ! 
 
ODIN, THE MAN 117 
 
 Soon learned I what a heart-pollution lurked 
 
 Beneath that mask of Law. As Persia fell, 
 
 By softness sapped, so Rome. Behold, this day. 
 
 Following the Pole Star of my just revenge, 
 
 I lead my people forth to clearer fates 
 
 Through cloudier fortunes. They are brave and 
 
 strong; 
 'Tis but the rose-breath of their vale that rots 
 Their destiny's bud unblown. I lead them forth, 
 A race war-vanquished, not a race of slaves; 
 Lead them, not Southward to Euphrates' bank, 
 Not Eastward to the realms of rising suns. 
 Not West to Rome, and bondage. Hail, thou North ! 
 Hail, boundless woods, by nameless oceans girt. 
 And snow-robed mountain islets, founts of fire ! 
 
 Four hundred years ! I know that awful North. 
 I sought it when the one flower of my life 
 Fell to my foot. That anguish set me free. 
 It dashed me on the iron side of life; 
 I woke, a man. My people too shall wake; 
 They shall have icy crags for myrtle banks, 
 Sharp rocks for couches. Strength! I must have 
 
 strength ! 
 Not splenetic sallies of a woman's courage. 
 But hearts to which self-pity is unknown ! 
 Hard life to them must be as mighty wine 
 Gladdening the strong; the death on battle-fields 
 Must seem the natural, honest close of life; 
 Their fear must be to die without a wound 
 And miss Life's after-banquet. Wooden shield 
 
118 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Whole winter nights shall lie their covering sole; 
 Thereon the boy shall stem the ocean wave; 
 Thereon the youth shall slide with speed of winds, 
 Loud-laughing, down the snowy mountain-slope; 
 To him the Sire shall whisper as he bleeds, 
 " Remember the revenge ! Thy son must prove 
 More strong, more hard than thou ! " 
 
 Four hundred years ! 
 Increase is tardy in that icy clime, 
 For Death is there the awful nurse of Life; 
 Death rocks the cot. Why meet we there no wolf 
 Save those huge-limbed ? Because weak wolf-cubs die. 
 'Tis thus with man; 'tis thus with all things strong. 
 Rise higher on thy Northern hills, my Pine ! 
 That Southern Palm shall dwindle. 
 
 House stone-walled — 
 Ye shall not have it! Temples cedar-roofed — 
 Ye shall not build them ! Where the Temple stands. 
 The City gathers. Cities ye shall spurn; 
 Live in the woods; live singly, winning each, 
 Hunter or fisher by blue lakes, his prey; 
 Abhor the gilded shrine; the God Unknown 
 In such abides not. On the mountain's top 
 Great Persia sought Him in her day of strength; 
 With her ye share the kingly breed of Truths, 
 The noblest inspirations Man hath known. 
 Or can know — ay, unless the Lord of all 
 Should come, Man's Teacher. Pray as Persia prayed; 
 And see ye pray for Vengeance ! Leave till then 
 To Rome her Idol fanes and pilfered Gods. 
 
ODIN, THE MAN 119 
 
 I see you, O my people, year by year 
 Strengthened by sufferings; pains that crush the 
 
 weak. 
 Your helpers. Men have been that, poison-fed, 
 Grew poison-proof; on pain and wrong feed ye! 
 The wild beast rage against you ! frost and fire 
 Rack you in turn ! I'll have no gold among you; 
 With gold come wants; and wants mean servitude. 
 Edge, each, his spear with fish-bone or with flint, 
 Leaning for prop on none. I want no Nations ! 
 A Race I fashion, playing not at States. 
 I take the race of Man, the breed that lifts 
 Alone its brow to heaven; I change that race 
 From clay to stone, from stone to adamant. 
 Through slow abrasion, such as leaves sea-shelves 
 Lustrous at last and smooth. To be, not have, — 
 A man to be; no heritage to clasp 
 Save that which simple manhood, at its will, 
 Or conquers or re-conquers, held meanwhile 
 In trust for Virtue; this alone is greatness. 
 Remain ye Tribes, not Nations; led by Kings, 
 Great onward-striding Kings, above the rest 
 High towering, like the keel-compelling sail 
 That takes the topmost tempest. Let them die, 
 Each for his people ! I will die for mine 
 Then when my work is finished; not before. 
 That Bandit King who founded Rome, the Accursed, 
 Vanished in storm. My sons shall see me die, — 
 Die, strong to lead them till my latest breath, 
 Which shall not be a sigh; shall see and say, 
 
120 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 "This Man, far-marching through the mountainous 
 
 world, 
 No God, but yet God's Prophet of the North, 
 Gave many crowns to others; for himself, 
 His people were his crown." 
 
 Four hundred years ! 
 Ye shall find savage races in your path. 
 Be ye barbaric, — ay, but savage not; 
 Hew down the baser, lest they drag you down; 
 Ye cannot raise them — they fulfil their fates. 
 Be terrible to foes, be kind to friend. 
 Be just; be true. Revere the Household Hearth; 
 This knowing, that beside it dwells a God. 
 Revere the Priest, the King, the Bard, the Maid, 
 The Mother of the heroic race — five strings 
 Sounding God's Lyre. Drive out, with lance for goad. 
 That idiot God by Rome called Terminus, 
 Who standing sleeps, and holds his reign o'er fools. 
 The earth is God's, not Man's: that man from Him 
 Holds it, whose valour earns it. Time shall come. 
 It may be, when the warfare shall be past. 
 The reign triumphant of the brave and just 
 In peace consolidated. Time may come 
 When that long winter of the Northern Land 
 Shall find its spring. Where spreads the black morass. 
 Harvest all gold may glitter; cities rise 
 Where roamed the elk, — and nations set their thrones; 
 Nations, not like those empires known till now, 
 But wise and pure. Let such their temples build, 
 And worship Truth, if Truth should e'er to Man 
 
ODIN, THE MAN 121 
 
 Show her full face. Let such ordain them laws, 
 If Justice e'er should mate with laws of men. 
 Above the mountain summits of Man's hope 
 There spreads, I know, a land illimitable, — 
 The table land of Virtue trial-proved, 
 Whereon, one day, the nations of the world 
 Shall race like emulous Gods. A greater God 
 Served by our sires, a God unknown to Rome, 
 Above that shining level sits, high-towered; 
 Millions of Spirits wing His flaming light, 
 And fiery winds among His tresses play. 
 When comes that hour which judges Gods and men. 
 That God shall plague the Gods that filched His name, 
 And cleanse the Peoples. 
 
 When ye hear, my sons, 
 That God uprising in His judgment robes, 
 And see their dreadful crimson in the West, 
 Then know ye that the knell of Rome is nigh. 
 Then stand, and listen ! When His Trumpet sounds, 
 Forth from your forests and your snows, my sons ! 
 Forth over Ister, Rhenus, Rhodonus, 
 To Mcesia forth, to Thrace, lUyricum, 
 Iberia, Gaul ; but, most of all, to Rome ! 
 Who leads you thither, leads you not for spoil. 
 A mission hath he, fair though terrible; — 
 He makes a pure hand purer, washed in blood. 
 On, Scourge of God ! the Vengeance Hour is come. 
 
 I know that hour, and wait it. Odin's work 
 Stands then consummate. Odin's name, thenceforth. 
 Goes down to darkness. 
 
122 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Farewell, Ararat! 
 How many an evening, still and bright as this, 
 In childhood, youth, or manhood's sorrowing years, 
 Have I not watched the sunset hanging red 
 Upon thy hoary brow! Farewell forever! 
 A legend haunts thee that the race of Man 
 In earliest days, a sad and storm-tossed few. 
 From thy wan heights descended, making way 
 Into a ruined world. A storm-tossed race, 
 But not self-pitying, once again thou seest 
 Into a world all ruin making way 
 Whither they know not, yet without a fear. 
 This hour — lo, there, they pass yon valley's verge ! — 
 In sable weeds that pilgrimage moves on, — 
 Moves slowly, like thy shadow, Ararat, 
 That Eastward creeps. Phantom of glory dead ! 
 Image of greatness that disdains to die ! 
 Move Northward thou! Whate'er thy fates decreed. 
 At least that shadow shall be shadow of man. 
 And not of beast gold-weighted! On, thou Night, 
 Cast by my heart! Thou, too, shall meet thy morn! 
 
OISEEN AND SAINT PATRICK 
 
 I 
 
 THE GREAT CONTENTION 
 
 Not seldom crossed by bodings sad, 
 
 In words though kind yet hard, 
 Spake Patrick to his guest, Oiseen; 
 
 For Patrick loved the bard. 
 
 In whose broad bosom, swathed with beard 
 
 Like cliffs with ivy trailed, 
 A Christian strove with a Pagan soul, 
 
 And neither quite prevailed. 
 
 Silent as shades the shadowing monks 
 
 O'er cloistral courts might glide; 
 But the War-Bard strode through the church itself 
 
 Like hunter on mountain- side. 
 
 The Priest might soften his Compline psalm 
 Till it seemed but the night-wind's sigh; 
 
 Oiseen, if the stag-hunt swept by at mass. 
 Would echo the stag-hound's cry! 
 
 And thus one day, while his beads he told. 
 
 Fierce thoughts, a rebel breed. 
 Burst up from old graves in the warrior's heart, 
 
 And he stormed at priest and creed. 
 123 
 
124 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 " Woe, woe ! for the priestly tribe this hour 
 
 On the Feine Hill have sway ! 
 Glad am I that scarce their shapes I see; 
 
 Half-blind am I this day. 
 
 " Woe, woe, thou Palace of Cruachan ! 
 
 Thy sceptre is down and thy sword; 
 The chase goes over thy grassy roof. 
 
 The monk in thy courts is lord ! 
 
 "Thou man with the mitre and vestments broad, 
 And the bearing of grave command. 
 
 Rejoice that Diarmid this day is dust! 
 Right heavy was his clenched hand ! 
 
 "Thou man with the bell ! I rede thee well : 
 
 Were Diorring living this day. 
 Thy book he would take, and thy bell would break 
 
 On the base of yon pillar grey ! 
 
 "Thou man with miraculous crosier-staff, 
 Though puissant thou art, and tall. 
 
 Were GoU but here, he would dash thy gear 
 In twain on thy convent wall ! 
 
 "Were Conan living, the bald-head shrill, 
 With the scourge of his scoff and gibe 
 
 He would break thy neck, and thy convent wreck. 
 And lash from the land thy tribe ! 
 
OISEEN AND SAINT PATRICK 125 
 
 " But one of our chiefs had spared thy head — 
 
 My Oscar, my son, my child ! 
 He was storm in the foray and fire in the fight, 
 
 But in peace he was maiden-mild." 
 
 Then Patrick answered : " Old man, old man, 
 
 That Pagan realm lies low. 
 Our home is thine ! Forget thy chiefs, 
 
 And thy deeds gone by forego ! 
 
 " High feast thou hast on the festal days. 
 
 And cakes on the days of fast — " 
 " Thou liest, thou priest, for in wrath and scorn 
 
 Thy cakes to the dogs I cast ! " 
 
 "Old man, thou hearest our Christian hymns; 
 
 Such strains thou hadst never heard — " 
 "Thou liest, thou priest! for in Letter Lee wood 
 
 I have listened its famed blackbird ! 
 
 " I have heard the music of meeting swords. 
 And the grating of barks on the strand. 
 
 And the shout from the breasts of the men of help 
 That leaped from the decks to land ! 
 
 "Twelve hounds had my sire, with throats like bells, 
 
 Loud echoed on lake and bay; 
 By this hand, they lacked but the baptism rite 
 
 To chaunt with thy monks this day ! " 
 
126 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Oiseen's white head on his breast dropt down, 
 Till his hair and his beard, made one, 
 
 Shone out like the spine of a frosty hill 
 Far seen in the wintry sun. 
 
 " One question, Patrick ! I ask of thee. 
 Thou king of the saved and shriven : 
 
 My sire, and his chiefs, have they their place 
 In thy City, star-built, of heaven? " 
 
 "Oiseen, old chief of the harp and sword. 
 
 That questionest of the soul. 
 That City they tread not who love but war : 
 
 Their realm is a realm of dole." 
 
 "By this head, thou liest, thou son of Calphurn! 
 
 In heaven I would scorn to bide 
 If my father and Oscar were exiled men, 
 
 And no friend at my side." 
 
 "That City, old man, is the City of Peace; 
 
 Loud anthems, not widows' wail." 
 " It is not in bellowings chiefs take joy. 
 
 But in songs of the wars of Fail ! 
 
 "Are the men in the streets like Baoigne's chiefs? 
 
 Great-hearted like us are they? 
 Do they stretch to the poor the ungrudging hand. 
 
 Or turn they their heads away? 
 
OISEEN AND SAINT PATRICK 127 
 
 "Thou man with the chaunt, and thou man with the 
 creed, 
 
 This thing I demand of thee : 
 My dog, may he pass through the gates of heaven? 
 
 May my wolf-hound enter free? " 
 
 " Old man, not the buzzing gnat may pass, 
 
 Nor sunbeam look in unbidden; 
 The King, there sceptred, knows all, sees all; 
 
 From Him there is nothing hidden." 
 
 " It never was thus with Fionn, our king ! 
 
 In largess our Fionn delighted; 
 The hosts of the earth came in and went forth 
 
 Unquestioned, and uninvited! " 
 
 '' Thy words are the words of madness, old man. 
 
 Thy chieftains had rule one day; 
 Yet a moment of heaven is three times worth 
 
 The warriors of Eire for aye ! " 
 
 Then Oiseen uplifted his old white head : 
 
 Like lightning from hoary skies 
 A flash went forth 'neath the shaggy roofs 
 
 Low-bent o'er his sightless eyes: 
 
 "Though my life sinks down, and I sit in the dust, 
 
 Blind warrior and grey-haired man. 
 Mine were they of old, thou priest over bold, 
 
 Those chiefs of Baoigne's clan ! " 
 
128 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 And he cried, while a spasm his huge frame shook, 
 " Dim shadows, like men, before me. 
 
 My father was Fionn, and Oscar my son. 
 
 Though to-day ye stand vaunting it o'er me ! " 
 
 Thus raged Oiseen, 'mid the fold of Christ 
 
 Still roaming old deserts wide 
 In the storm of thought, like a lion old; 
 
 Though lamblike at last he died. 
 
 II 
 
 OISEEN S YOUTlH 
 
 "Old man, for once thy chiefs forget — " 
 (Thus oft the Saint his rage beguiled) 
 
 " Sing us thine own glad youth, while yet 
 A stripling, or a child." 
 
 " O Patrick, glad that time and dear ! 
 
 It wrought no greatness, gained no gain; 
 Not less those things thou long'st to hear 
 
 Thou shalt not seek in vain. 
 
 " My mother was a princess, turned 
 By magic to a milk-white doe : — 
 
 Such tale, a wondering child, I learned. 
 True was it? Who can know? 
 
01 SEEN AND SAINT PATRICK 129 
 
 " I know but this, that yet a boy, 
 
 I raced beside her like the wind; 
 We heard the hunter's horn with joy, 
 
 And left the pack behind. 
 
 " A strength was mine that knew no bound, 
 A witless strength that nothing planned; 
 
 When came the hour, the deed I found 
 Unsought for in my hand. 
 
 "Forth from a cave I stept at Beigh; 
 
 O'er mountain cliffs the loose clouds rushed: 
 With them I raced, and reached ere they 
 
 The loud seas sandhill-hushed. 
 
 "By Brandon's Head an eagle brown 
 
 O'erhung our wave-borne coracle; 
 I hurled at him my lance, and down 
 
 Like falling stars he fell. 
 
 " On that green shore of Ardrakese 
 I made an untamed horse my slave, 
 
 And forced him far o'er heaving seas, 
 And reinless rode the wave. 
 
 " Methinks my brow I might have laid 
 Against a bull's, and there and then 
 
 Have pushed him backward up the glade. 
 And down the rocky glen ! 
 
130 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 " So ran my youth through dark and bright 
 In deeds half jest. Their time is gone. 
 
 The glorious works of thoughtful might 
 For Oscar were, and Fionn ! 
 
 "Where met the hosts, in mirth I fought; 
 
 My war-fields still with revel rang; 
 My sword with such a God was fraught 
 
 That while it smote it sang! 
 
 " My spear, unbidden, to my hand 
 
 Leaped, hawk-wise, for the battle's sake; 
 
 Forth launched, it flashed along the land 
 With music in its wake. 
 
 " I bore a shield, so charged and stored 
 With rage and yearnings for the fight. 
 
 When foes drew near, it shook, and roared 
 Like breakers in the night; 
 
 " But when at last the iron feast 
 Of war its hungry heart had stilled. 
 
 It murmured like a whispering priest 
 Or frothing pail new-filled! " 
 
 "Say, knew'st thou never fear or awe?" 
 Thus Patrick; and the Bard replied, 
 
 " Yea, once : for once a man I saw 
 Who — not in battle — died! 
 
OISEEN AND SAINT PATRICK 131 
 
 "I sang the things I loved: the fight; 
 
 The chance inspired that all decides; 
 That pause of death, when Fate and Flight 
 
 Drag back the battle tides; 
 
 "The swords that blent their lightnings blue; 
 
 The midnight march; the city's sack; 
 The advancing ridge of spears that threw 
 
 The levelled sunrise back. 
 
 "And yet my harp could still the storm, 
 Redeem the babe from magic blight, 
 
 Restore to human heart and form 
 The unhappy spell-bound knight. 
 
 "And some could hear a sobbing hind 
 
 Among my chords; and some would swear 
 
 They heard that kiss of branch and wind 
 That lulled the wild-deer's lair! 
 
 "I sang not lusts; where base men thronged 
 I sat not, neither harped for gold; 
 
 My song no gracious foeman wronged, 
 No woman's secret told. 
 
 "I sang not hate; with healing breath 
 Gladness of heaven my harp-strings flung 
 
 On bosoms true, but shamed to death 
 False heart, and ruthless tongue. 
 
132 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 "I sang not lies; amid the flocks 
 I sang when sunset flushed the spray, 
 
 Or when the white moon scaled the rocks 
 And glared upon the bay. 
 
 "My stately music I rehearsed 
 
 On shadowing cliffs, when, far below, 
 
 In rolled the moon-necked wave, and burst, 
 And changed black shores to snow. 
 
 "But now I tread a darker brink; 
 
 P'ar down, unfriendlier waters moan; 
 And, now, of vanished times I think; 
 
 Now, of that bourn unknown. 
 
 "I strike my harp; I make good cheer; 
 
 Yet scarce myself can catch its sound; 
 I see but phantoms bending near 
 
 When feasters press around. 
 
 "Say, Patrick of the mystic lore. 
 Shall I, when this old head lies low, 
 
 My Oscar see, and Fionn, once more. 
 And race beside that Doe?" 
 
AENGUS 
 
 When Patrick now o'er Ulster's forest bound, 
 
 And Connact, echoing to the western wave, 
 
 And Leinster, fair with hill-suspended woods, 
 
 Had raised the cross, and where the deep night ruled 
 
 Splendour had sent of everlasting light. 
 
 Sole peace of warring hearts, — to Munster next, 
 
 Thomond and Desmond, Heber's portion old. 
 
 He turned ; and, fired by love that mocks at rest, 
 
 Pushed on, through raging storm, the whole night 
 
 long, 
 Intent to hold the Annunciation Feast 
 At Cashel of the Kings. The royal keep 
 High-seated on its Rock, as morning broke. 
 Faced them at last; and at the self -same hour 
 Aengus, in his father's absence lord. 
 Rising from happy sleep and heaven-sent dreams. 
 Went forth on duteous tasks. With sudden start 
 The prince stept back; for, o'er the fortress court, 
 Like grove storm-levelled lay the idols huge, 
 False Gods and foul, that long had awed the land. 
 Prone, without hand of man. O'er-awed, he gazed. 
 Then on the air there rang a sound of hymns, 
 And by the eastern gate Saint Patrick stood. 
 The brethren round him. On their shaggy garb 
 Auroral mist, struck by the rising sun. 
 Glittered, that diamond-panoplied they seemed, 
 133 
 
134 MISCELLAXEOUS POEMS 
 
 And as a heavenly vision. At that sight 
 The youth, descending with a wondering joy, 
 Welcomed his guests; and, ere an hour, the streets. 
 Far down, shone out like flowering meads in spring, — 
 So thronged the folk in holiday attire 
 To see the man far-famed. " Who spurns our Gods ? " 
 Once they had cried in wrath; but, year by year, 
 Tidings of some deliverance great and strange. 
 Some life more noble, some sublimer hope, 
 Some regal race enthroned beyond the grave. 
 Had reached them from afar. The best believed, 
 Great hearts for whom nor earthly love sufficed, 
 Nor earthly fame. The meaner scoffed ; yet all 
 Desired the man. Delay had edged their thirst. 
 
 Then Patrick, standing up among them, spake. 
 And God was with him. Not as when loose Xongue 
 Babbles vain rumour, or the Sophist spins 
 Thought's air-hung cobwebs gay with Fancy's dews, 
 Spake he, but words of might, as when a man 
 Bears witness to the things which he has seen, 
 And tells of that he knows; and as the harp 
 Attested is by rapture of the ear. 
 And sunlight by consenting of the eye 
 That, seeing, knows it sees, and neither craves 
 Inferior demonstration, — so his words, 
 Self-proved, went forth and conquered; for man's 
 
 mind. 
 Created in His image who is Truth, 
 Challenged by truth, with recognising voice 
 
AENGUS 135 
 
 Cries out, — " Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone,'" 
 And cleaves thereto. In all that listening host 
 One vast, dilating heart yearned to its God. 
 Then burst the bond of years. No pause of doubt 
 They knew. God laid on them the robe of Truth 
 Sun-like; down fell the many-coloured weed 
 Of error; and, reclothed ere yet unclothed, 
 They walked a new-born earth. The blinded Past 
 Fled, vanquished. Glorious more than strange it 
 
 seemed, 
 That He who fashioned man should come to man, 
 And raise by ruling. They, His trumpet heard. 
 In glory spurned demons misdeemed for Gods. 
 Their great chief had returned; the clan enthralled 
 Trod down the usurping foe. 
 
 Then rose the cry, — 
 "Join us to Christ! " His strong eyes on them set, 
 Patrick replied, — ''Know ye what thing ye seek. 
 Ye that would fain be house-mates with my King? 
 Ye seek His cross! " He paused, then added slow: 
 " If ye be liegeful, sirs, decree the day, 
 His baptism shall be yours." 
 
 That eve, while shone 
 The sunset on the green-touched woods, that, grazed 
 By onward flight of unalighting spring. 
 Caught warmth yet scarcely flamed, Aengus stood 
 With Patrick in a westward-facing tower 
 Which overlooked far regions, town-besprent 
 And lit with winding waters. Thus he spake : 
 "My Father! what is sovereignty of man? 
 
136 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Say, can I shield yon host from death, from sin, 
 Taking them up into my breast, like God? 
 I trow not so! Mine be the lowliest place, 
 Following thy King who left his Father's throne 
 To walk the lowliest! " Patrick answered thus: 
 " Best lot thou choosest, son. If thine that lot 
 Thou know' St not yet; nor I. The Lord, thy God, 
 Will teach us." 
 
 When the day decreed had dawned. 
 Loud rang the bull-horn; and on every breeze 
 Floated the banners, saffron, green, and blue; 
 While, issuing from the horizon's utmost verge. 
 The full-voiced People flocked. So swarmed of old 
 Some migratory nation, instinct-urged 
 To fly their native wastes, sad winter's realm; 
 So thronged on southern slopes when, far below. 
 Shone out the plains of promise. Bright they came ! 
 No summer sea could wear a blithesomer sheen. 
 Though every dancing crest and milky plume 
 Ran on with rainbows braided. Minstrel songs 
 Wafted like winds those onward hosts, or swayed. 
 Or stayed them; while among them heralds passed. 
 Lifting white wands of of^ce. Foremost rode 
 Aileel, the younger brother of the prince. 
 He ruled a milk-white horse. Fluttered, breeze-borne. 
 His mantle green, while all his golden hair 
 Streamed back redundant from the ring of gold 
 Circling his head uncovered. Loveliest light 
 Of innocence and joy was on that face; 
 Full well the young maids marked it! Brighter yet 
 
AENGUS 137 
 
 Beamed he, his brother noting. On the verge 
 
 Of Cashel's Rock that hour Aengus stood, 
 
 By Patrick's side. That concourse nearer now. 
 
 He gazed upon it, crying, with clasped hands : 
 
 " My Father, fair is sunrise, fair the sea. 
 
 The hills, the plains, the wind-stirred wood, the maid ! 
 
 But what is like a People onward borne 
 
 In gladness? When I see that sight, my heart 
 
 Opens like palace-gates wide open flung, 
 
 That say to all men, 'Enter.' " Then the Saint 
 
 Laid on that royal head a hand of might. 
 
 And said: "The Will of God decrees thee King! 
 
 Son of this People art thou; Sire, one day. 
 
 Thou shalt be ! Son and Sire in one are King. 
 
 Shepherd for God thy flock, thou Shepherd true ! " 
 
 He spake : that word was ratified in Heaven. 
 
 Meantime that multitude innumerable 
 Had reached the Rock; and, now the winding road 
 In pomp ascending, faced those fair-wrought gates. 
 Which, by the warders at the prince's sign 
 Drawn back, to all gave entrance. In they streamed. 
 Filling the central courtway. Patrick stood. 
 High stationed on a prostrate idol's base. 
 In vestments of the Vigil of that Feast, 
 The Annunciation, which with annual boon 
 Whispers, while melting snows dilate those streams 
 Purer than snows, to universal earth 
 That Maiden Mother's joy. The Apostle watched 
 The advancing throng, and gave them welcome thus : 
 
138 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 "As though into the great Triumphant Church, 
 O guests of God, ye flock! Her place is Heaven. 
 Sirs! we this day are militant below; 
 Not less, advance in faith. Behold your crowns — 
 Obedience and Endurance." 
 
 There and then 
 The Rite began : his people's Chief and Head, 
 Beside the font Aengus stood; his face 
 Sweet as a child's, yet grave as front of eld; 
 For reverence he had laid his crown aside. 
 And from the deep hair to the unsandalled feet 
 Was raimented in white. With mitred head 
 And massive book, forward Saint Patrick leaned, 
 Stayed by the gem-wrought crosier. Prayer on prayer 
 Went up to God; while gift on gift from God, 
 All Angel-like, invisibly to man, 
 Descended. Thrice above that princely brow 
 Patrick the cleansing waters poured, and traced 
 Three times thereon the Venerable Sign, 
 Naming the Name Triune. The Rite complete. 
 Awestruck that concourse downward gazed. At last 
 Lifting their eyes, they marked the prince's face. 
 That pale it was though bright, anguished and pale, 
 While from his naked foot a blood-stream gushed 
 And o'er the pavement welled. The crosier' s point, 
 Weighted with weight of all that priestly form. 
 Had pierced it through. "Why suffer'dst thou so 
 
 long 
 The pain in silence? " Patrick spake, heart-grieved. 
 Smiling, Aengus answered, " O my Sire, 
 
AENGUS 139 
 
 I thought, thus called to follow Him Whose feet 
 Were pierced with nails, haply the blissful Rite 
 Bore witness to their sorrows." 
 
 At that word 
 The large eyes of the Apostolic man 
 Grew larger; and within them lived that light 
 Not fed by moon or sun, a visible flash 
 Of that invisible lightning which from God 
 Vibrates ethereal through the world of souls, — 
 Vivific strength of Saints. The mitred brow 
 Uptowered sublime ; the strong, yet wrinkled hands, 
 Ascending, ceased not, till the crosier's head 
 Glittered above the concourse like a star. 
 At last, his hands disparting, down he drew 
 From Heaven the Royal Blessing, speaking thus : 
 " For this cause may the blessing, Sire of Kings, 
 Cleave to thy seed for ever ! Spear and sword 
 Before them fall ! In glory may the race 
 Of Nafrach's sons, Aengus and Aileel, 
 Hold sway on Cashel's summit! Be their Kings 
 Great-hearted men, potent to rule and guard 
 Their people; just to judge them; warriors strong; 
 Sage counsellors; faithful shepherds; men of God; 
 That so through them the everlasting King 
 May flood their land with blessing." Thus he spake , 
 And round him all that nation said, — "Amen." 
 
 Thus held they feast in Cashel of the Kings 
 That day, till all that land was clothed with Christ. 
 And when the parting came from Cashel's steep, 
 The Apostle thus the People's Blessing sent: 
 
140 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 "The Blessing fall upon the pasture broad, 
 
 On fruitful mead, and every corn-clad hill. 
 
 And woodland rich with flowers that children love ! 
 
 Unnumbered be the homesteads, and the hearths ! 
 
 A blessing on the women, and the men, 
 
 On youth, and maiden, and the suckling babe ! 
 
 A blessing on the fruit-bestowing tree, 
 
 And foodful river tide ! Be true; be pure; 
 
 Not living from below, but from above, 
 
 As men that over-top the world. And raise 
 
 Here, on this rock, high place of idols once, 
 
 A kingly church to God. The same shall stand 
 
 For aye, or, wrecked, from ruin rise restored. 
 
 His witness till He cometh. Over Eire 
 
 The Blessing speed till time shall be no more 
 
 From Cashel of the Kings' " 
 
 The Saint forth fared. 
 The People bare him through their kingdom broad 
 With banner and with song; but o'er its bound 
 The women of that People followed still, 
 A half day's journey, with lamenting voice; 
 Then silent stood, lifting their babes on high; 
 And, crowned with twofold blessing, home returned. 
 
THE BARD ETHELL 
 
 1250 A.D. 
 
 I AM Ethell, the son of Conn; 
 
 Here I bide at the foot of the hill; 
 I am clansman to Brian and servant to none; 
 
 Whom I hated I hate, whom I loved love still. 
 Blind am I. On milk I live, 
 
 And meat, God sends it, on each Saint's Day, 
 Though Donald Mac Art — may he never thrive ! — 
 
 Last Shrovetide drove half my kine away. 
 
 At the brown hill's base, by the pale blue lake, 
 
 I dwell, and see the things I saw: 
 The heron flap heavily up from the brake. 
 
 The crow fly homeward with twig or straw. 
 The wild duck, a silver line in wake. 
 
 Cutting the calm mere to far Bunaw. 
 And the things that I heard, though deaf, I hear: 
 From the tower in the island the feastful cheer; 
 The horn from the wood; the plunge of the stag, 
 With the loud hounds after him, down from the crag. 
 Sweet is the chase, but the battle is sweeter; 
 More healthful, more joyous, for true men meeter! 
 141 
 
142 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 III 
 
 My hand is weak! it once was strong; 
 
 My heart burns still with its ancient fire; 
 If any man smites me he does me wrong, 
 
 For I was the Bard of Brian Mac Guire. 
 If any man slay me — not unaware, 
 
 By no chance blow, nor in wine and revel — 
 I have stored beforehand a curse in my prayer 
 
 For his kith and kindred : his deed is evil. 
 
 IV 
 
 There never was King, and there never will be. 
 
 In battle or banquet like Malachi ! 
 
 The Seers his reign had predicted long; 
 
 He honoured the Bards, and gave gold for song. 
 
 If rebels arose, he put out their eyes; 
 
 If robbers plundered, or burned the fanes. 
 He hung them in chaplets, like rosaries, • 
 
 That others, beholding, might take more pains. 
 There was none to women more reverent-minded, 
 
 (For he held his mother, and Mary, dear); 
 If any man wronged them, that man he blinded, 
 
 Or straight amerced him of hand or ear. 
 There was none who founded more convents — none. 
 
 In his palace the old and poor were fed; 
 The orphan walked, and the widow's son, 
 
 Without groom or page to his throne or bed. 
 In council he mused, with great brows divine, 
 And eyes like the eyes of the musing kine, 
 
THE BARD ETHELL 143 
 
 Upholding a Sceptre o'er which, men said, 
 
 Seven Spirits of Wisdom, like fire-tongues, played. 
 
 He drained ten lakes and he built ten bridges; 
 
 He bought a gold book for a thousand cows; 
 He slew ten Princes who brake their pledges; 
 
 With the bribed and the base he scorned to carouse 
 He was sweet and awful-; through all his reign 
 God gave great harvests to vale and plain. 
 From his nurse's milk he was kind and brave; 
 And when he went down to his well-wept grave. 
 Through the triumph of penance his soul uprose 
 To God and the Saints. Not so his foes ! 
 
 The King that came after ! ah woe, woe, woe ! 
 He doubted his friend and he trusted his foe. 
 He bought and he sold; his kingdom old 
 
 He pledged and pawned to avenge a spite; 
 No Bard or prophet his birth foretold; 
 
 He was guarded and warded both day and night; 
 He counselled with fools and had boors at his feast; 
 He was cruel to Christian and kind to beast; 
 Men smiled when they talked of him far o'er the 
 
 wave; 
 Paid were the mourners that wept at his grave ! 
 God plagued for his sake his people sore^ — 
 
 They sinned; for the people should watch and pray 
 That their prayers, like angels at window and door. 
 
 May keep from the King the bad thought away ! 
 
144 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 VI 
 
 The sun has risen: on lip and brow 
 
 He greets me — I feel it — with golden wand. 
 Ah, bright-faced Noma! I see thee now; 
 
 Where first I saw thee, I see thee stand ! 
 From the trellis the girl looked down on me; 
 
 Her maidens stood near; it was late in spring; 
 The grey priests laughed as she cried in glee, — 
 
 "Good Bard, a song in my honour sing! " 
 I sang her praise in a loud-voiced hymn 
 To God who had fashioned her, face and limb, 
 For the praise of the clan and the land's behoof; 
 So she flung me a flower from the trellis roof. 
 Ere long I saw her the hill descending — 
 
 O'er the lake the May morning rose moist and slow; 
 She prayed me, her smile with the sweet voice blend- 
 ing, 
 
 To teach her all that a woman should know. 
 Panting she stood; she was out of breath; 
 
 The wave of her little breast was shaking; 
 From eyes still childish, and dark as death. 
 
 Came womanhood's dawn through a dew-cloud 
 breaking. 
 Noma was never long time the same; 
 
 By a spirit so strong was her slight form moulded. 
 The curves swelled out from the flower-like frame. 
 
 In joy; in grief, to a bud she folded; 
 As she listened, her eyes grew bright and large. 
 Like springs rain-fed that dilate their marge. 
 
THE BARD ETHELL 145 
 
 VII 
 
 So I taught her the hymn of Patrick, the Apostle, 
 
 x\nd the marvels of Bridget and Columkille; 
 Ere long she sang like the lark or the throstle, 
 
 Sang the deeds of the servants of God's high Will. 
 I told her of Brendan who found afar 
 Another world 'neath the western star; 
 Of our three great bishops in Lindisfarne isle; 
 Of St. Fursey the wondrous. Fiacre without guile; 
 Of Sedulius, hymn-maker when hymns were rare; 
 -Of Scotus, the subtle, who clove a hair 
 Into sixty parts, and had marge to spare. 
 To her brother, I spake of Oisin and Fionn, 
 And they wept at the death of great Oisin's son. 
 I taught the heart of the boy to revel 
 
 In tales of old greatness that never tire, 
 And the virgin's, up-springing from earth's low 
 level, 
 
 To wed with heaven like the altar fire. 
 I taught her all that a woman should know; 
 
 And that none might teach her worse lore, I gave 
 her 
 A dagger keen, and I taught her the blow 
 
 That subdues the knave to discreet behaviour. 
 A sand-stone there on my knee she set, 
 And sharpened its point — I can see her yet — 
 I held back her hair, and she sharpened the edge. 
 While the wind piped low through the reeds and 
 sedge. 
 
146 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 VIII 
 
 She died in the convent on Ina's height. 
 
 I saw her the day that she took the veil : 
 As slender she stood as the Paschal light, 
 
 As tall and slender and bright and pale ! 
 I saw her; and dropped as dead. Bereaven 
 Is earth, when her holy ones leave her for heaven. 
 Her brother fell in the fight at Beigh. 
 May they plead for me, both, on my dying day! 
 
 IX 
 
 All praise to the man who brought us the Faith ! 
 'Tis a staff by day and our pillow in death ! 
 All praise, I say, to that blessed youth, 
 
 Who heard, in a dream, from Tyrawley's strand. 
 
 That wail, — "Put forth o'er the sea thy hand: 
 In the dark we die ; give us hope and Truth ! " 
 But Patrick built not on lorras' shore 
 
 That convent where now the Franciscans dwell : 
 Columba was mighty in prayer and war; 
 
 But the young monk preaches, as loud as his bell, 
 That love must rule all, and all wrongs be forgiven, 
 Or else, he is sure, we shall reach not heaven! 
 This doctrine I count right cruel and hard ; 
 And, when I am laid in the old churchyard, 
 The habit of Francis I will not wear; 
 Nor wear I his cord, or his cloth of hair, 
 In secret. Men dwindle : till psalm and prayer 
 Had softened the land, no Dane dwelt there ! 
 
THE BARD ETHELL 147 
 
 I forgive old Cathbar who sank my boat; 
 
 Must I pardon Feargal who slew my son? 
 Or the pirate, Strongbow, who burned Granote, 
 
 They tell me, and in it nine priests, a nun, 
 And — worst — Saint Finian's old crosier staff? 
 At forgiveness like that I spit and laugh ! 
 My chief, in his wine-cups, forgave twelve men; 
 And of these a dozen rebelled again ! 
 There never was chief more brave than he ! 
 
 The night he was born Loch Gur up-burst. 
 He was bard-loving, gift-making, loud of glee. 
 
 The last to fly, to advance the first. 
 He was like the top spray upon Uladh's oak. 
 
 He was like the tap-root of Argial's pine; 
 He was secret and sudden; as lightning his stroke; 
 
 There was none that could fathom his hid design ! 
 He slept not; if any man scorned his alliance 
 He struck the first blow for a frank defiance 
 With that look in his face, half night half light. 
 Like the lake gust-blackened yet ridged with white 1 
 There were comely wonders before he died : 
 The eagle barked, and the Banshee cried; 
 The witch-elm wept with a blighted bud; 
 The spray of the torrent was red with blood; 
 The chief, returned from the mountain's bound, 
 Forgat to ask after Bran, his hound. 
 We knew he would die : three days were o'er; — 
 He died. We waked him for three days more. 
 
148 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 One by one, upon brow and breast, 
 
 The whole clan kissed him. In peace may he rest! 
 
 XI 
 
 I sang his dirge. I could sing that time 
 Four thousand staves of ancestral rhyme. 
 To-day I can scarcely sing the half; 
 Of old I was corn and now I am chaff ! 
 My song to-day is a breeze that shakes 
 
 Feebly the down on the cygnet's breast; 
 'Twas then a billow the beach that rakes, 
 
 Or a storm that buffets the mountain's crest. 
 Whatever I bit with a venomed song, 
 
 Grew sick, were it beast, or tree, or man; 
 The wronged one sued me to right his wrong 
 
 With the flail of the Satire and fierce Ode's fan. 
 I sang to the chieftains; each stock I traced, 
 Lest lines should grow tangled through fraud or 
 
 haste. 
 To princes I sang in a loftier tone, — 
 Of Moran, the Just, who refused a throne; 
 Of Moran, whose torque would close, and choke 
 The wry-necked witness that falsely spoke. 
 I taught them how to win love and hate. 
 Not love from all; and to shun debate. 
 To maids in the bower I sang of love; 
 And of war at the feastings in bawn or grove. 
 
THE BARD ETHELL 149 
 
 XII 
 
 Great is our Order; but greater far 
 
 Were its pomp and power in the days of old, 
 When the five Chief Bards in peace or war 
 
 Had thirty bards each in his train enrolled; 
 When Ollave Fodhla in Tara's hall 
 
 Fed bards and kings; when the boy, king Nial, 
 Was trained by Torna; when Britain and Gaul 
 
 Sent crowns of laurel to Dalian Forgial. 
 To-day we can launch the clans into fight; 
 
 That day we could freeze them in mid career ! 
 Whatever man knows, was our realm bright; 
 
 The lore without music no Gael would hear. 
 Old Cormac, the brave blind king, was bard 
 Ere fame rose yet of O'Daly and Ward. 
 The son of Milesius was bard — "Go back, 
 
 My People," he sang; "ye have done a wrong! 
 Nine waves go back o'er the green sea track; 
 
 Let your foes their castles and coasts make strong. 
 To the island ye came by stealth and at night; 
 She is ours, if we win her in all men's sight! " 
 For that first song'5 sake let our bards hold fast 
 To Truth and Justice from first to last ! 
 'Tis over ! some think we erred through pride, 
 Though Columba the vengeance turned aside. 
 Too strong we were not; too rich we were; 
 Give wealth to knaves : — 'tis the true man's snare ! 
 
150 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 XIII 
 
 But now men lie; they are just no more; 
 
 They forsake the old ways; they quest for new; 
 They pry and they snuff after strange false lore 
 
 As dogs hunt vermin ! It never was true : — 
 I ha.ve scorned it for twenty years — this babble 
 That eastward and southward a Saxon rabble 
 Have won great battles, and rule large lands, 
 And plight with daughters of ours their hands! 
 We know the bold Norman o'erset their throne 
 Long since ! Our lands ! Let them guard their own ! 
 
 XIV 
 
 How long He leaves me — the great God — here ! 
 
 Have I sinned some sin, or has God forgotten? 
 This year I think is my hundredth year. 
 
 I am like a bad apple, unripe yet rotten ! 
 They shall lift me ere long, they shall lay me — the 
 
 clan — 
 By the strength of men on mount Cruachan ! 
 God has much to think of ! How much He hath seen. 
 And how much is gone by that once hath been ! 
 On sandy hills where the rabbits burrow 
 
 Are Raths of Kings men name not now; 
 On mountain tops I have tracked the furrow, 
 
 And found in forests the buried plough. 
 For one now living the strong land then 
 Gave kindlv food and raiment to ten. 
 
THE BARD ETHELL 151 
 
 No doubt they waxed proud and their God defied; 
 
 So their harvest He blighted or burned their hoard ; 
 
 Or He sent them plague, or He sent the sword ; 
 Or He sent them lightning; and so they died 
 Like Dathi, the king, on the dark Alp's side. 
 
 XV 
 
 Ah me, that man, who is made of dust, 
 
 Should have pride toward God! 'Tis a demon's 
 spleen ! 
 I have often feared lest God, the All-just, 
 
 Should bend from heaven and sweep earth clean, -- 
 Should sweep us all into corners and holes, 
 Like dust of the house-floor, both bodies and souls ! 
 I have often feared He would send some wind 
 In wrath; and the nation wake up, stone-blind. 
 In age or in youth we have all wrought ill. 
 I say not our great king Nial did well. 
 Although he was Lord of the Pledges Nine, 
 
 When, besides subduing this land of Eire, 
 He raised in Armorica banner and sign. 
 
 And wasted the British coast with fire. 
 Perhaps in his mercy the Lord will say, — 
 "These men! God's help! 'Twas a rough boy- 
 play ! " 
 He is certain — that young Franciscan Priest — 
 God sees great sin where men see least; 
 Yet this were to give unto God the eye — 
 Unmeet the thought — of the humming fly I 
 
152 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 I trust there are small things He scorns to see, 
 In the lowly who cry to Him piteously. 
 
 Our hope is Christ. I have wept full oft 
 He came not to Eire in Oisin's time; 
 
 Though love, and those new monks, would make 
 men soft 
 If they were not hardened by war and rhyme. 
 I have done my part; my end draws nigh; 
 I shall leave old Eire with a smile and sigh; 
 She will miss not me as I missed my son; 
 Yet for her, and her praise, were my best deeds 
 
 done. 
 Man's deeds ! man's deeds ! they are shades that fleet. 
 Or ripples like those that break at my feet; 
 The deeds of my chief and the deeds of my King 
 Grow hazy, far seen, like the hills in spring. 
 Nothing is great save the death on the Cross ! 
 
 But Pilate and Herod I hate, and know, 
 
 Had Fionn lived then, he had laid them low. 
 Though the world thereby had sustained great loss. 
 My blindness and deafness and aching back 
 With meekness I bear for that suffering's sake; 
 And the Lent- fast for Mary's sake I love, 
 And the honour of Him, the Man above ! 
 My songs are all over now : — so best ! 
 They are laid in the heavenly Singer's breast, 
 Who never sings but a star is born; 
 May we hear His song in the endless morn! 
 I give glory to God for our battles won 
 
 By wood or river, on bay or creek; 
 
THE BARD ETHELL 153 
 
 For Noma — who died; for my father, Conn; 
 
 For feasts, and the chase on the mountains bleak; 
 I bewail my sins, both unknown and known, 
 And of those I have injured forgiveness seek; 
 The men that were wicked to me and mine 
 (Not quenching a wrong, nor in war nor wine) 
 I forgive and absolve them all, save three : — 
 May Christ in His mercy be kind to me ! 
 
SAINT CUTHBERT'S PENTECOST 
 
 Saint Cuthbert, yet a youth, for many a year 
 Walked up and down the green Northumbrian vales, 
 Well loving (ioJ and man. The rockiest glens, 
 And promontories shadowing loneliest seas, 
 Where lived the men least cared for, most forlorn, 
 He sought, and brought to each the words of peace. 
 Where'er he went, he preached that God, all Love ; 
 For, as the sun in heaven, so flamed in him 
 That love which later fired Assisi's Saint. 
 Yea, rumour ran that every mountain beast 
 Obeyed his loving call ; that, when all night 
 He knelt upon the frosty hills in prayer, 
 The hare would couch her by his naked feet 
 And warm them with her fur. To manhood grown, 
 He dwelt in Lindisfarne ; there, year by year. 
 Prospering yet more in vigil and in fast ; 
 And paced its shores by night, and blent his hymns 
 With din of waves. Yet ofttimes o'er the strait 
 He passed, once more in search of suffering men. 
 Wafting them solace still. Where'er he went, 
 Those loved as children first, again he loved 
 As youth and maid, and in them nursed that Faith 
 Through which pure youth passes o'er passion's waves. 
 Like Him Who trod that Galilean sea. 
 He clasped the grey-grown sinner in his arms, 
 And won from him repentance long delayed, 
 154 
 
SAINT CUTHBERT'S PENTECOST 155 
 
 Then with him shared the penance he enjoined. 
 O heart both strong and tender ! offering Mass, 
 Awe-struck he stood, as though on Calvar)^'s height : 
 The men who marked him shook. 
 
 Twelve winters passed. 
 Then mandate fell upon the Saint from God, 
 Or breathed upon him from the heavenly height, 
 Or liaply from within. It drave him forth, 
 A hermit into solitudes more stern. 
 " Farewell," he said, " my brethren and my friends ! 
 No hoHer life than yours, pure Ccenobites, 
 Pacing one cloister, sharing one spare meal, 
 Chanting to God one hymn ! yet I must forth — 
 Farewell, my friends, farewell ! " On him they gazed, 
 And knew that God had spoken to his soul. 
 And silent stood, though sorrowing. 
 
 Long, that eve, 
 The brethren grieved, noting his vacant stall, 
 Yet thus excused their sadness : " Well for him, 
 And high his place in heaven ; but woe to those, 
 Henceforth of services like his amerced ! 
 Here lived he in the world ; here many throng. 
 To hiui in time some lesser bishopric 
 Might well have fallen, behoof of countless souls ! 
 Such dream is past forever ! " 
 
 Forth he fared 
 To Fame, a little rocky islet nigh, 
 Where man till then had never dared to dwell. 
 By dreadful rumours scared. In narrow cave. 
 Worn from the rock, and roughly walled around. 
 
156 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 The anchoret made abode, with lonely hands 
 
 Raising from one poor strip his daily food, 
 
 Barley thin-grown, and coarse. He saw by day 
 
 The clouds on-sailing, and by night the stars ; 
 
 And heard the eternal waters. Thus recluse, 
 
 The man lived on in vision still of God 
 
 Through contemplation known ; and, as the shades 
 
 Each other chase all day o'er steadfast hills. 
 
 Even so, athwart that Vision unremoved. 
 
 Forever rushed the tumults of this world, 
 
 Man's fleeting life, the rise and fall of states. 
 
 While changeless measured change ; the spirit of prayer 
 
 Fanning that wondrous picture oft to flame 
 
 Until the glory grew insuff'erable. 
 
 Long years thus lived he. As the x\postle Paul, 
 
 Though raised in raptures to the heaven of heavens. 
 
 Not therefore loved his brethren less, but longed 
 
 To give his life — his all — for Israel's sake, — 
 
 So Cuthbert, loving God, loved man the more. 
 
 His wont of old. To him the mourners came, 
 
 And sinners bound by Satan. At his touch 
 
 Their chains fell from them, light as summer dust. 
 
 Each word he spake was as a Sacrament 
 
 Clothed with God's grace ; beside his feet they sat. 
 
 And in their perfect mind ; thence through the world 
 
 Bare their deliverer's name. 
 
 So passed his life. 
 There old he grew, and older yet appeared. 
 By fasts outworn, though ever young at heart ; 
 When, lo ! before that isle a barge there drew, 
 
SAINT CUTHBERT'S PENTECOST 157 
 
 Bearing the royal banner. Egfrid, there, 
 With regal sceptre sat, and many an earl, 
 And many a mitred bishop at his side, 
 Northumbria's see was void ; a council's voice, 
 Joined with a monarch's, called him to its throne ; 
 In vain he wept, and knelt, and sued for grace ; 
 Six months' reprieve alone he won ; then ruled 
 In Lindisfarne, chief Bishop of the North. 
 
 But certain spake who deemed that they were wise, 
 Fools all beside : " Shall Cuthbert crosier Hft? 
 A child, 'tis known he herded flocks for hire, 
 Housed in old Renspid's hut, his Irish nurse. 
 Who told him tales of Leinster Kings, his sires. 
 And how her hands, their palace wrecked in war, 
 Had snatched him from its embers. Yet a boy, 
 He rode to Melrose and its wondering monks, 
 A mimic warrior, in his hand a lance. 
 With shepherd youth for page, and spake : * 'Tis 
 
 known 
 Christ's kingdom is a kingdom militant : 
 A son of Kings, I come to guard His right. 
 And battle 'gainst his foes ! ' For lance and sword 
 A book they gave him ; and they made him monk. 
 Savage since then he couches on a rock. 
 As fame reports, with birds' nests in his beard ! 
 Can dreamers change to Bishops? Vision-dazed, 
 Move where he may, that slowly wandering eye 
 Will see in man no more than kites or hawks ; 
 Men, if they note, will flee him." Thus they buzzed, 
 Self-praised, and knowing not that simpleness 
 
158 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Is sacred soil, and sown with royal seed, 
 The heroic seed and saintly. 
 
 Mitred once, 
 Such gibes no more assailed him ; one short month 
 Sufficed the petty cavil to confute ; 
 One month well chronicled in book which verse 
 Late born, alas, in vain would emulate. 
 At once he called to mind the days that were ; 
 His wanderings in Northumbrian glens ; the hearths 
 That welcomed him so joyously ; at once 
 Within his breast the heart parental yearned ; 
 He longed to see his children, scattered wide 
 From Humber's bank to Tweed, from sea to sea, 
 And cried to those around him : " Let us forth, 
 And visit all my charge ; and since Carlisle 
 Remotest sits upon its western bound. 
 Keep there this year our Pentecost ! " Next day 
 He passed the sands, left hard by ebbing tide, 
 His cross-bearer and brethren six in front. 
 And trod the mainland. Reverent, first he sought 
 His childhood's nurse, and 'neath her humble roof 
 Abode one night. To Melrose next he fared. 
 Honouring his master old. 
 
 Southward once more 
 Returning, scarce a bow-shot from the woods 
 There rode to him a mighty thane, one-eyed. 
 With warriors circled, on a jet-black horse. 
 Barbaric shape and huge, yet frank as fierce. 
 Who thus made boast : " A Jute devout am I ! 
 What raised that convent-pile on yonder rock ? 
 
SAINT CUTHBERT'S PENTECOST 159 
 
 This hand ! I wrenched the hillside from a foe 
 
 By force, and gave it to thy Christian monks 
 
 To spite yet more those Angles ! Island Saint, 
 
 Unprofitable have I found thy Faith ! 
 
 Behold, those priests, thy thralls, are savage men, 
 
 Unrighteous, ruthless ! For a sin of mine 
 
 They laid on me a hundred days of fast ! 
 
 A man am I keen-witted : friend and liege 
 
 I summoned, showed my wrong, and ended thus : 
 
 ' Sirs, ye are ninety-nine, the hundredth I ; 
 
 I counsel that we share this fast among us ! 
 
 To-morrow, from the dawn to evening's star. 
 
 No food as bulky as a spider's tongue 
 
 Shall pass our lips ; and thus, in one day's time. 
 
 My hundred days of fast shall stand fulfilled.' 
 
 Wrathful they rose, and sware by Peter's keys 
 
 That fight they would, albeit 'gainst Peter's self; 
 
 But fast they would not, save for personal sins. 
 
 Signal I made ; then backward rolled the gates, 
 
 And, captured thus, they fasted without thanks. 
 
 Cancelling my debt — a hundred days in one ! 
 
 Beseech you, Father, chide your priests who breed 
 
 Contention thus 'mid friends ! " The Saint replied, 
 
 " Penance is irksome, Thane ; to 'scape its scourge 
 
 Ways are there various ; and the easiest this, — 
 
 Keep far from mortal sin." 
 
 Where'er he faced. 
 The people round him pressed — the sick, the blind, 
 Young mothers sad because a babe was pale ; 
 Likewise the wives of fishers, praying loud 
 
160 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Their husbands' safe return. Rejoiced he was 
 To see them, hear them, touch them ; wearied never ; 
 Whate'er they said, deUghted still he heard ; 
 The rise and fall of empires touched him less. 
 The book rich-blazoned, or the high-towered church. 
 "We have," he said, " God's children, and their God ; 
 The rest is fancy's work." Him, too, they loved; 
 Loved him the more because, so great and wise. 
 He stumbled oft in trifles. Once he said, — 
 " How well those pine-trees shield the lamb from wind !" 
 A smile ran round ; at last the boldest spake, — 
 "Father, these are not pine-trees — these are oaks." 
 And Cuthbert answered, — ''Oaks, good sooth, they are ! 
 In youth I knew the twain apart : the pine 
 Wears on his head the Cross." Instruction next 
 He gave them, how the Cross had vanquished sin ; 
 Then first abstruse to some appeared his words. 
 "Father," they answered, "speak in parables ! 
 For pleasant is the tale, and, onward passed, 
 Keeps in our hearts thy lesson." 
 
 While they spake, 
 A youth rich-vested tossed his head and cried : 
 *' Father, why thus converse with untaught hinds? 
 Their life is but the Hfe of gnats and flies ; 
 They think but of the hour. Behold yon church ! 
 I reared it both for reverence of thy Christ, 
 And likewise that through ages yet to come 
 My name might live in honour ! " At that word 
 Cuthbert made answer : " Hear the parable ! 
 My people craved for such. 
 
SAINT CUTHBERT'S PENTECOST 161 
 
 A monk there lived, 
 Holiest of men reputed. He was first 
 On winter mornings in the freezing stall ; 
 Meekest when chidden ; fervent most in prayer ; 
 x^nd, late in life, when heresies arose, 
 That book he wrote, like tempest winged from God, 
 Drave them to darkness back. Grey-haired he died ; 
 With honour was interred. The years went by; 
 His grave they opened. Peacefully he slept, 
 Unchanged, the smile of death upon his lips. 
 O'er the right hand alone, for so it seemed. 
 Had Death retained his power ; five little lines, 
 White ashes, showed where once the fingers lay. 
 All saw it — simple, learned, rich and poor; 
 None might divine the cause. That night, behold ! 
 A Saintly Shape beside the abbot stood, 
 Bright hke the sun, except one lifted palm — 
 Thereon there lay a stain. ' Behold that hand,' 
 The Spirit spake, ' that, toiling twenty years. 
 Sent forth that book which pacified the world ! 
 For it the world would canonise me Saint. 
 See that ye do it not ! Inferior tasks 
 I wrought for God alone. Building that book, 
 Too oft I mused, — ^' P'ar years will give thee praise." 
 I expiate that offence.' " 
 
 Another day, 
 A sweet-faced woman raised her voice, and cried, — 
 '' Father ! those sins, denounced by God, I flee ; 
 Yet tasks, imposed by God, too oft neglect. 
 Stands thus a soul imperilled? " Cuthbert spake : 
 
162 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 " Yo sued for parables ; I speak in such, 
 
 Though ill — a language strange to me, and new. 
 
 There lived a man who shunned committed sin, 
 
 Yet daily by omission sinned, and knew it. 
 
 In his own way, not God's, he served his God ; 
 
 And there was with him peace ; yet not God's peace. 
 
 So passed his youth. In age he dreamed a dream : 
 
 He dreamed that, being dead, he raised his eyes, 
 
 .'\nd saw a mountain range of frozen snows. 
 
 And heard, * Committed sins innumerable 
 
 Though each one small — so small thou knew'st them 
 
 not — 
 Uplifted, flake by flake as sin by sin, 
 Yon barrier 'twixt thy God and thee ! Arise, 
 Remembering that of sins despair is worst. 
 He strong, and scale it ! ' Fifty years he scaled 
 Those hills ; so long it seemed. A cavern next 
 Entering, with mole-like hands he scooped his way, 
 And reached at last the gates of morn. Ah me ! 
 A stone's cast from him rose the Tree of Life ; 
 He heard its sighs ecstatic ; full in view 
 The Beatific River rolled ; beyond, 
 All-glorious, shone the City of the Saints, 
 Clothed with God's light ! And yet from him that realm 
 Was severed by a gulf! Not wide that strait ; 
 It seemed a strong man's leap twice told — no more ; 
 P)Ut, as insuperably soared that cliff, 
 Unfathomably thus its sheer descent 
 Walled the abyss. Again he heard that Voice : 
 'Henceforth, no place remains for active toils — 
 
SAINT CUTHBERT'S PENTECOST 163 
 
 Penance for acts perverse. Inactive sloth, 
 
 Through passive sufferings, meets its due. On earth, 
 
 That sloth a nothing seemed ; a nothing now 
 
 That chasm, whose hollow bars thee from the Blest — 
 
 Poor slender film of insubstantial air. 
 
 Self-help is here denied thee ; for that cause 
 
 A twofold term thou need'st of pain love-taught 
 
 To expiate Love that lacked.' That term complete, 
 
 An angel caught him o'er that severing gulf : — 
 
 Thenceforth, he saw his God." 
 
 With such discourse 
 Progress, though slow and interrupted oft, 
 The Saint of God, by no delay perturbed, 
 Made daily through his sacred charge. One eve 
 He walked by pastures arched along the sea. 
 With many companied. The on-flowing "breeze 
 (ilazed the green liill-tops, bending still one way 
 The glossy grasses ; limitless below, 
 The ocean mirror, clipped by cape or point 
 With low trees inland leaning, lay like lakes 
 Flooding rich lowlands. Southward far, a rock. 
 Touched by a rainy beam, emerged from mist. 
 And shone, half green, half gold. That rock was Fame. 
 Though strangers, those that kenned it guessed its 
 
 name. 
 " Doubdess 'twas there," they said, " our Saint abode ! " 
 Then pressed around him, questioning : *' Rumour 
 
 goes. 
 Father beloved, that in thine island home 
 Thou sat'st all day with hammer small in hand, 
 
164 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Shaping, from pebbles veined, miraculous beads 
 That save their wearers still from sword and lance : — 
 Are these things true? " Smiling the Saint replied : 
 " True, and not true ! That isle, in part, is spread 
 With pebbles divers-fashioned, some like beads. 
 I gathered such, and gave to many a guest, 
 Adding, — ' Such beads shall count thy nightly prayers ; 
 Pray well ; then fear no peril ! ' " 
 
 Others came, 
 And thus demanded : " Rumour fills the world, 
 Father, that birds miraculous crowned thine isle, 
 And, awe-struck, let thee lift them in thy hand. 
 Though scared by all beside." Smiling once more, 
 The Saint made answer, — " True, and yet not true ! 
 Sea-birds, elsewhere beheld not, throng that isle ; 
 A breed so loving, and so firm in trust. 
 That, yet unharmed by man, they flee not man ; 
 Wondering they gaze ; who wills may close upon them ! 
 I signed a league betwixt that race and man. 
 Pledging the mariners who sought my cell 
 To reverence still that trust." He ended thus : 
 " My friends, ye seek me still for parables ; 
 Seek them from Nature rather : — here are two ! 
 Those pebble- beads are words from Nature's lips, 
 Exhorting man to pray ; those fearless birds 
 Teach him that trust to innocence belongs 
 By right divine, and more avails than craft 
 To shield us from the aggressor." Some were glad, 
 Hearing that doctrine ; others cried, — " Not so ! 
 Our Saint — all know it — makes miraculous beads ; 
 
SAINT CUTHBERT'S PENTECOST 165 
 
 But, being humble, he conceals his might." 
 
 And, many an age, when slept that Saint in death, 
 
 Passing his isle by night the sailor heard 
 
 Saint Cuthbert's hammer clinking on the rock ; 
 
 And, age by age, men cried, — '' Our Cuthbert's birds 
 
 Revere the Saint's command." 
 
 While thus they spake, 
 A horseman over moorlands near the Tweed 
 Made hasty way, and thus addressed the Saint : 
 *' Father, Queen Ermenburga greets thee well, 
 And this her message : — ' Queen am I forlorn, 
 Long buffeted by many a storm of state. 
 And worn at heart besides ; for in our house 
 Peace lived not inmate, but a summer guest ; 
 And now, my lord, the King is slain in fight ; 
 And changed the aspect, now, things wore of old. 
 Thou, therefore, man of God, approach my gates 
 With counsel sage. This further I require ; 
 Thy counsel must be worthy of a Queen, 
 Nor aught contain displeasing.' " Cuthbert spake : 
 " My charge requires my presence at Carlisle ; 
 Beseech the Queen to meet me near its wall 
 On this day fortnight." 
 
 Thitherwards, thenceforth, 
 Swiftlier he passed, while daily from the woods 
 The woodmen flocked, and shepherds from the hills. 
 Concourse still widening. These among there moved 
 A hermit meek as childhood, calm as eld. 
 Long years Saint Cuthbert's friend. Recluse he lived, 
 Within a woody isle of that fair lake 
 
166 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 By Derwent lulled and Greta. Others thronged 
 Round Cuthbert's steps ; that hermit stood apart, 
 With large dark eyes upon his countenance fixed, 
 And pale cheek dewed with tears. The name he bore 
 Was " Herbert of the Lake." 
 
 Two weeks went by, 
 And Cuthbert reached his journey's end. Next day, 
 God sent once more His Feast of Pentecost 
 To gladden men ; and all His Church on earth 
 Shone out, irradiate as by silver gleams 
 Flashed ^rom her whiter Sister in the skies ; 
 And every altar laughed, and every hearth ; 
 And many a simple hind in spirit heard 
 The wind which, through that '' upper chamber " 
 
 swept. 
 Careering through the universe of God, 
 New life through all things poured. Cuthbert, that 
 
 day, 
 Borne on by winged winds of rapturous thought, 
 Forth from Carlisle had flired alone, and reached 
 Ere long a mead tree-girded ; — in its midst 
 Swift-flowing Eden raced from fall to fall, 
 Showering at times her spray on flowers as fair 
 As graced that earlier Eden ; flowers so light 
 Each feeblest breath impalpable to man 
 Now shook them and now swayed. Dehghted eye 
 The Saint upon them fixed. Ere long he gazed 
 As glad on crowds thronging the river's marge. 
 For now the high-walled city poured abroad 
 Her children rich and poor. At last he spake : 
 
SAINT CUTHBERT'S PENTECOST 167 
 
 ''' Glory to Him Who made both flowers and souls ! 
 
 He doeth all things well ! A few weeks past, 
 
 Yon river rushed by wintry banks forlorn ; 
 
 What decks it thus to-day ? The voice of Spring ! 
 
 She called those flowers from darkness forth; she 
 
 flashed 
 Her life into the snowy breast of each ; 
 This day she sits enthroned on each and all ; 
 The thrones are myriad ; but the Enthroned is One ! " 
 He paused ; then, kindling, added thus : '' O friends ! 
 'Tis thus with human souls through faith re-born. 
 One Spirit calls them forth from darkness ; shapes 
 One Christ, in each conceived, its hfe of hfe ; 
 One God finds rest, enthroned on all. Once more. 
 The thrones are many, but the Enthroned is One ! " 
 Again he paused, and mused : again he spake : 
 " Yea, and in heaven itself, a hierarchy 
 There is, that glories in the name of ' Thrones.' 
 The high cherubic knowledge is not theirs ; 
 Not theirs the fiery flight of Seraph's love ; 
 But all their restful beings they dilate 
 To make a single, myriad throne for God. 
 Children, abide in unity and love ! 
 So shall your lives be one long Pentecost, ♦ 
 
 Your hearts one throne for God ! " 
 
 As thus he spake 
 A breeze, wide-wandering through the woodlands near, 
 Illumed their golden roofs, while louder sang 
 The birds on every bough. Then liorns were heard 
 Resonant from stem to stem, from rock to rock, 
 
168 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 While moved in sight a stately cavalcade 
 
 Flushing the river's crystal. Of that host 
 
 Foremost and saddest Ermenburga rode, 
 
 A Queen sad-eyed, with large imperial front 
 
 By sorrow seamed ; a lady rode close by ; 
 
 Behind her, earls and priests. Though proud to man, 
 
 Her inborn greatness made her meek to God. 
 
 She signed the Saint to stay not his discourse. 
 
 And placed her at his feet. 
 
 His words were great : 
 He spake of Pentecost ; no transient grace. 
 No fugitive act, consummated, then gone, 
 But God's perpetual presence in that Church 
 O'er-shadowed still, like Mary, by His Spirit, 
 Fecundated in splendour by His Truth, 
 Made loving through His Love. The reign of Love 
 He showed, though perfected in Christ alone, 
 Not less co-eval with the race of man. 
 For what is man? Not mind ; the beasts can think : 
 Not passions, appetites ; the beasts have these : 
 Nay, but Affections ruled by Laws Divine : 
 These make the life of man. Of these he spake ; 
 Proclaimed of these the glory. These to man 
 Aiie countless loves revealing Love Supreme ; 
 These and the Virtues, warp and woof, enweave 
 A single robe — that sacrificial garb 
 Worn from the first by man, whose every act 
 Of love in spirit was self-sacrifice, 
 xA.nd prophesied the Sacrifice Eterne ; 
 Through these the world becomes one household vast 
 
SAINT CUTHBERT'S PENTECOST 169 
 
 Through these each hut swells to a universe 
 
 Traversed by stateliest energies wind-swift, 
 
 And planet- crowned, beneath their Maker's eye. 
 
 All hail. Affections, angels of the earth ! 
 
 Woe to that man who boasts of love to God, 
 
 And yet his neighbour scorns ! While Cuthbert spake 
 
 A young man whispered to a priest, " Is yon 
 
 That Anchoret of the rock? Where learned he, then. 
 
 This loving reverence for the hearth and home ? 
 
 Mark, too, that glittering brow ! " The priest rephed : 
 
 " What ! shall a bridegroom's face alone be bright ? 
 
 He knows a better mystery ! This he knows, 
 
 That, come what may, all o'er the earth forever 
 
 God keeps His blissful Bridal-feast with man. 
 
 Each true heart there is guest ! " 
 
 Once more the Saint 
 Arose and spake : " O loving friends, my children, 
 Christ's sons, His flock committed to my charge ! 
 I spake to you but now of humbler ties. 
 Not highest, with intent that ye might know 
 How pierced are earthly bonds by heavenly beam ; 
 Yet, speaking with lame tongue in parables, 
 I showed you but simihtudes of things — 
 Twilight, not day. Make question then who will ; 
 So shall I mend my teaching." 
 
 Prompt and bright 
 As children issuing forth to holiday, 
 Then flocked to Cuthbert's school full many a man 
 Successive. Each with simpleness of heart 
 His doubt propounded ; each his question asked. 
 
170 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Or, careless who might hear, confessed his sins, 
 
 And absolution won. Among the rest, 
 
 A little seven years' boy, with sweet, still face, 
 
 Yet strong not less, and sage, drew softly near. 
 
 His great calm eyes upon the patriarch fixed, 
 
 And silent stood. From Wessex came that boy ; 
 
 By chance Northumbria's guest. Meantime a chief 
 
 Demanded thus : '• Of all the works of might, 
 
 What task is worthiest?" Cuthbert made reply : 
 
 *' His who to land barbaric fearless fares. 
 
 And open flings God's palace gate to all, 
 
 And cries 'Come in ! ' " That concourse thrilled for 
 
 joy; 
 
 Alone that seven years' child retained the word ; 
 The rest forgat it. " Winifrede," that day, 
 Men called him ; later centuries, '• Boniface," 
 I-)Ccause he shunned the ill, and wrought the good. 
 In time the Teuton warriors knew that brow — 
 Their great Apostle he ; they knew that voice. 
 And happy Fulda venerates this day 
 Her martyr's gravestone. 
 
 Next, to Cuthbert drew 
 Three maidens, hand in hand, lovely as Truth, 
 Trustful, though shy; their thoughts, when hidden 
 
 most, 
 Wore but a semilucid veil, as when, 
 Through gold-touched crystal of the lime new-leaved. 
 On April morns, the symmetry looks forth 
 Of branch and bough distinct. SmiUng, they put, 
 At last, their question : " Tell us, man of God, 
 
SAINT CUTHBERT'S PENTECOST 171 
 
 What life, of lives that women lead, is best ; 
 Then show us forth in parables that life ! " 
 
 He answered : " Three ; for each of these is best. 
 First comes the Maiden's : she who lives it well 
 Serves God in marble chapel white as snow, 
 His priestess — His alone. Cold flowers each morn 
 She culls ere sunrise by the stainless stream, 
 And lays them on that chapel's altar-stone. 
 And sings her matins there. Her feet are swift 
 All day in labours 'mid the vales below, 
 Cheering sad hearts ; each evening she returns 
 To that high fane, and there her vespers sings ; 
 Then sleeps, and dreams of heaven." 
 
 With witching smile. 
 The youngest of that beauteous triad cried : 
 " That life is sweetest ! I would be that maid ! " 
 Cuthbert resumed : '' The Christian Wife comes next : 
 She drinks a deeper draught of life ; round her 
 In ampler sweep its sympathies extend ; 
 An infant's cry has knocked against her heart, 
 Evoking thence that human love wherein 
 Self-love hath least. Through infant eyes a spirit 
 Hath looked upon her, crying, — ' I am thine ! 
 Creature from God — dependent yet on thee ! ' 
 Thenceforth, she knows how greatness blends with 
 
 weakness ; 
 Reverence, thenceforth, with pity linked, reveals 
 To her the pathos of the life of man — 
 A thing divine, and yet at every pore 
 Bleeding from crowned brows. A heart thus large 
 
172 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Hath room for many sorrows. What of that? 
 
 Its sorrow is its dowry's noblest part. 
 
 She bears it not alone. Such griefs, so shared — 
 
 Sickness, and fear, and vigils lone and long — 
 
 Waken her heart to love sublimer far 
 
 Than ecstasies of youth could comprehend ; 
 
 Lift her, perchance, to heights serene as those 
 
 The Ascetic treadeth." 
 
 " I would be that wife ! " 
 Thus cried the second of those maidens three. 
 Yet who that gazed upon her could have guessed 
 Creature so soft could bear a heart so brave ? 
 She seemed that goodness which was beauteous too; 
 Virtue at once, and Virtue's bright reward ; 
 Dehght that Hfts, not lowers us ; made for heaven ; — 
 Made too to change to heaven some brave man's hearth 
 She added thus : *' Of lives that women lead 
 Tell us the third ! " 
 
 Gently the Saint replied : 
 '* The third is Widowhood — a wintry sound ; 
 And yet, for her who widow is indeed. 
 That winter something keeps of autumn's gold, 
 Something regains of Spring's first flower snow-white, 
 Snow-cold, and colder for its rim of green. 
 She feels no more the warmly-greeting hand ; 
 The eyes she brightened rest on her no more ; 
 Her full-orbed being now is cleft in twain ; 
 Her past is dead ; daily from memory's self 
 Dear things depart ; yet still she is a wife, — 
 A wife the more because of bridal bonds 
 
SAINT CUTHBERT'S PENTECOST 173 
 
 Lives but their essence, waiting wings in heaven ; — 
 More wife ; and yet, in that great lonehness, 
 More maiden, too, than when first maidenhood 
 Lacked what it missed not. Like that other maid, 
 She, too, a lonely Priestess serves her God ; 
 Yea, though her chapel be a funeral vault, 
 Its altar black like Death; — the flowers thereon, 
 Tinct with the Blood Divine. Above that vault 
 ,She hears the anthems of the Spouse of Christ, 
 Widowed, like her, though Bride." 
 
 " O fair, O sweet, 
 O beauteous lives, all three ; fair lot of women ! " 
 Thus cried again the youngest of those Three, 
 Too young to know the touch of grief — or cause it — 
 A plant too lighdy leaved to cast a shade. 
 The eldest with pale cheek, and lids tear-wet. 
 Made answer sad : " I would not be a widow." 
 
 Then Cuthbert spake once more with smile benign : 
 " I said that each of these three lives is best : — 
 There are who live those three conjoined in one : 
 The nun thus lives ! What maid is maid like her 
 Who, free to choose, has vowed a maidenhood 
 Secure 'gainst chance or choice? What bride like 
 
 her 
 Whose Bridegroom is the spouse of vestal souls? 
 What widow lives in such austere retreat, 
 Such hourly thought of him she ne'er can join 
 Save through the gate of death ? If those three lives 
 In separation Hved are fair and sweet, 
 How show they, blent in one?" 
 
174 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Of those who heard 
 The most part gladdened ; those who knew how high 
 Virtue, renouncing all besides for God, 
 Hath leave to soar on earth. Yet many sighed, 
 Jealous for happy homesteads. Cuthbert marked 
 That shame-faced sadness, and continued thus : 
 " To praise the nun reproaches not, O friends. 
 But praises best that life of hearth and home 
 At Cana blessed by Him who shared it not. 
 The uncloistered life is holy, too, and oft 
 Through changeful years in soft succession links 
 Those three fair types of woman ; holds, diffused. 
 That excellence severe which life, detached. 
 Sustains in concentration." Long he mused ; 
 Then added thus : " When last I roved these vales. 
 There lived, not distant far, a blessed one, 
 Revered by all ; her name was Ethelreda ; 
 I knew her long, and much from her I learned. 
 Beneath her Pagan father's roof there sat 
 Ofttimes a Christian youth. With him the child 
 Walked, calHng him 'her friend.' He loved the maid ; 
 Still young, he drew her to the fold of Christ ; 
 Espoused her three years later ; died in war 
 Ere three months passed. For her he never died ! 
 Immortalised by faith that bond lived on ; 
 And now close by, and now 'mid Saints of heaven. 
 She saw her husband walk. She never wept ; 
 That fire which Ht her eye, and flushed her cheek, 
 Dried up, it seemed, her tears ; the neighbours round 
 Called her ' the lady of the happy marriage.' 
 
SAINT CUTHBERT'S PENTECOST 175 
 
 She died long since, I doubt not." Forward stepped 
 
 A slight, pale maid, the daughter of a bard, 
 
 And answered thus : "Two months ago she died." 
 
 Then Cuthbert : "■ Tell me, maiden, of her death ; 
 
 And see you be not chary of your words, 
 
 For well I loved that woman." Tears unfelt 
 
 Fast streaming down her pallid cheel^, the maid 
 
 Replied — yet often paused : " A sad, sweet end ! 
 
 A long night's pain had left her living still ; 
 
 I found her on the threshold of her door. 
 
 Fler cheek was white ; but, trembling round her lips, 
 
 And dimly o'er her countenance spread, there lay 
 
 Something that, held in check by feebleness. 
 
 Yet tended to a smile. A cloak, tight-drawn, 
 
 From the cold March wind screened her, save one hand 
 
 Stretched on her knee, that reached to where a beam. 
 
 Thin slip of watery sunshine, sunset's last, 
 
 SUd through the branches. On that beam, methought. 
 
 Rested her eyes half-closed. It was not so ; 
 
 For when I knelt, and kissed that hand ill-warmed, 
 
 Smihng she said : ' The small, unwedded maid 
 
 Has missed her mark ! You should have kissed the 
 
 ring! 
 Full forty years upon a widowed hand 
 It holds its own. It takes its latest sunshine.' 
 She lived through all that night, and died while dawned 
 Through snows Saint Joseph's morn." 
 
 The Queen, with hand 
 Sudden and swift, brushed from her cheek a tear ; 
 And many a sob from that thick- crowding host 
 
176 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Confessed what tenderest love can live in hearts 
 
 Defamed by fools as barbarous. Cuthbert sat 
 
 In silence long. Before his eyes she passed, 
 
 The maid, the wife, the widow, all in one ; 
 
 With these — through these — he saw once more the 
 
 child, 
 Yea, saw the child's smile on the lips of death, 
 That magic, mystic smile ! O heart of man, 
 What strange capacities of grief and joy 
 Are thine ! How vain, how ruthless such, if given 
 For transient things alone ! O life of man ! 
 What wert thou but some laughing demon's scoff. 
 If prelude only to the eternal grave ! 
 "Deep cries to deep" — ay, but the deepest deep, 
 Crying to summits of the mount of God, 
 Drags forth for echo, " Immortality." 
 It was the Death Divine that vanquished death ! 
 Shorn of that Death Divine, the Life Divine — 
 Albeit its feeblest tear had cleansed all worlds. 
 Cancelled all guilt — had failed to reach and sound 
 The deepest in man's nature. Love and Grief, 
 Profoundest each when joined in penitent woe ; 
 Failed thence to wake man's hope. The loftiest light, 
 Flashed from God's Face on Reason's orient verge, 
 Answers that bird-cry from the Heart of man — 
 Poor Heart that, darkling, kept so long its watch — 
 The auspice of the dawn. 
 
 Like one inspired 
 The Saint arose, and raised his hands to God ; 
 Then to his people turned with such discourse 
 
SAINT CUTHBERT'S PENTECOST 177 
 
 As mocks the hand of scribe. No more he spake 
 
 In parables ; adumbrated no more 
 
 " Dimly as in a glass " his doctrine high, 
 
 But placed it face to face before men's eyes, 
 
 Essential truth, God's image, meet for man, 
 
 Himself God's image. Worlds he showed them new, 
 
 Worlds countless as the stars that roof our night, 
 
 Fair fruitage of illimitable boughs, 
 
 Pushed from that Tree of Life from Calvary sprung 
 
 That over- tops and crowns the earth and man ; 
 
 Preached the Resurgent, the Ascended God, 
 
 Dispensing "gifts to men." The tongue he spake 
 
 Seemed Pentecostal — grace of that high Feast — 
 
 For all who heard, the simple and the sage, 
 
 Heard still a single language sounding forth 
 
 To all one Promise. From that careworn Queen, 
 
 Who doffed her crown, and placed it on the rock. 
 
 Murmuring, — " Farewell forever, foohsh gaud," 
 
 To him, the humblest hearer, all made vow 
 
 To live thenceforth for God. The form itself 
 
 Of each was changed to saintly and to sweet ; 
 
 Each countenance beamed as though with rays cast 
 
 down 
 From fiery tongues, or angel choirs unseen. 
 
 Thus, hke high gods on mountain-tops of joy, 
 Those happy listeners sat. The body quelled — 
 With all that body's might usurped to cramp 
 Through ceaseless, yet unconscious, weight of sense 
 Conceptions spiritual, might more subtly skilled 
 Than lusts avowed, to sap the spirit's life — 
 
178 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 In every soul its nobler Powers released 
 Stood up, no more a jarring crowd confused, 
 Each trampling each and oft the worst supreme, — 
 Not thus, but grade o'er grade, in order due. 
 And pomp hierarchical. Yet hand in hand, 
 Not severed, stood those Powers. To every Mind 
 That truth new learned was palpable and dear. 
 Not abstract nor remote, with cordial strength 
 Enclasped as by a heart ; through every Heart 
 Serene affections swam 'mid seas of light, 
 Reason's translucent empire without bound, 
 Fountained from God. Silent those listeners sat. 
 Parleying in wordless thought. For them the world 
 Was lost — and won ; its sensuous aspects quenched ; 
 Its heavenly import grasped. The erroneous Past 
 Lay like a shrivelled scroll before their feet ; 
 And, sweet as some immeasurable rose. 
 Expanding leaf on leaf, varying yet one. 
 The Everlasting Present round them glowed. 
 Dead was desire, and dead not less was fear — 
 The fear of change — of death. 
 
 An hour went ])y ; 
 The sun declined ; then rising from his seat, 
 Herbert, the anchoret of the lonely lake, 
 Made humble way to Cuthbert's feet with suit : 
 *' O Father, and O Friend, thou saw'st me not ; 
 Yet, day by day, thus far I tracked thy steps 
 At distance, for my betters leaving place. 
 The great and wise that round thee thronged ; the 
 young 
 
SAINT CUTHBERT'S PENTECOST 179 
 
 Who ne'er till then had seen thy face ; the old 
 Who saw it then, yet scarce again may see. 
 Father, a happier lot was mine, thou know'st, 
 Or had been save for sin of mine : each year 
 I sought thy cell, thy words of wisdom heard ; 
 Yet still, alas ! lived on, Hke sensual men 
 Who yield their hearts to creatures — fixing long 
 A foolish eye on gold-touched leaf, or flower — 
 Not Him, the great Creator. Father and Friend, 
 The years run past. I crave one latest boon : 
 Grant that we two may die the self-same day ! " 
 Then Cuthbert knelt, and prayed. At last he spake : 
 " Thy prayer is heard ; the self-same day and hour 
 We two shall die." 
 
 That promise was fulfilled ; 
 For two years only on exterior tasks 
 God set His servant's hands — the man who " sought 
 In all things rest," nor e'er had ceased from rest 
 Then when his task was heaviest. Two brief years 
 He roamed on foot his spiritual realm ; 
 The simple still he taught ; the sad he cheered ; 
 Where'er he went he founded churches still, 
 And convents ; yea, and, effort costlier far. 
 Spared not to scan defect with vigilant eye. 
 That eye the boldest called not ''vision-dazed ; " 
 That Saint he found no " dreamer ; " sloth or greed 
 'Scaped not his vengeance ; scandals hid he not. 
 But dragged them into day, and smote them down ; 
 Before his face he drave the hireling priest. 
 The bandit thane ; unceasing cried, — " Ye kings, 
 
ISO MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Cease from your wars ! Ye masters, loose your 
 
 slaves!" 
 Two years sufficed ; for all that earlier life 
 Had trained the Ascetic for those works of might 
 Beyond the attempt of all but boundless love, 
 And in him kept unspent the fire divine. 
 Never such Bishop walked till then the North, 
 Nor ever since, nor ever, centuries fled. 
 So lived in hearts of men. Two years gone by. 
 His strength decayed. He sought once more his cell 
 Sea-lulled ; and lived alone with (xod ; and saw 
 Once more, like lights that sweep the unmoving hills, 
 God's providences girdling all the world, 
 With glory following glory. Tenderer-souled, 
 Herbert, meantime, within his isle abode, 
 x\t midnight listening Derwent's gladsome voice 
 Mingling with deep-toned Greta's, " Mourner " named ; 
 Pacing, each day, the shore ; now gazing glad 
 On gold-touched leaf, or bird that cut the mere, 
 Now grieved at wandering thoughts. For men he 
 
 prayed ; 
 And ever strove to raise his soul to God ; 
 And God, Who venerates still the pure intent, 
 Forgat not his ; and since his spirit and heart, 
 Holy albeit, were in the Eyes Divine 
 Less ripe than Cuthbert's for the Vision Blest — 
 Least faults perforce swelling where gifts are vast — 
 That God vouchsafed His servant sickness-pains 
 Virtue to perfect in a little space. 
 That both might pass to heaven the self-same hour. 
 
SAINT CUTHBERT'S PENTECOST 181 
 
 It came : that sun, which flushed the spray up-hurled 
 In cloud round Cuthbert's eastern rock, while he 
 Within it dying chanted psalm on psalm, 
 Ere long enkindled Herbert's western lake ; 
 The splendour waxed ; mountain to mountain laughed, 
 And, brightening, nearer drew, and, nearing, clasped 
 That heaven-dropped beauty in more strict embrace ; 
 The cliffs successive caught their crowns of fire ; 
 Blencathara last. Slowly that splendour waned ; 
 And, from the glooming gorge of Borrodale, 
 Her purple cowl shadowing her holy head 
 O'er the dim lake twilight with silent foot 
 Stepped like a spirit. Herbert from his bed 
 Of shingles watched that sunset till it died ; 
 And at one moment from their distant isles 
 Those friends, by death united, passed to God. 
 
KING HENRY THE SECOND AT THE 
 TOMB OF KING ARTHUR 
 
 Why put the great in Time their trust? 
 
 Whate'er on earth we prize 
 Of dust was made, and is but dust, 
 
 For all its brave disguise. 
 No boor but one day with the just 
 
 May triumph in the skies ! 
 
 Ambition doth but chase a gleam ; 
 
 An idle toy the sword ! 
 The crown a mockery ; power a dream ; 
 
 For Christ alone is Lord. 
 That lore King Henry learned. Of him 
 
 I here a tale record. 
 
 The tourney past, in festival 
 Baron and knight were met ; 
 
 Last pomp it was that graced the hall 
 Of great Plantagenet ; 
 
 A Prince for valour praised by all. 
 More famed for wisdom yet. 
 
 The board rang loud with kingly cheer ; 
 
 Light jest, and laugh, and song 
 Rang swiftly round from peer to peer ; 
 182 
 
KING HENRY 183 
 
 Alone, on that gay throng, 
 The harper looked with eye severe, 
 The while in unknown tongue 
 
 A mournful dirge abroad he poured ; 
 
 Sad strains, forlorn, and slow ; 
 Poor wreck of music prized and stored 
 
 Long centuries ago 
 On British hills ere Saxon sword 
 
 Had stained as yet their snow. 
 
 " Strike other chords," the monarch cried ; 
 
 " Whate'er thy words may be, 
 They sound the dirge of festal pride ; 
 
 Warriors, not monks are we ! 
 The melodies to grief allied 
 
 No music make for me." 
 
 The harper's eye with martial fire 
 
 One moment shone ; no more ; 
 His lips, but now compressed in ire, 
 
 A smile disdainful wore, 
 While forth from each resounding wire 
 
 Its fiercer soul he tore. 
 
 Louder and louder pealed the strain, 
 
 More wild, and soul-entrancing ; 
 Picturing now helmets cloven in twain ; 
 
 Now swords like meteors glancing ; 
 Now trampling hosts o'er hill and plain 
 
 Retreating and advancing. 
 
184 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Each measure, mightier than the last, 
 Rushed forth, stern triumphs wooing ; 
 
 Like some great angel on the blast 
 From heaven to heaven pursuing, 
 
 With outspread pinion, far and fast, 
 A host abhorred to ruin. 
 
 The bard meanwhile with cold, stern air, 
 
 Looked proudly on the proud, 
 Fixing unmoved a victor's stare 
 
 On that astonished crowd — 
 'Till all the princes gathered there 
 
 Leaped up, and cried aloud : 
 
 " What man, what chief, what crowned head. 
 
 Eternal heir of fame, 
 Of all that live, or all the dead. 
 
 This praise shall dare to claim ? " — 
 Then rose that British bard, and said, 
 
 " King Arthur is his name." 
 
 " What sceptre grasped King Arthur's hand ? " 
 
 "The sceptre of this Isle." 
 " What nations bled beneath his brand?" 
 
 " The Saxon foe ere while." 
 "His tomb?" was Henry's next demand — 
 
 " He sleeps in yonder pile." 
 
 Forth went the King with all his train, 
 
 At the mid hour of night ; 
 They paced in pairs the silent plain 
 
KING HENRY 185 
 
 Under the red torch-light. 
 The moon was sinking in her wane, 
 The tower yet gHmmered bright. 
 
 Through Glastonbury's cloister dim 
 The midnight winds were sighing ; 
 
 Chanting a low funereal hymn 
 For those in silence lying, 
 
 Death's gentle flock, 'mid shadows grim 
 Fast bound, and unreplying. 
 
 Hard by, the monks their Hours were saying ; 
 
 The organ evermore. 
 Its wave in alternation swaying, 
 
 On that smooth swell upbore 
 The voice of their melodious praying 
 
 Towards heaven's eternal shore. 
 
 Ere long a princely multitude 
 
 Moved on 'neath arches grey. 
 Which yet, though shattered, stand where stood 
 
 (God grant they stand for aye !) 
 Saint Joseph's church of woven wood 
 
 On England's baptism day. 
 
 The grave they found ; their swift strokes fell, 
 
 Piercing dull earth and stone. 
 They reached ere long an oaken cell, 
 
186 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 And cross of oak, whereon 
 Was graved : '' Here sleeps King Arthur well, 
 In the Isle of Avalon." 
 
 The mail on every knightly breast, 
 
 The steel at each man's side. 
 Sent forth a sudden gleam ; each crest 
 
 Bowed low its plumed pride ; 
 Down o'er the coffin stooped a priest — 
 
 But first the monarch cried : 
 
 " Great King ! in youth I made a vow 
 
 Earth's mightiest son to greet ; 
 His hand to worshi}) ; on his brow 
 
 To gaze : his grace entreat. 
 Therefore, though dead, till noontide thou 
 
 Shalt fill my royal seat ! " 
 
 Away the massive lid they rolled — 
 
 Alas ! what found they there ? 
 No kingly brow, no shapely mould ; 
 
 But dust where such things were. 
 Ashes o'er ashes, fold on fold — 
 
 And one bright wreath of hair. 
 
 Genevra's hair ! like gold it lay ; 
 
 For Time, though stern, is just, 
 And humblest things feel last his sway. 
 
 And Death reveres his trust. — 
 They touched that wreath ; it sank away 
 
 From sunshine into dust ! 
 
KING HENRY 187 
 
 Then Henry lifted from his head 
 
 The Conqueror's iron crown ; 
 That crown upon that dust he laid, 
 
 And knelt in reverence down, 
 And raised both hands to heaven, and said, 
 
 " Thou, God, art King alone ! 
 
 -' Lie there, my crown, since God decrees 
 
 This head a couch as low ! 
 What am I better now than these 
 
 Six hundred years ago? 
 Henceforth, all mortal pageantries 
 
 I count an idle show." 
 
 Such words King Henry spake ; and ere 
 
 The cloistral vaults had felt 
 Along their arches dark and bare 
 
 The last faint echo melt, 
 The nobles congregated there 
 
 On that cold pavement knelt. 
 
 And each his coronet down laid, 
 
 And Christ, his King, adored ; 
 And murmured in that mournful shade : 
 
 " Thou, God, alone art Lord : 
 Like yonder hair at last shall fade 
 
 Each sceptre, crown, and sword." 
 
THE INFANT BRIDAL 
 
 Of old between two nations was great war : 
 Its cause no mortal knew; nor when begun; 
 
 Therefore they combated so much the more, 
 The sire his sword bequeathing to the son; 
 
 Till gentleness and joy had wholly fled, 
 
 And well-nigh every hand with blood was red. 
 
 In vain the mother wept; her sighs were blown 
 Away by the loud gust of popular rage ; 
 
 In vain the young fair widow made her moan; 
 In vain the tender virgin would engage 
 
 Her love to gentler thoughts; he rushed to arms, 
 
 Proud of her beauty pale and loud alarms. 
 
 Glory, for Honour a blind substitute 
 
 In hearts aspiring and a servile will, 
 On to the battle chased them. Man and brute, 
 
 Horseman and horse, by the same trumpet-thrill 
 Were borne into the frenzy of red fields, 
 Ghastly ere night with dead, upstaring from their 
 shields. 
 
 Glory at first, and after Glory, Shame; 
 
 Shame to propose the compact, first to bend; 
 And Fear, which masks full oft in Valour's name, 
 i88 
 
THE INFANT BRIDAL 189 
 
 And doth false honour like a shade attend — 
 Fear to be thought to fear ; — these plagues did urge 
 The maniacs forward with a threefold scourge. 
 
 Both kingdoms raging thus in fever fit, 
 
 More direful every hour became their spleen; 
 
 The sleeping boy full" oft his brow would knit 
 Against a foeman he had never seen; 
 
 Full oft the man of venerable hairs 
 
 Bowed to the dust his head depressed by griefs and 
 cares. 
 
 Valley and town lay drowned in tears and sorrow; 
 
 Each noontide trembled with perturbed annoy, 
 And no one dared expect a kinder morrow; 
 
 To be a mother was no more a joy; 
 Hope no more hovered o'er the cradle. Love 
 Wept; and no friend had heart such anguish to re- 
 prove. 
 
 How often to a little sleeping child. 
 
 Smiling, and sleeping on the mother's knee. 
 
 That mother thus complained: "Ah, little child! 
 God only knows if it be good for thee. 
 
 My comforter, my solace, to have come 
 
 Down to this world so harsh and wearisome. 
 
 "Happy awhile with me thy spirit dwells; 
 
 Awhile contented 'mid thy petty range 
 Of daily things, to thee all miracles; 
 
 For arms thou dost not sigh, nor pant for change; 
 
190 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Thy dreams are bloodless; thou dost smile whe t 
 
 sleeping, 
 In Eden founts thy newborn fancies steeping. 
 
 "Ah, must that brow, so clear, so smooth, so white. 
 By a hard ruthless helm be one day pressed? 
 
 Ah, must the red lance in its murderous might 
 
 One day pierce through and gore that tender breast? 
 
 Ah, little infant ! must thou lie one day 
 
 Far, far from me, cold clay upon cold clay? 
 
 "Wherefore so fast do these thy ringlets grow? 
 
 Stay, little child, be alway what thou art. 
 That I may ever, while the rough winds blow. 
 
 Clasp thee as now, and hide thee in my heart. 
 Who taught thee those new words? I fear each day, 
 To hear thee cry, 'Mother, I must away.' 
 
 "Is this to be a mother? I am none — 
 And yet I fear to lose a gift not prized. 
 
 Is this, ah God, to have a little son? 
 
 Are these my prayers? my dreams thus realised? 
 
 Defrauded of my own while visibly here. 
 
 How can I hope, O child, to deck far off thy bier? " 
 
 The hosts, in silence marching all the night. 
 At sunrise met upon the battle plain. 
 
 The monarchs there engaged in single fight: 
 There by a rival's hand was either slain. 
 
THE INFANT BRIDAL 191 
 
 Long time men stood in gloom, stern, and sad- 
 hearted; 
 
 Then, bound by solemn vows, homeward in peace 
 departed. 
 
 A counsel went there forth. Each king had left 
 Behind a blooming infant; one a boy, 
 
 A girl the other; both alike bereft; 
 
 Both innocent; both mete for love and joy; 
 
 Both heirs of sorrow. " Holy Church these twain 
 
 Shall join in one," men cried, "and peace be ours 
 again." 
 
 Who first devised the expedient no one knows. 
 
 Perhaps old sages, after long debate. 
 And loud lament of immemorial woes, 
 
 Bending their deep brows in a hall of state, 
 Conceived the project; and from Fancy sought 
 A cure for ills by rage fantastic wrought. 
 
 Some chief perhaps, of all his sons bereft. 
 And now half blind in his forlorn old age. 
 
 Cried loud in anguish, while his tower he left 
 To hide him in a moss-grown hermitage, — 
 
 " Hear ye my words, and on your hearts engrain them. 
 
 Love gave me many children : Hate hath slain them." 
 
 Haply some maiden, for the war deserted, 
 
 Exclaimed, — "I would that little warlike pair 
 
 Had loved as long as war the loved hath parted." 
 Perhaps kind angels called her wish a prayer. 
 
192 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Enough : I tell an ancient legend, told 
 By better men than I, long dead and cold. 
 
 While the young bride in triumph home was led, 
 They strewed beneath her litter branches green; 
 
 And kissed light flowers, then rained them on a head 
 Unconscious as the flowers what all might mean. 
 
 Men, as she passed them, knelt; and women raised 
 
 Their children in their arms, who laughed and gazed. 
 
 That pomp approaching woodland villages. 
 Or shadowing convents piled near rivers dim. 
 
 The church-bells from grey towers begirt with trees 
 Reiterated their loud, wordless hymn; 
 
 And golden cross, and snowy choir serene 
 
 Moved on, old trunks and older towers between. 
 
 An hour ere sunset from afar they spied 
 
 The city walls, dark myriads round them clinging; 
 Now o'er a carpeted expanse they glide. 
 
 Now the old bridge beneath their tread is ringing; 
 They reach the gate — they pass the towers below — 
 And now once more emerge, a glittering show ! 
 
 O what a rapturous shout receives them, blending 
 Uncounted bells with chime of human voices ! 
 
 That fortress old, as on they wind ascending. 
 Like the mother of some victor chief rejoices. 
 
 From every window tapestries wave; among 
 
 The steep and glittering roofs, group after group, they 
 throng. 
 
THE INFANT BRIDAL 193 
 
 The shrine is gained. Two mighty gates expanding 
 Let forth a breeze of music onward gushing, 
 
 In pathos lulled, yet awful and commanding; 
 
 Down sink the crowds, at once their murmur hush- 
 ing. 
 
 Filled with one soul, the smooth procession slowly 
 
 Advances with joined palms, cross-led and lowly. 
 
 Lo ! where they stand in yon high, fan-roofed cham- 
 ber — 
 
 Martyrs and Saints in dyed and mystic glass 
 With sumptuous halos, vermeil, green and amber. 
 
 Flood the far aisles, and all that by them pass: 
 Rich like their painter's visions — in those gleams 
 Blazoning the burden of his Patmian dreams ! 
 
 A forest of tall lights in mystic cluster 
 
 Like fire-topped reeds, from their aerial station. 
 
 Pour on the group a mild and silver lustre; 
 Beneath the blessing of that constellation 
 
 The rite proceeds — pure source whence rich increase 
 
 Of love henceforth, and piety and peace. 
 
 Small was the ring, and small in truth the finger ! 
 
 What then? the faith was large that dropped it 
 down ; 
 A faith that scorned on this base earth to linger, 
 
 And won from Heaven a perdurable crown. 
 A germ of Love, at plighting of that troth. 
 Into each bosom sank; and grew there with its growth. 
 
194 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 The ladies held aloft the bridal pair; 
 
 They on each other smiled, and gazed around 
 With lofty mien benign and debonair, 
 
 Their infant brows with golden circlet bound; 
 The prelates blessed them, and the nobles swore 
 True faith and fealty by the swords they bore. 
 
 Home to the palace, still in order keeping, 
 That train returned; and in the stateliest room 
 
 Laid down their lovely burden, all but sleeping. 
 Together in one cradle's curtained gloom; 
 
 And lulled them with low melody and song, 
 
 And jest passed lightly 'mid the courtly throng. 
 
 m 
 
 Ah, lovely sight ! behold them — creatures twain. 
 Hand in hand wandering through some verdant 
 alley. 
 
 Or sunny lawn of their serene domain, 
 
 Their wind-caught laughter echoing musically; 
 
 Or skimming, in pursuit of bird-cast shadows, 
 
 With feet immaculate the enamelled meadows. 
 
 Tiptoe now stand they by some towering lily. 
 And fain would peer into its snowy cave; 
 
 Now, the boy bending o'er some current chilly, 
 The feebler backward draws him from the wave; 
 
 But he persists, and gains for her at last 
 
 Some bright flower from the dull weeds hurrying past. 
 
THE INFANT BRIDAL 195 
 
 Oft if some aged priest the cloister crossed, 
 
 Both hands they caught; and bade him explicate, 
 
 That nought of good through idlesse might be lost, 
 At large all duties of the nuptial state; 
 
 And oft each other kissed with infant glee, 
 
 As though this were some great solemnity. 
 
 In some old missal sometimes would they look, 
 Touching with awe the illuminated page; 
 
 And scarce for tears the spectacle might brook 
 Of babes destroyed by Herod's murderous rage. 
 
 Here sank a Martyr in ensanguined vest; 
 
 With more familiar smile, there beamed the Virgin 
 blest. 
 
 Growing, their confidence as quickly grew; 
 
 Light pet and childish quarrel seldom came; 
 To make them lighter yet and yet more few, 
 
 Their nurse addressed them thus — an ancient 
 dame — 
 "Children, what perfect love should dwell, I ween, 
 'Twixt husband and young wife, 'twixt King and 
 Queen. 
 
 "The turtle, widowed of her mate, no more 
 
 Lifts her lone head, but pines, and pining dies; 
 
 In many a tomb 'mid yon Cathedral hoar 
 Monarch or Knight beside his lady lies; 
 
 Such tenderness and truth they showed that fate 
 
 No power was given their dust to separate. 
 
196 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 " Rachel not less, and Ruth, whereof men read 
 In book ordained our life below to guide, 
 
 Loved her own husband each, in word and deed, 
 Loved him full well, nor any loved beside; 
 
 And Orpheus too, and Pyramus, men say. 
 
 Though Paynim born, lived true, and so shall live 
 for aye. 
 
 "What makes us, children, to good Angels dear? 
 
 Unblemished Truth and hearts in pure accord. 
 These also draw the people to revere 
 
 With stronger faith their King and Sovereign Lord. 
 Then perfect make your love and amity 
 Alway; but most of all if men are by." 
 
 Such lore receiving ofttimes, hand in hand 
 
 Those babes walked gravely; at the garden gates 
 
 Meantime the multitude would flock and stand, 
 And hooded nuns looked downward from their 
 grates. 
 
 These when the Princes marked, they moved awhile 
 
 With loftier step and more majestic smile; 
 
 Or sat enthroned upon some broidered bank 
 
 (The lowlier flowers in wrecks around them thrown) 
 
 Shadowed with roses rising rank on rank; 
 
 And there, now wreathed, now leaning into one, 
 
 They talked, and kissed, again and yet again, 
 
 To please good Angels thus, and win good men. 
 
THE INFANT BRIDAL 197 
 
 Swift rolled the years. The boy now twelve years old, 
 Vowed to the Cross and honourable war, 
 
 For Palestine deserts our northland cold. 
 
 Her husband — playmate — is he hers no more ? 
 
 Up to his hand, now timid first she crept, — 
 
 "Farewell," he said; she sighed; he kissed her and 
 she wept. 
 
 A milk-white steed; a crest, whose snowy pride 
 Like wings, or maiden tresses, drooped apart; 
 
 A Cross between; and (every day new dyed) 
 Fair emblem on his shield, a bleeding heart, — 
 
 Marked him far off from all. Not mine to tell 
 
 What fields his valour won, what foes before him 
 fell. 
 
 No barbarous rage that host impelled; but zeal 
 For Christian faith and sacred rites profaned; 
 
 And Triumph smiled upon the avenging steel 
 That smote the haughty and set free the chained. 
 
 Foremost he fought. In Victory's final hour, 
 
 Star-bright, he shone from Salem's topmost tower! 
 
 Swift as that Fame, which like an Angel ran 
 
 Before him on a glory-smitten road. 
 Homeward the princely boy returned, a man. 
 
 A lovelier angel graced their old abode — • 
 But where his youthful playmate ? where ? Half dazed. 
 Each on the other's beauty wondering gazed. 
 
198 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Strange joy they found all day in wandering over 
 The spots in which their childish sports had been; 
 
 Husband and wife whilome, now loved and lover, 
 A broken light brightened yet more the scene. 
 
 Night came: a gay yet startled bride he led, 
 
 Old rites scarce trusting, to the bridal bed. 
 
 No more remains of all this ancient story. 
 
 They loved with love eternal; spent their days 
 In peace, in good to man, in genuine glory; 
 
 No spoils unjust they sought, nor unjust praise. 
 Their children loved them and their people blessed — 
 God grant us all such lives — in Heaven for aye such 
 rest! 
 
SAINT FRANCIS AND PERFECT JOY 
 
 FROM THE FIORETTI DI S. FRANCESCO 
 
 Blessed Saint Francis, in the winter time, 
 
 When half the Umbrian vales were white with snow 
 
 And all the northward vine-stems rough with rime. 
 Walked from Perugia down. His steps were slow. 
 
 Made slow by thought; yet swift at times, for love 
 
 Showered o'er his musings, fired them from above. 
 
 Right opposite, high on Assisi's hill, 
 
 The Saint was born, child of a wealthy house; 
 
 And though, corrupt delights abhorring still, 
 The revel he had shunned, and wild carouse, 
 
 Not less in camps and 'mid the festal throng 
 
 At times the youth had lived; yet not for long. 
 
 For from the Eternal Altar in the skies 
 
 The Kingly Prophet and the Victim Priest, 
 
 Standing with hands outstretched, had bent His eyes 
 One moment on him. Straight, from earth released, 
 
 The Saint, predestined, cast her lures aside. 
 
 And Holy Poverty espoused — his Bride. 
 
 Love, perfect made, lives in the Loved alone; 
 
 All gifts, by him unshared, it spurns as dross; 
 He, Who for earth's sake left His heavenly throne, 
 
 From earth accepted one sole gift — the Cross: 
 199 
 
200 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 That day Saint Francis on that Cross and Him 
 Mused ever, as he walked, with eyes tear-dim. 
 
 At last thus spake he to that Brother meek, 
 For hours sole comrade of his silent way : 
 
 " Leone, lamb of Christ, the words I speak 
 
 Write down, and ponder well some far-off day; 
 
 For truth remains; but men are winds that pass. 
 
 Like those brief gusts that bend yon stiffening grass. 
 
 " Leone, we, the least of men, have striven 
 
 An Order to uprear of Orders least; 
 If God, who ofttimes from His feast hath driven 
 
 The proud, and shared Himself the beggar's feast, 
 Should dower that new-born Order with such grace 
 That one day it shall stand the first in place; 
 
 "If, in each land, the Brothers Minor shone 
 
 Resplendent with a sanctity so high 
 That all men thronged to hear their word, and none 
 
 Who heard in mortal sin was known to die. 
 All crowns of earth to this were but a toy; 
 Yet write that this would not be Perfect Joy." 
 
 Another mile that road ice-filmed they trod 
 
 While sank the sun, and 'gainst their faces blew 
 
 Bitterer the blast; then stood the man of God, 
 And thus with kindling cheek began anew: 
 
 " Leone, little lamb of Christ, attend ! 
 
 Write down my words, and inly apprehend. 
 
SAINT FRANCIS AND PERFECT JOY 201 
 
 " Leone, if through all the earth in fear 
 Before the Brothers Minor demons fled; 
 
 If in all lands they caused the deaf to hear, 
 The blind to see, and raised the buried dead, 
 
 All this, though greatness proof 'gainst Time's 
 alloy 
 
 And clear from stain, would not be Perfect Joy." 
 
 Again pushed on the twain through vapours frore 
 And wayside boughs curdled with frozen rain; 
 
 But now Leone paced the Saint before, 
 
 And oft his whitening fingers chafed for pain; 
 
 Again Saint Francis stood; and, with a mien 
 
 As though the Vision Blest his eyes had seen, 
 
 Resumed, but louder: "Little lamb, give ear! 
 
 Write thus, that if the Brothers Minor flung 
 All nets of knowledge round the spiritual sphere 
 
 And spake once more each Pentecostal tongue, 
 And depth on depth in Scripture hid explored. 
 And dragged the Soldan bound to Christ, his Lord; 
 
 " If, lastly, through all realms they sped His Faith 
 
 Triumphant as on Angels' necks and wings. 
 And raised in Holy Land from shame and scath 
 His just ones, abjects now of turbaned Kings, 
 Potent alone to abase and to destroy. 
 These things, though great, would not be Perfect 
 Joy." 
 
202 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 When three times now Leone thus had heard 
 From lips so loved the self-same oracle, 
 
 He stood in wide-eyed wonder without word. 
 At last he spake : " I pray thee, Father, tell 
 
 What thing is Perfect Joy; how won? where found? 
 
 In heaven, do Angels share it with the Crowned? " 
 
 Blessed Saint Francis raised his thin, small hand 
 And pointed to a chapel, now not far, 
 
 That lonely rose amid the dusking land, 
 
 Backed by the dull red sky and evening star; 
 
 Scarce larger than a huge tree's hollow bole 
 
 That chapel seemed, their day-long journey's goal. 
 
 "Saint Mary of the Angels " it was named; 
 
 That Order, destined soon o'er earth to spread. 
 As yet no statelier Mother- House had claimed; 
 
 Four hermits grey from Palestine, men said. 
 Long centuries past, those sacred walls had reared; 
 Though time-worn, still they stood by all revered. 
 
 Round them not yet had risen that temple, graced 
 With countless spoils from quarry and from mine. 
 
 Which clasps this hour, 'mid splendours undisplaced, 
 That precinct old, its boast, its joy, its shrine. 
 
 Delight of pilgrim bands that, year by year. 
 
 Seeking its pardoning grace in faith draw near. 
 
SAINT FRANCIS AND PERFECT JOY 203 
 
 Still toward that spot the Saint held forth his hand — 
 Ere long a cloud of mingled sleet and snow, 
 
 That seemed, as on it drifted, to expand. 
 Drew nearer to that humble fane and low. 
 
 It passed; and plainly in the lessening light 
 
 Shone out the chapel, now with snow-flakes white. 
 
 Then spoke the Saint : " Leone, seest thou there 
 Our happy home? If we who left it late 
 
 So bright, so glad, so silent, and so fair. 
 
 Should cower snow-clad ere Compline by its gate. 
 
 And sue admittance, crying, — 'Porter, wake! 
 
 Receive thy Brethren for the Master's sake! ' 
 
 "And if that porter, loth to leave his bed. 
 
 Should answer from within, — 'Imposters base ! 
 
 Come ye to gorge the olives and the bread 
 
 Reserved for orphans and the sick? give place! 
 
 This knotted staff for backs like yours were best. 
 
 Hence ! Psalms are over, and the Brethren rest : ' — 
 
 "And if, an hour gone by, once more we came, 
 And prayed: 'Great Sir, unbar to us the door; 
 
 Two Brothers Minor, spent, thy pity claim. 
 
 Wanderers way-worn, heart-weary, and foot-sore; ' 
 
 And he made answer: 'Hence! for, though I sleep, 
 
 For bandits masked my wolf-hounds vigil keep : ' — 
 
204 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 "And if, two hours gone by, again we sued. 
 
 And forth that porter rushed with staff and hound. 
 
 Doubtless not knowing us in his Cain-like mood. 
 And left us on the snows, bleeding and bound. 
 
 Till now on the blank road the morning shone. 
 
 And we at heart had cherished petulance none, 
 
 "Nor uttered contumelious word the while. 
 
 But mused all night on Christ and on His Cross, 
 
 And thanked Him that He deigned with us, though 
 vile, 
 To share it, gain supreme disguised in loss, 
 
 And endless bliss won by an hour's annoy, — 
 
 Leone, Brother, that were Perfect Joy. 
 
 " Leone ! That, and every grace beside. 
 Is gift of God, to nought man boasts akin; 
 
 Great sin it were, to turn God's gifts to pride : — 
 This gift, slaying self-love, forestalls such sin ! 
 
 Well cried the Apostle, pain-emparadised, — 
 
 'Glory in this I will — the Cross of Christ.' " 
 
THE DEATH OF COPERNICUS 
 
 Hail, silent, chaste, and ever sacred stars ! 
 
 Ye bind my life in one ! I well remember 
 
 When first your glory pierced my youthful heart. 
 
 'Twas Christmas Eve near midnight. From a boat 
 
 I watched you long; then, rowing, faced the deep; 
 
 Above the storm-loved cliff of Elsinore 
 
 Sworded Orion high and higher rose 
 
 With brightening belt. The city clocks struck twelve ; 
 
 Straight from the countless towers rang out their 
 
 chimes. 
 Hailing the Babe new-born. Along the sea 
 Vibration waved; and in its depth the stars 
 Danced as they flashed, answering that rapturous 
 
 hymn, — 
 "Glory to God on high and peace on earth." 
 I shall not long behold them, saith my leech. 
 He errs; I suffer little. 
 
 On my bed 
 Yon lies my tome — one man's bequest to men. 
 Is the gift good? From youth to age I toiled, 
 A gleaner in the starry harvest field — 
 Lo, there one gathered sheaf ! 
 I think I laboured with a stainless aim. 
 If not a single aim. In ancient times 
 Pythagoras had gleams of this high lore; 
 Let coming ages stamp his name upon it; 
 I count it his, not mine. 
 
 205 
 
206 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 My earlier book 
 In substance was as this. But thus I mused : 
 Christ's simple ones may take offence and cry, — 
 " 'Tis written, 'God hath made the earth so strong 
 That it cannot be moved ' ; Science avers 
 It moves around the sun." Such questioner 
 Deserves all reverence. Fai thjs. JiiQre^than_Sc i e nc^j . 
 But 'twixt the interpretation and the text 
 Lies space world-wide. That text meant this — no 
 
 more — / 
 
 So solid is the earth, concussion none, 
 Though mountains fell, can move it. Here is naught 
 Of motion round the sun. Solidity 
 To such advance were needful, not a bar; 
 Far flies the pebble forward flung; the flower 
 Drops at the flinger's foot. 
 
 Again I mused : 
 The Truth of Nature with the Truth Revealed 
 Accords perforce; not so the illusive gloss. 
 By Nature's scholiasts forced on Nature's page. 
 That gloss of Ptolemy's made great Nature lie 
 A thousand years and more. Through countless errors, 
 Thus only. Science feels her way to Truth. 
 May I not err like Ptolemy? Distrustful, 
 I hid my book for thirty years and six. 
 Cross-questioning with fresh inquest patient skies, 
 And found there nothing that arraigned my lore. 
 Much that confirmed it. From the Minster tower. 
 Canon that time at Warnia though unworthy, 
 I made my charts of angle, sine, and arc. 
 
THE DEATH OF COPERNICUS 2Q1 
 
 Those vigils left my feet so numbed at morn 
 
 They scarce could find the altar-step, my hands 
 
 Scarce lift the chalice ! Day by day I prayed 
 
 With adjuration added, — " If, my God, 
 
 Thou seest my pride suborn my faculties. 
 
 Place me a witless one among those witless 
 
 That beg beneath church porches." Likewise I sued 
 
 The poor beside whose beds I ministered — 
 
 For their sake I had learned the healing craft — 
 
 To fence me with their prayers. 
 
 Discovered truths 
 I blabbed not to the crowd, but told the wise, — 
 Such men as raised our stateliest fanes. In these 
 I found amazement less than I presaged. 
 There seemed a leaning in the minds of men, 
 As when a leaning cornfield shows the wind. 
 To such results as in Bologna's schools 
 Made way when there I dwelt. I note this day 
 The ecclesiastics of the higher sort 
 Are with me more than those whose lore is Nature; 
 These hate the foot that spurns prescription's fence; 
 Not so my friend, the bishop of old Kulm; 
 He cries, — " Go forward ! " Thirty years ago 
 Milan's famed painter — he of the "Last Supper" — 
 Whispered me thus, — "The earth goes round the sun." 
 There are whose guess is prophecy. 
 
 This night 
 I make election: twofold choice is mine; 
 The first, to hurl this book on yonder sea; 
 The last, to fling it on a flood more vast 
 
208 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 And fluctuating more — the mind of man, 
 
 Crying, — " Fare forth, and take what God shall send ! " 
 
 One doubt alone remains; no text it touches, — 
 
 But dangers from within. In days gone by. 
 
 Near me a youth beside a casement stood. 
 
 The sea not distant and a heaven all stars; 
 
 Christ's Advent was our theme. He cried, — " Look 
 
 forth ! 
 Yon skies confute the old Faith! When Earth was 
 
 young, 
 Wistful as lovers, credulous as children. 
 Men deemed that Earth the centre of the world. 
 The stars its lackeys and its torch-bearers. 
 Such science is foredoomed; mankind will learn 
 This sphere is not God's ocean, but one drop 
 Showered from its spray. Came God from heaven 
 
 for that? 
 Speak no more words ! " 
 
 That was a tragedy ! 
 A mood may pass; yet moods have murdered souls. 
 It proved not thus with him. I looked again; 
 That face was as an angel's; from his brow 
 The cloud had passed. Reverent, I spake no word ; 
 Later, albeit at times such moods recurred, 
 That man was helpful to a nation's soul; 
 In death he held the Faith. 
 
 This Earth too small 
 For Love Divine ! Is God not Infinite? 
 If so. His Love is infinite. Too small ! 
 One famished babe meets pity more from man 
 
THE DEATH OF COPERNICUS 
 
 209 
 
 Oft than an army slain! Too small for Love! 
 Was Earth too small to be by God created? 
 Why, then, too small to be redeemed? 
 
 The sense 
 Sees greatness only in the sensuous greatness. 
 Science in that sees little; Faith sees naught. 
 The small, the vast," are tricks of earthly vision; 
 To God, that Omnipresent All-in-Each, 
 Nothing is small, is far. 
 
 More late I knew 
 A hoary man, dim-eyed, with restless hands, 
 A zealot, barbed with jibe and scoff still launched 
 At priests and kings and holy womanhood; 
 One night descending from my tower he spake : 
 " A God, and God incarnate but for man, 
 That reasoning beast — and all yon glittering orbs 
 In cold obstruction left ! " 
 
 Diverse those twain ! 
 That youth, though dazzled by the starry vastness 
 And thus despising earth, had awe for God; 
 That grey-haired fool believed in matter only. 
 Compassion for those starry races robbed 
 By earth, like Esau, of their birthright just. 
 Is pretext. They that know not of a God, — 
 How know they that the stars have habitants? 
 'Tis Faith and Hope that spread delighted hands 
 To such belief; no formal proof attests it. 
 Concede them peopled; can the sophist prove 
 Their habitants are fallen? That too admitted, 
 Who told him that redeeming foot divine 
 
 ^ 
 
210 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Ne'er trod those spheres? That fresh assumption 
 
 ^ granted, 
 
 What then? Is not the Universe a whole? 
 
 Doth not the sunbeam herald from the sun 
 
 Gladden the violet's bosom? Moons uplift 
 
 The tides; remotest stars lead home the lost: 
 
 Judaea was one country, one alone; 
 
 Not less Who died there, died for all. The Cross 
 
 Brought help to buried nations; Time opposed 
 
 No bar to Love; why, then, should Space oppose one? 
 
 We know not what Time is, nor what is Space; — 
 
 Why dream that bonds like theirs can bind the 
 
 Unbounded? 
 If Earth be small, likelier it seems that Love, 
 Compassionate most and condescending most 
 To Sorrow's nadir depths, should choose that Earth 
 For Love's chief triumph, missioning thence her gift 
 Even to the utmost zenith ! 
 
 To the Soul 
 Far more than to the intellect of man 
 I deemed the gift vouchsafed when on me first 
 This new-born Science dawned. I said, " Long since 
 We call God infinite ; what means that term? 
 A boy, since childhood walled in one small field, 
 Could answer nothing. He who looks on skies 
 Ablaze with stars, not hand-maids poor of earth, 
 But known for worlds of measureless bulk and swift- 
 ness, 
 Has mounted to another grade of spirit, — 
 Proceeded man. The stars do this for man ; 
 
THE DEATH OF COPERNICUS 211 
 
 They make Infinitude imaginable. 
 
 God, by our instincts felt as infinite, 
 
 When known becomes such to our total being, 
 
 Mind, spirit, heart, and soul. The greater Theist 
 
 Should make the greater Christian. Yet, 'tis true 
 
 Best gifts may come too soon. 
 
 No marvel this: 
 The earth was shaped for myriad forms of greatness, 
 As Freedom, Genius, Beauty, Science, Art, 
 Some extant, some to be. Such forms of greatness 
 Are, through God's will, greatness conditional. 
 Where Christ is greatest, these are great; elsewhere, 
 Great only to betray. Sweetly and sagely. 
 In order grave, the Maker of all Worlds 
 Still modulates the rhythm of human progress; 
 His angels, on whose song the seasons float. 
 Keep measured cadence; all good things keep time, 
 Lest Good should strangle Better. Aristotle 
 Aspired like me to base on fact and proof 
 Nature's philosophy. Fate said him nay; 
 That P'ate was kindness hidden. 
 The natural science of great Aristotle 
 Died young; his logic lived and helped the Church 
 To map her Christian Science. 
 
 Ancient Thought 
 And Christian Faith, opposed in most beside. 
 Held Man in reverence, each. Much came of that; 
 Matter dethroned, a place remained for spirit; 
 Old Grecian song called Man creation's lord; 
 The Christian Creed named him his Maker's Image; 
 
212 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 One was a humble reverence; one a proud; 
 Science that day perhaps had made men prouder; 
 The Ptolemaic scheme had place and use 
 Till Christian Faith, conquering the earth, had 
 
 crowned it; 
 The arch complete, its centring is removed; 
 That Faith, which franchised first the soul of man. 
 Franchises next his mind. 
 
 Another knowledge, 
 Man's appanage, now was snatched awhile from men, — 
 The Lore of antique ages said or sung : 
 It rolled, a river through the Athenian vales; 
 It sank, as though by miracle, in earth; 
 A fount, unsealed by hand divine, it leaps 
 Once more against the sun. 
 
 That strange new birth 
 Had place when first I trod Italian soil. 
 Men spake of bards to Dante's self unknown, 
 To Francis, Bernard, Dominic, Aquinas. 
 Great Albert knew them not. The oracles 
 Of lying gods were dumb; but dumb not less 
 The sage Greek poets, annalists, orators, 
 For God had uttered voice, and leaned from heaven, 
 Waiting the earth's response. The air was mute, 
 Mute for the Saviour God had breathed it late, 
 Left it His latest sigh. The ages passed. 
 Alone were Apostolic voices heard; 
 Then Fathers of the Church; the Schoolmen last. 
 Clamour surceased; the "Credo," for that cause, 
 Was plainlier heard. The winds and waves had fallen; 
 
THE DEATH OF COPERNICUS 213 
 
 And there was a great calm — stillness of spirit 
 At heart of storm extern. At last God's Truth 
 Had built o'er earth the kingdom of God's Peace. 
 Then penance-time was passed; Greece spake once 
 
 more ; 
 What was that speech but prophecy fulfilled, — 
 "The heathen shall become thy heritage?" 
 Euphrates and Ilissus flow again; 
 Grey wastes with roses flame. New greatness nears us; 
 Shall not God's angels reap two harvest fields 
 Severing the wheat from tares ? 
 
 Severance is needful, 
 Yea, needfuller yet will prove as ages pass. 
 The nobler songs of Greece divulged in verse 
 Such Truths as Nature had retained though fallen, 
 Man's heart had prized. Ay, but with these there 
 
 mixed 
 Music debasing. Christendom this day 
 Confronts two gifts, and trials likewise twain; 
 She must become the mother of great Nations; 
 Each Nation with the years will breed its Book, 
 Its Bible uninspired. But if these Books 
 Should prove but sorcerers' juggling wares, these 
 
 prophets 
 Stand up false prophets and their word a lie, 
 A voice from those two Books of Greece and Rome 
 Will sound their sentence, crying : " In the night 
 We sang sweet songs, the auguries of dawn; 
 We sang the Mother-land, the household loves, 
 The all-reverend eld, the virgin sanctitude. 
 
2H MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 The stranger's right, the altar reared to Pity; 
 Ye, 'mid the noontide glories turned to black, 
 Outshamed our worst with worse." 
 
 Should that voice peal, 
 Woe to the Nations which have sinned that sin ! 
 Truth's golden bowl will at the cistern break, 
 vSong's daughters be brought low. 
 
 For these two gifts — 
 The Science new, the Old Lore revived — the time 
 Seems opportune alike. The earth finds rest. 
 That Rome which warred on Christ is judged; has 
 
 vanished : 
 Those direful heresies of three centuries more, 
 The hordes barbaric, and, barbaric thrice, 
 Those Christian Emperors vexing still Christ's Church. 
 The Antipopes are gone; the Arabian prophet 
 Scowls at the West in vain. Yet who can tell 
 If in some age, remote or near, a cloud 
 Blacker than aught that shook the olden world 
 May rush not from clear skies? That hour upon us, 
 "Quieta non movere " may become 
 Wisdom's sum total; to repress, not spur 
 Progressive thought, the hour's necessity; 
 Against their will the truthfullest spirits may cry, — 
 " Better to wait than launch the bark of knowledge 
 There when the breakers roar! " 
 
 Work on and fear not ! 
 Work, and in hope, though sin that hope may cheat; 
 Work, knowing this, that, when God's lesser gifts 
 Are mocked by mortals, God into that urn 
 
THE DEATH OF COPERNICUS 215 
 
 Which stands for aye gift-laden by His throne 
 
 Thrusts deeplier yet His hand, and upward draws, 
 
 His last — then chief — of mercies, — Retribution. 
 
 Should man, abusing, use this knowledge vast. 
 
 Not for relieving of God's suffering poor 
 
 But doubling of their burthens; not for peace 
 
 But keener sharpening' of war's battle-axe, 
 
 And fleshlier solace of the idle and rich; 
 
 God will to such redouble pain for sin. 
 
 Such lot may lie before us. This is sure, — 
 
 That, as colossal Sanctity walks oft 
 
 In humblest vales, not less a pigmy race 
 
 May strut on mountains. If from heights of science 
 
 Men should look forth o'er worlds on worlds unguessed. 
 
 And find therein no witness to their God — 
 
 Naught but Man's image chaunting hymns to Man, — 
 
 "Great is thy wisdom, Man, and strong thy hand," — 
 
 God will repay the madness of that boast 
 
 With madness guilty less — a brain imbecile. 
 
 Races there live, once sage and brave, that now 
 
 Know not to light a fire ! If impious men 
 
 Press round Truth's gate with Intellect's fleshlier 
 
 lust — 
 For what is Godless Intellect but fleshly? — 
 Sudden a glacial wind shall issue forth, 
 And strike those vile ones blind ! 
 
 Should that day come, 
 Let no man cease from hope. Intensest ill 
 Breeds good intensest. For the songs of God 
 That knowledge, won by bad men, will survive. 
 
216 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 If fleets one day should pass the onrushing storm, 
 That Cross which lights their prow will reach but 
 
 sooner 
 The lands that sit in night. If Empires new 
 Wage war on Faith, each drop of martyr blood 
 Will sow once more Faith's harvest. Virgin spirits, 
 Raised from a child-like to an angel pureness. 
 Will walk in Chastity's sublimer flame; 
 God's earthquake shake men to their fitting places, — 
 True men and false, the sons of light and night, 
 No more, as now, confused. God's Church will 
 
 make, 
 Since, though she errs not, yet her best may err, 
 For sins of good men dead due expiation; 
 Then for her second triumph claim as site 
 A planet's, not an empire's girth. True kings 
 Will fence their thrones with freemen, not with serfs; 
 True priests, by serving, rule. The Tree of Life 
 First made our spirits food; that Tree which slew us 
 Will prove her sister. Knowledge then will clasp 
 Supremacy o'er matter, earth's fruition. 
 Not by the plucking of a fruit forbidden. 
 But by the valorous exercise austere 
 Of faculties, God's gift. "Lift up your heads. 
 Ye everlasting gates," the Psalmist sang, 
 "So shall the King of Glory enter in." 
 Lives there who doubts that when the Starry Gates 
 Lift up their heads, like minster porches vast 
 At feasts before a marvelling nation's eyes. 
 And show, beyond, the universe of God, — 
 
THE DEATH OF COPERNICUS 217 
 
 Lives there who doubts that, entering there, man's 
 
 mind 
 Must see, before it far, a God who enters. 
 Flashing from star to star? Lives there who doubts 
 That those new heavens, beyond all hope distent. 
 Must sound their Maker's praise? Religion's self 
 That day shall wear an ampler crown; all Truths, — 
 Now constellated in the Church's Creed, 
 Yet dim this day because man's mind is dim, — 
 Perforce dilating, as man's mind dilates, 
 O'er us must hang, a new Theology, 
 Our own, yet nobler, — even as midnight heavens. 
 Through crystal ether kenned, more sharply shine 
 Than when mist veiled the stars ! Let others doubt — 
 My choice is made. 
 
 The stars ! Once more they greet me ! 
 Thanks to the wind that blows yon casement back ! 
 'Tis cold; but vigils old have taught me patience. 
 Is this the last time, O ye stars? Not so — 
 'Tis not the death-chill yet. Those Northern heavens 
 Yield me once more that Northern Sign long loved; 
 Yon sea is still its glass, though many a star 
 Faints now in broader beams. Yon winter moon 
 Has changed this cell, thick-walled and ofttimes 
 
 dim, 
 Into a silver tent, O light, light, light, 
 How great thou art ! Thou only, free of space, 
 Bindest the universe of God in one. 
 Matter, methinks, in thee is changed to spirit: — 
 
218 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 What if our bodies, death subdued, shall rise 
 All light — compact of light ! 
 
 I had forgotten 
 Good Cardinal Schomberg's missive; here it lies; 
 I read it three weeks since. "The Holy Father 
 Wills that your labours stand divulged to Man; 
 Wills likewise that his name should grace your tome 
 As dedicate to him." I read in haste; 
 That such high grace should 'scape my memory thus 
 Argues, I think, some failure of my powers. 
 So be it! Their task is wrought. 
 
 The tide descends; 
 The caves send forth anew those hoarse sea-thunders, 
 Lulled when full flood satiates their echoing roofs. 
 They tell me this, that God, their God, hath spoken. 
 And the great deep obeys. That deep forsakes 
 The happy coasts where fishers spread their nets, 
 The fair green slopes with snowy flocks bespread. 
 The hamlets, red each morn with cloaks of girls. 
 And loud with shouting children. Forth he fares 
 To solitudes of ocean, waste and wide. 
 Cheered by that light he loves. I, too, obey. 
 I, too, am called to face the Infinite, 
 Leaving familiar things and faces dear 
 Of friends and tomes forth leaning from yon wall; 
 Me, too, the Uncreated Light shall greet. 
 When cleansed to bear it. O, how sweet was life ! 
 How sweeter must have been, had I been worthy ! — 
 Grant me Thy Beatific Vision, Lord : 
 Then shall those eyes, star-wearied, see and live ! 
 
THE YEAR OF SORROW; IRELAND, 1849 
 
 SPRING 
 
 Once more, through" God's high will, and grace 
 
 Of hours that each its task fulfils, 
 Heart-healing Spring resumes her place. 
 
 The valley throngs, and scales the hills. 
 
 In vain. From earth's deep heart, o'ercharged. 
 The exulting life runs o'er in flowers. 
 
 The slave unfed is unenlarged; 
 
 In darkness sleep a Nation's powers. 
 
 Who knows not Spring? Who doubts, when blows 
 Her breath, that Spring is come indeed? 
 
 The swallow doubts not; nor the rose 
 That stirs, but wakes not; nor the weed 
 
 I feel her near, but see her not; 
 
 For these with pain uplifted eyes 
 Fall back repulsed, and vapours blot 
 
 The vision of the earth and skies. 
 
 I see her not; I feel her near. 
 
 As, charioted in mildest airs. 
 She sails through yon empyreal sphere. 
 
 And in her arms and bosom bears 
 
220 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 That urn of flowers and lustral dews 
 
 Whose sacred balm, o'er all things shed, 
 
 Revives the weak, the old renews. 
 
 And crowns with votive wreaths the dead. 
 
 Once more the cuckoo's call I hear; 
 
 I know, in many a glen profound, 
 The earliest violets of the year 
 
 Rise up like water from the ground. 
 
 The thorn, I know, once more is white; 
 
 And, far down many a forest dale, 
 The anemones in dubious light 
 
 Are trembling like a bridal veil. 
 
 By streams released, that singing flow 
 From craggy shelf through sylvan glades, 
 
 The pale narcissus, well I know, 
 
 Smiles hour by hour on greener shades. 
 
 The honeyed cowslip tufts once more 
 The golden slopes; with gradual ray 
 
 The primrose stars the rock, and o'er 
 The wood-path strews its milky way. 
 
 From ruined huts and holes come forth 
 Old men, and look upon the sky ! 
 
 The Power Divine is on the earth: 
 Give thanks to God before ye die ! 
 
THE YEAR OF SORROW 111 
 
 And ye, O children, worn and weak, 
 Who care no more with flowers to play, 
 
 Lean on the grass your cold, thin cheek, 
 
 And those slight hands, and, whispering, say, — 
 
 "Stern Mother of a race unblest. 
 
 In promise kindly, cold in deed, — 
 Take back, O Earth, into thy breast. 
 
 The children whom thou wilt not feed." 
 
 SUMMER 
 
 Approved by works of love and might. 
 The Year, consummated and crowned, 
 
 Hath scaled the zenith's purple height, 
 And flings his robe the earth around. 
 
 Impassioned stillness, fervours calm, 
 
 Brood, vast and bright, o'er land and deep; 
 
 The warrior sleeps beneath the palm; 
 The dark-eyed captive guards his sleep. 
 
 The Iberian labourer rests from toil; 
 
 Sicilian virgins twine the dance; 
 Laugh Tuscan vales in wine and oil; 
 
 Fresh laurels flash from brows of France. 
 
 Far off, in regions of the North, 
 The hunter drops his winter fur; 
 
 Sun-wakened babes their feet stretch forth; 
 And nested dormice feebly stir. 
 
222 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 But thou, O land of many woes ! 
 
 What cheer is thine? Again the breath 
 Of proved Destruction o'er thee blows, 
 
 And sentenced fields grow black in death. 
 
 In horror of a new despair 
 
 His blood-shot eyes the peasant strains, 
 With hands clenched fast, and lifted hair, 
 
 Along the daily darkening plains. 
 
 " Why trusted he to them his store ? 
 
 Why feared he not the scourge to come? " 
 Fool! turn the page of History o'er — 
 
 The roll of Statutes — and be dumb ! 
 
 Behold, O People ! thou shalt die ! 
 
 What art thou better than thy sires? 
 The hunted deer a weeping eye 
 
 Turns on his birthplace, and expires. 
 
 Lo ! as the closing of a book, 
 
 Or statue from its base o'erthrown, 
 
 Or blasted wood, or dried-up brook, — 
 Name, race, and nation, thou art gone ! 
 
 The stranger shall thy hearth possess; 
 
 The stranger build upon thy grave ! 
 But know this also — he, not less, 
 
 His limit and his term shall have. 
 
THE YEAR OF SORROW 223 
 
 Once more thy volume, open cast, 
 
 In thunder forth shall sound thy name; 
 
 Thy forest, hot at heart, at last 
 
 God's breath shall kindle into flame. 
 
 Thy brook, dried up, a cloud shall rise. 
 And stretch an hourly widening hand, 
 
 In God's good vengeance, through the skies, 
 And onward o'er the Invader's land. 
 
 Of thine, one day, a remnant left 
 
 Shall raise o'er earth a Prophet's rod. 
 
 And teach the coasts, of Faith bereft. 
 The names of Ireland, and of God. 
 
 AUTUMN 
 
 Then die, thou Year — thy work is done; 
 
 The work, ill done, is done at last; 
 Far off, beyond that sinking sun. 
 
 Which sets in blood, I hear the blast 
 
 That sings thy dirge, and says, — "Ascend, 
 And answer make amid thy peers. 
 
 Since all things here must have an end, 
 Thou latest of the famine years ! " 
 
 I join that voice. No joy have I 
 In all thy purple and thy gold ; 
 
 Nor in that nine-fold harmony 
 From forest on to forest rolled ; 
 
224 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Nor in that stormy western fire 
 
 Which burns on ocean's gloomy bed, 
 
 And hurls, as from a funeral pyre, 
 
 A glare that strikes the mountain's head; 
 
 And writes on low-hung clouds its lines 
 Of ciphered flame, with hurrying hand; 
 
 And flings, amid the topmost pines 
 That crown the cliff, a burning brand. 
 
 Make answer, Year, for all thy dead, 
 Who found not rest in hallowed earth; 
 
 The widowed wife, the father fled. 
 
 The babe, age-stricken from his birth ! 
 
 Make answer. Year, for virtue lost: 
 
 For courage, proof 'gainst fraud and force, 
 
 Now waning like a noontide ghost; 
 Affections, poisoned at their source ! 
 
 The labourer spurned his lying spade; 
 
 The yeoman spurned his useless plough; 
 The pauper spurned the unwholesome aid 
 
 Obtruded once, exhausted now. 
 
 The roof-trees fall of hut and hall; 
 
 I hear them fall, and falling cry, — 
 " One fate for each, one fate for all ! 
 
 So wills the Law that willed a lie." 
 
THE YEAR OF SORROW 22S 
 
 Dread power of Man ! what spread the waste 
 In circles hour by hour more wide, 
 
 And would not let the past be past? — 
 
 That Law which promised much, and lied. 
 
 Dread power of God, Whom mortal years 
 Nor touch, nor tempt, Who sitt'st sublime 
 
 In night of night,— O, bid thy spheres 
 Resound, at last, a funeral chime ! 
 
 Call up at last the afflicted race. 
 
 Whom Man, not God, abolished. Sore, 
 
 For centuries, their strife : the place 
 
 That knew them once, shall know no more ! 
 
 WINTER 
 
 Fall, snow, and cease not ! Flake by flake 
 The decent winding-sheet compose; 
 
 Thy task is just and pious; make 
 An end of blasphemies and woes ! 
 
 Fall, flake by flake ! by thee alone, 
 
 Last friend, the sleeping draught is given; 
 
 Kind nurse, by thee the couch is strewn. 
 The couch whose covering is from Heaven ! 
 
 Descend and clasp the mountain's crest; 
 
 Inherit plain and valley deep ! 
 This night, on thy maternal breast, 
 
 A vanquished nation dies in sleep. 
 Q 
 
226 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Lo ! from the starry Temple Gates 
 
 Death rides, and bears the flag of peace; 
 
 The combatants he separates; 
 He bids the wrath of ages cease. 
 
 Descend, benignant Power ! But, O, 
 Ye torrents, shake no more the vale ! 
 
 Dark streams, in silence seaward flow ! 
 Thou rising storm, remit thy wail ! 
 
 Shake not, to-night, the cliffs of Moher, 
 
 Nor Brandon's base, rough sea! Thou Isle, 
 
 The Rite proceeds ! From shore to shore, 
 Hold in thy gathered breath the while ! 
 
 Fall, snow! in stillness fall, like dew, 
 On church's roof and cedar's fan; 
 
 And mould thyself on pine and yew; 
 And on the awful face of Man. 
 
 Without a sound, without a stir, 
 
 In streets and wolds, on rock and mound, 
 
 O omnipresent Comforter, 
 
 By thee, this night, the lost are found ! 
 
 On quaking moor and mountain moss, 
 
 With eyes upstaring at the sky. 
 And arms extended like a cross. 
 
 The long-expectant sufferers lie. 
 
THE YEAR OF SORROW 221 
 
 Bend o'er them, white-robed Acolyte ! 
 
 Put forth thine hand from cloud and mist; 
 And minister the last sad Rite, 
 
 Where altar there is none, nor priest ! 
 
 Touch thou the gates of soul and sense; 
 
 Touch darkening eyes and dying ears: 
 Touch stiffening hands and feet, and thence 
 
 Remove the trace of sins and tears ! 
 
 And, ere thou seal those filmed eyes, 
 
 Into God's urn thy fingers dip. 
 And lay, 'mid eucharistic sighs, 
 
 The sacred wafer on the lip ! 
 
 This night the Absolver issues forth; 
 
 This night the Eternal Victim bleeds. 
 O winds and woods, O heaven and earth, 
 
 Be still this night ! The Rite proceeds ! 
 
THE SISTERS; OR, WEAL IN WOE 
 
 From nine to twelve my guest was eloquent 
 
 In anger, mixed with sorrow, at the things 
 
 He saw around us ; lands half marsh, half weeds, 
 
 Gates from the gate-posts miserably divorced, 
 
 Hovels ill-thatched, wild fences, fissured roads — 
 
 " Your people never for the future plan ; 
 
 They live but for the moment." Thus he spake, 
 
 A youth just entering on his broad domains, 
 
 A senator in prorogation time 
 
 Travelling for knowledge, Oxford's accurate scholar, 
 
 A perfect rider, clean in all his ways. 
 
 But by traditions narrowed. As the moon 
 
 Turns but one side to earth, so showed that world 
 
 Whereon he gazed, for stubborn was his will. 
 
 And Ireland he had never loved. " You err," 
 
 I answered, taking in good part his wrath, 
 
 *'Our peasant, too, has prescience ; far he sees; 
 
 Earth is his foreground only ; rough or smooth, 
 
 In him from seriousness the lightness comes. 
 
 Too serious is he to make sacrifice 
 
 For fleeting good ; the battles of this world 
 
 He with his left hand fights, and half in sport ; 
 
 He has his moment — and eternity." 
 
 " Ay, ay," exclaimed my guest, " your Church, she 
 
 does it ! 
 Your feasts and fasts and wakes and social rites, 
 228 
 
THE SISTERS 229 
 
 With ' Sir/ and ' Ma'am,' and usages of Court. 
 
 I've seen a hundred men leave plough and spade 
 
 To take a three weeks' infant to its grave, 
 
 A cripple pay two shillings for a cart 
 
 To bear him to the Holy Well. Sick Land ! 
 
 Look up ! the proof is round you written large ! 
 
 Your Faith is in the balance wanting found. 
 
 Your shipless seas confess it ; bridgeless streams ; 
 
 Your wasted wealth of ore, and moor, and bay ! 
 
 Beneath the Upas shade of Faith depraved 
 
 All things lie dead — wealth, comfort, freedom, power — 
 
 All that great Nations boast ! " " Such things," I 
 
 answered, 
 " The Gentiles seek ; and you new tests have found ; 
 * Ecclesiae stantis vel cadentis,' friend, 
 ' Blessed the rich : blessed whom all men praise ! ' 
 New Scriptures, these ; the Irish keep the old ! 
 Say, are there not diversities of gifts? 
 Are there not virtues — Industry is one — 
 Which reap on earth, whilst others sow for heaven ? 
 Faith, hope, and love, and purity, and patience, 
 Humility, and self- forgetfuln ess, — 
 These too are virtues ; yet they rear not States. 
 What then? Of many Nations earth is made ; 
 Each hath its function ; each its part for others. 
 If all were hand, where then were ear or eye ? 
 If all were foot, where head? You rail, my friend. 
 Not at my country only, but your own. 
 The land that gave us birth our service claims. 
 The suffering land our love. Yet England, too. 
 
230 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 They love, and they the most, who flatter not. 
 
 A thousand years of nobleness she lived, 
 
 Whereof you rob her ! In this isle are men 
 
 By ancient lineage hers. Such men might say, — 
 
 * My England was entombed ere yours had birth.' 
 
 Dates she from Arkwright only? Rose the Nation 
 
 With Alfred, or those Tudor Kings who built 
 
 The Golden Gate of England's modern time. 
 
 But built it upon liberties annulled, 
 
 Old glories quenched, the old nobles dead or quelled — 
 
 Ay, wrecks more sad? " His host, I could not use 
 
 Words rough as his, albeit to shield a land 
 
 For every shaft a targe ; so changed the theme 
 
 To her he knew — thence loved. 
 
 He loved his country ; 
 An older man than he for things less great 
 Had loved that land. Yet who could gaze, unmoved, 
 From Windsor's terraced heights o'er those broad 
 
 meads, 
 Lit by the pomp of silver- winding Thames 
 Dropping past templed grove, and hall, and farm, 
 Toward the great City ? Who, unthrilled, could mark 
 Her Minsters, towering far away, with heads 
 That stay the sunset of old times ; or them, 
 Oxford and Cambridge, England's anchors twain. 
 That to her moorings hold her? Fresh from these, 
 Who, who could tread, O Wye, thy watery vale 
 Where Tintern reigns in ruin; who could rest 
 Where Bolton finds in Wharf a warbling choir, 
 Or where the sea-wind fans thy brow discrowned, 
 
THE SISTERS 231 
 
 Furness, nor love and wonder? Who, untouched, 
 When evening creeps from Scawfell toward Black 
 
 Combe, 
 Could wander by thy darkly gleaming lakes, 
 Embayed 'mid sylvan garniture and isles 
 From saint or anchoret named, within the embrace 
 Of rural mountains green, or sound, scent, touch. 
 Of kine-besprinkled, soft, partitioned vales, 
 Almost domestic? Shadow-haunted land! 
 By Southey's lake Saint Herbert holds his own! 
 The knightly armour, now, by Yew-dale's crag 
 Rings loud no longer; Grasmere's reddening glass 
 Reflects no more the onrushing clan; yet, still, 
 Thy Saxon Kings, and ever-virgin Queens, 
 Possess thee with a quiet pathos; still. 
 Like tarnished path forlorn of moon that sets 
 Over wide-watered moor and marsh, thy Past 
 A spiritual sceptre, though deposed, extends 
 From sea to sea — from century-worn St. Bees 
 To Cuthbert's tomb under those eastern towers 
 On Durham's bowery steep! 
 
 He loved his country; 
 That love I honoured. Great and strong he called her ; 
 But well I knew that had her greatness waned. 
 His love had waxed. 
 
 As thus we talked, the sun 
 Launched through the hurrying clouds a rainy beam 
 That smote the hills. My guest exclaimed, — "Come 
 
 forth ; 
 We waste the day ! Yon ridge my fancy takes; 
 
232 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Climb we its crest 1 " The wolf-hound at our feet, 
 Our drift divining, bounded sudden on us, 
 In rapture of prospective gratitude. 
 
 We passed the offending gate; a plank for bridge, 
 We passed the offending stream, which dashed its spray 
 Contemptuous on us, proud of liberty. 
 I laughed: "Our passionate Ireland is the stream; 
 Seven hundred years at will it mocks or chides; 
 You have not made it turn your English mill ! " 
 We scaled the hills; we pushed through miles of trees. 
 Which, sire and son, had held their own since first 
 The tall elk trod their ways. Lightning and storm 
 Had left large wrecks; election wars, not less, 
 Or hospitalities as fierce, when home 
 A thousand chiefless clansmen dragged the bride. 
 Or danced around a cradle, — ah, brave hearts! 
 Loyal, where cause for loyalty was scant! 
 Vast were those woods and fair; rock, oak, and yew. 
 Grey, green, and black, in varying measures striking 
 That three-stringed lyre which charms not ear but 
 
 eye. 
 Long climbing, from the woodland we emerged, 
 And paced a rocky neck of pale green pasture. 
 The limit of two counties. Full in face 
 Rushed, ocean-scented, the harmonic wind; 
 Round us the sheep-bells chimed; a shower, late past. 
 With jewelry had hung the blackberry bush. 
 And gorse-brake half in gold. On either side. 
 Thin-skinned, ascetic, slippery, the descent 
 
THE SISTERS 233 
 
 Down slanted toward the creeping mists. Our goal 
 
 We reached at last — a broad and rocky mass 
 
 Forth leaning, lordly, unto lands remote,— 
 
 The lion's head of all those feebler hills 
 
 That, cowering, slunk behind it. Far around, 
 
 Low down, subjected, stretched the sea-like waste 
 
 Shade-swept, unbounded, like infinity. 
 
 An hour before his time the sun had dropped 
 
 Behind a mountain-wall of barrier cloud 
 
 Wide as the world; but five great beams converged 
 
 Toward the invisible seat of his eclipse; 
 
 And over many a river, bay, and mere 
 
 Lay the dull red of ante-dated eve. 
 
 That summit was a churchyard. Cross-engraven, 
 Thronged the close tomb-stones. Each one prayed 
 
 for -peace ; 
 And some were raised by men, whose heads were 
 
 white 
 Ere selfless toil had won the hoarded coins 
 That honoured thus a parent. In the midst, 
 A tomb-like chapel, thirty feet by ten, 
 Stood monumental, with stone roof and walls 
 The wrestling centuries slid from. Nigh we sat. 
 While, by the polished angle split, the wind 
 Hissed like a forked serpent. Silent long 
 My friend remained; his sallies all had ceased, — 
 A man of tender nerve though stubborn thought. 
 The scene weighed on him like a Prophet's scroll 
 Troubling some unjust City. Far and near 
 
234 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 He scanned the desolate region, and at last 
 Prayed me the hieroglyphic to expound. 
 " Yon tower, which blurs the lonely lake far off, 
 What is it? " And I answered, — '* Know you not? 
 He built it, he, that Norman horsed and mailed. 
 Who, strong in Henry's might and Adrian's bull, 
 Rent from the Gaelic monarch half his realm; — 
 The rest came later, dowry of the bride." 
 
 Once more he mused; then, westward pointing, 
 spake : 
 "Yon lovely hills, yet low, with Phidian line, 
 That melt into the horizon: — on their curve 
 A ruined castle stands; the sky glares through it, 
 Red, like a conflagration? ' I replied: 
 "Four hundred years the Norman held his own; 
 He spake the people's language; they, in turn, 
 His war-cry had resounded far and wide; 
 Their history he had grown, impersonate. 
 The land rejoiced in him, and of his greatness 
 Uplifted, glorying, on a neck high held, 
 The beautiful burden, as the wild stag lifts 
 O'er rocky Tore his antlers ! Would you more? 
 The Desmond was unloved beside the Thames; 
 The right of the great Palatine was trampled; 
 His Faith by law proscribed. O'er tombs defaced. 
 In old Askeaton's Abbey, of his sires. 
 He vowed unwilling war. Long years the realm 
 Reeled like a drunken man. Behold the end ! 
 Von wreck speaks all ! " 
 
THE SISTERS 235 
 
 Thus question after question 
 Dragged, maimed and mangled, dragged reluctant 
 
 forth, 
 Time's dread confession! Crime replied to crime; 
 Whom Tudor planted Cromwell rooted out; 
 For Charles they fought; — to fight for Kings, their 
 
 spoilers, 
 The rebel named rebellion ! William next ! 
 Once more the Nobles were down hurled; once more 
 Nobility as in commission placed 
 By God among the lowly. Loyalty 
 To native Princes, or to Norman chiefs, 
 Their lawless conquerors, or to British Kings, 
 Or her, the Mother Church that ne'er betrayed, 
 Had met the same reward. The legend spake 
 Words few but plain, grim rubric traced in blood ; 
 While, like a Fury fleeting through the air, 
 History from all the octaves of her lyre 
 Struck but one note ! What rifted tower and keep 
 Witnessed of tyrannous and relentless wars, — 
 That, shipless gulfs, that, bridgeless streams and 
 
 moors 
 Black as if lightning-scarred or curst of God, 
 Proclaimed of laws blacker than brand or blight — 
 Those Penal Laws. The tale was none of mine; 
 Stone railed at stone; grey ruins dumbly frowned 
 Defiance, and the ruin-handled blast 
 Scattered the fragments of Cassandra's curse 
 From the far mountains to the tombs close by, 
 Which muttered treason. 
 
236 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 That sad scene to me 
 Had lost by use its pathos, as the scent, 
 Which thrills us while we pass the garden, palls 
 On one within it tarrying. To my friend 
 It spake its natural language; and, as he 
 Who, hard through habit, reads with voice unmoved 
 A ballad that once touched him, if perchance 
 Some listener weeps, partakes that listener's trouble, - 
 Even so the stranger's sorrow struck on mine, 
 And I believed the things which I beheld, 
 There sitting silent. When at last he spake 
 The spirit of the man in part was changed; 
 The things but heard of he had seen; the truths, 
 Coldly conceded, now he realised; 
 Justice, at last, with terrible recoil, ' 
 
 Leaped up full-armed, a strong man after sleep, 
 And dashed itself against the wrong ! I answered : 
 " Once more you speak the words you spake this morn,— 
 'Look up, the proof is round you, written large: ' 
 But in an altered sense." 
 
 I spake, and left him; 
 Left him to seek a tomb, which three long years 
 Holds one I honoured. Half an hour went by; 
 Then he rejoined me. With a knitted brow, 
 And clear vindictiveness of speech, like him 
 Who, loving, hates the sin of whom he loves, 
 He spake against the men who, having won 
 By right or wrong the mastery of this isle 
 (For in our annals he was versed, nor ran 
 
THE SISTERS 237 
 
 In custom's blinkers save on modern roads) 
 
 Could make of it, seven hundred years gone by, 
 
 No more than this ! Then I : " No country loved 
 
 they: 
 Her least, the imperial realm! 'Tis late to mourn; 
 Let past be past." ''The Past," he said, " is present; 
 And o'er the Future stretches far a hand 
 Shadowy and minatory." "Come what may," 
 I said, "no suffering can to us be new; 
 No shadow fail to dew some soul with grace. 
 The history of a Soul holds in it more 
 Than doth a Nation's! In its every chance 
 Eternity lies hid; from every step 
 Branch forth two paths piercing infinity. 
 These things look noblest from their spiritual side. 
 A statesman, on the secular side you see them. 
 And doubt a future based on such a past. 
 'Tis true, with wrong dies not the effect of wrong, 
 Or sense thereof; 'tis true, stern Power with time 
 Changes its modes, not instinct; true it is, 
 That hollow peace is war that wears a mask; 
 Yet, let us quell to-day unquiet thoughts. 
 She rests who lies in yonder tomb; sore pains 
 She suffered; yet within her there was peace; 
 In God's high Will she rests, and why not we? " 
 
 Thus we conversed till twilight, thickening, crept. 
 Compassionate, o'er a scene to which, we said, 
 Twilight seemed native, day a garish vest 
 Worn by a slave. Returning, oft my friend 
 
238 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Cast loose in wrath the arch-rebel, Truth; I answered 
 "She rests, and why not we? O suffering land! 
 Thee, too, God shields; and only for this cause 
 Can they that love thee sleep." — 
 Holy were all as she, the wrongs long past 
 Would rack our age no longer; for that cause, 
 The blinder they who mock her country's Faith. 
 Thousands are like her! Ireland's undergrowths — 
 Her hope is there, and not in cloud or sunshine 
 That beat her mountain-tops. The maiden's tale 
 He sought with instance. 'Twas not marvellous, 
 I told him; yet, to calm his thoughts perturbed, 
 Thus, while the broad moon o'er the lonely moor 
 Rose, blanching as she soared, till pools, at first 
 With trembling light o'erlaid, gave back her face, 
 And all the woodland waves, as eve advanced. 
 Shone bright o'er sombre hollows, I recounted 
 The fragments of a noteless Irish life. 
 Not strange esteemed among us. Such a theme 
 I sought not. Ill it were to forge for friend 
 A providence, or snare him, though to Truth. 
 Yet I was pleased he sought that tale. 'Twas sad; 
 But in its dusky glass — and this I hid not — 
 Shadowed a phantom image of my country, 
 Vanquished yet victor, in her weal and woe. 
 
 THE TALE 
 
 The father in the prime of manhood died; 
 The mother followed soon; their children twain, 
 Margaret Mac Carthy, and her sister Mary, 
 
THE SISTERS 239 
 
 The eldest scarcely ten years old, survived 
 To spread cold hands upon a close-sealed grave, 
 And cry to those who answered not. The man, 
 Who, in that narrow spot to them the world, 
 Stood up and seemed as God; that gentler one, 
 Who overhung like Heaven their earliest thought. 
 And in the bosom of whose sleepless love 
 Re-born they seemed each morning, — both were 
 
 dead. 
 In grief's bewilderment the orphans stood, 
 Like one by fraud betrayed; nor moon, nor sun, 
 Nor trees, nor grass, nor herds, nor hills appeared 
 To them what they had been. In saddened eyes. 
 Frightened yet dull, in voice subdued, and feet 
 That moved as though they feared to wake the dead, 
 Men saw that nowhere loneliness more lives 
 Than in the breasts of children. Time went by; 
 The farm was lost; and to her own small home 
 Their father's mother led them. 'Twas not far; 
 They could behold the orchard they had loved; 
 Behind the hedge could hear the robin sing, 
 And the bees murmur. Slowly, as the trance 
 Of grief dissolved, the present lived once more; 
 The past became a dream ! 
 
 I see them still ! 
 Softly the beauty-making years on went. 
 And each one, as he passed our planet's verge, 
 Looked back, and left a gift. A darker shade 
 Dropped on the deepening hair; a brighter gleam 
 Forth flashed from sea-blue eyes with darkness fringed. 
 
240 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Like, each to each, their stature growing kept 
 
 Unchanged gradation. To her grandmother 
 
 A quick eye and a serviceable hand 
 
 Endeared the elder most; she kept the house; 
 
 Hers was the rosier cheek, the livelier mind, 
 
 The smile of readier cheer. In Mary lived 
 
 A visionary and pathetic grace, 
 
 Through all her form diffused, from those small feet 
 
 Up to that beauteous-shaped and netted head, 
 
 Which, from the slender shoulders and slight bust, 
 
 Rose like a queen's. Alone, not solitary. 
 
 Full often half an autumn day she sat 
 
 On the high grass-banks, foot with foot enclasped, 
 
 Now twisting osiers, watching cloud-shades now. 
 
 Or rushing vapours through whose chasms there shone, 
 
 Far off, an alien race of clouds, like Alps 
 
 O'er Courmayeur white-gleaming, and like them 
 
 To stillness frozen. Well that orphan knew them. 
 
 Those marvellous clouds that roof our Irish wastes; 
 
 Spring's lightsome veil outblown, sad Autumn's bier, 
 
 And Winter's pillar of electric light 
 
 Slanted from heaven. A spirit-world, so seemed it, 
 
 In them was imaged forth to her. 
 
 With us 
 The childish heart betroths itself full oft 
 In vehement friendship. Mary's was of these; 
 And thus her fancy found that counterweight 
 Which kept her feet on earth. With her there walked 
 Two years a little maiden of the place, 
 Her comrade, as men called her. Eve by eve, 
 
THE SISTERS 241 
 
 Homeward from school we saw them as they passed, 
 
 One arm of each about the other's neck, 
 
 Above both heads a single cloak. She died. 
 
 To Mary leaving what she valued most, 
 
 A rosary strung with beads from Olivet. 
 
 Daily did Mary count those beads; from each 
 
 The picture of some Christian Truth ascending. 
 
 Till all the radiant Mysteries shone on high 
 
 Like constellations, and man's gloomy life 
 
 For her to music rolled on poles of love 
 
 Through realms of glory. Hope makes Love immortal ! 
 
 That friend she ne'er forgot. In later years 
 
 Working with other maidens equal-aged, 
 
 (A lady of the land instructed them) 
 
 In circle on the grass, not them she saw. 
 
 Heard not the song they sang; alone she sat. 
 
 And heard, 'mid sighing pines and murmuring streams. 
 
 The voice of the departed. 
 
 Smoothly flowed. 
 Till Margaret had attained her eighteenth year. 
 The tenor of their lives; and they became. 
 Those sisters twain, a name in all the vale 
 For beauty, kindness, truth, for modest grace. 
 And all that makes that fairest flower of all 
 Earth bears, heaven fosters — peasant nobleness : — 
 For industry the elder. Mary failed 
 In this, a dreamer; indolence her fault. 
 And self-indulgence, — not that coarser sort 
 Which seeks delight, but that which shuns annoy. 
 And yet she did her best. The dull red morn 
 
242 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Shone, beamless, through the wintry hedge while 
 
 passed 
 That pair with panniers, or, on whitest brows 
 The balanced milk-pails. Margaret ruled serene 
 A wire-fenced empire smiling through soft glooms, — 
 The pure, health-breathing dairy. Softer hand 
 Than Mary's ne'er let loose the wool; no eye 
 Finer pursued the on-flowing line; her wheel 
 Murmured complacent joy, like kitten pleased; 
 With us such days abide not. 
 
 Sudden fell 
 Famine, the Terror never absent long, 
 Upon our land. It shrank — the daily dole; 
 The oatmeal trickled from a tighter grasp; 
 Hunger grew wild through panic; infant cries 
 Maddened at times the gentle into wrong; 
 Death's gentleness more oft for death made way; 
 And, like a lamb that openeth not its mouth. 
 The sacrificial People, fillet-bound. 
 Stood up to die. Amid inviolate herds 
 Not few the sacraments of death received, — 
 Then waited God's decree. These things are known; 
 Strangers have witnessed to them; strangers writ 
 The epitaph again and yet again; 
 The nettles and the weeds by the way-side 
 Men ate; from sharpening features and sunk eyes 
 Hunger glared forth, a wolf more lean each hour; 
 Children seemed pigmies shrivelled to sudden age; 
 And the deserted babe, too weak to wail, 
 But shook if hands, pitying or curious, raised 
 
THE SISTERS 243 
 
 The rag across him thrown. In England, alms 
 From many a private hearth were largely sent, 
 As ofttimes they have been. 'Twas vain. The land 
 Wept, while her sons sank back into her graves 
 Like drowners 'mid still seas. Who could, escaped; 
 And, on a ghost-thronged deck, amid such cries 
 As from the battle-field ascend at night, 
 When stumbling widows grope o'er heaps of slain, — 
 Amid such cries stood Mary, when the ship 
 Its cable slipped, and, on the populous quays 
 Grating, without a wind, on the slow tide. 
 Dropped downward to the main. 
 
 For western shores 
 Those emigrants were bound. At Liverpool, 
 Fanned by the ocean breeze the smouldering fire 
 Of fever burst into a sudden flame; 
 The stricken there were left; among them Mary. 
 How long she knew not, in an hospital, 
 A Babel of confused distress, she lay. 
 Dinned with delirious strife. But o'er her brow 
 God shook the dew of dreams wherein she trod 
 The shadowed wood-walks of old days once more. 
 And dabbled in old streams. Ere long, still weak, 
 Abroad she roamed, a basket on her arm. 
 With violets heaped. The watchman of the city 
 Laid his strong hand upon her drooping head, 
 Banning the impostor. 'Twas her rags, she thought, 
 Incensed him, and in meekness moved she on. 
 When one, with lubrique smile, toyed with her flowers, 
 And spake of violet eyes and easier life. 
 
244 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 She understood not, but misliked, and passed. 
 In Liverpool an aged priest she found, 
 A kinsman of her mother's. Much to her 
 Of emigrants he spake, and of their trials — 
 Old ties annulled — and 'mid temptations strange 
 Lacking full oft the Bread of Life. She wept; 
 Before the tabernacle's lamp she prayed 
 Freshly-absolved and heavenliest, with a prayer 
 That showered God's blessing o'er the wanderers 
 
 down ; 
 But dead was her desire to cross the main. 
 Her strength restored, beyond the city-bound 
 With others of her nation she abode. 
 Amid the gardens labouring. A rough clan 
 Those outcasts seemed; not like their race at home; 
 Nor chapel theirs, nor school. Their strength was 
 
 prized; 
 Themselves were so esteemed as that sad tribe 
 Beside the Babylonian streams that wept. 
 By those that loved not Sion. 
 
 Weeks grew months; 
 And, with the strength to suffer, sorrow came. 
 Hard by their nomad camp, a youth there lived 
 Of wealthier sort, who looked upon this maid. 
 Her country was his own; he loved it not; 
 Had rooted quickly in the stranger's land; 
 And, versatile, cordial, specious, seeming-frank, 
 Contracting for himself a separate peace, 
 Had prospered, but had prospered in such sort 
 As they that starve within. Her confidence 
 
THE SISTERS 245 
 
 He gained. To love unworthy, still he loved her; 
 
 Loved with the love of an unloving heart, — 
 
 That love which either is in shallows lost. 
 
 Or in its black depth breeds the poison weed. 
 
 She knew him not; how could she? He himself 
 
 Knew scantly. Near her, what was best within him 
 
 Her golden smile sunned forth; but, dark and cold. 
 
 Like a benighted hemisphere, abode 
 
 A moiety of his being, which she saw not. 
 
 His was a superficial nature, vain, 
 
 And hard, to good impressions sensitive. 
 
 And most admiring virtues least his own; 
 
 A mirror that took in a seeming world, 
 
 And yet remained blank surface. He was crafty. 
 
 Followed the plough with diplomatic heart; 
 
 His acts were still like the knight's move at chess. 
 
 Each a surprise; not less, to nature's self 
 
 Who heard him still referred them. "What!" men 
 
 said, — 
 "Marry the portionless!" Strange are fortune's 
 
 freaks ! 
 The wedding-day was fixed, the ring brought home, 
 When from a distant uncle tidings came : 
 His latest son was dead. "Take thou my farm. 
 And share my house " — so spake the stern old man — 
 "And wed the wife whom I for thee have found." 
 He showed the maid that letter. Slowly the weeds 
 Made way adown the thick and stifled stream. 
 And others followed; slowly sailed the cloud 
 Through the dull sky, and others followed slowly; 
 
246 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 At last he spake. Low were his words and thin, 
 Many, but scarcely heard. He asked — her counsel ! 
 Her cheek one moment burned. Death-cold, once 
 
 more, 
 A little while she sat; then rose and said: 
 "You would be free; I free you; go in peace." 
 'Twas the good angel in his heart that loved her; 
 'Twas not the man himself ! He wept, but went. 
 The woman of the house that night was sure 
 The girl had loved him not. She thought not so, 
 When, four months past, she marked her mouth, aside. 
 Tremble, his name but uttered. 
 
 Sharp the wrong ! 
 Yet they on Life's bewildered book would force 
 A partial gloss it bears not, who assume 
 The injured wholly free from blame. The world 
 Is not a board in squares of black and white, 
 Or else the judgment-executing tongue 
 Would lack probation. Wronged men are not angels ; 
 Wrong's chiefest sin is this — it genders wrong; 
 So stands the offender in his own esteem 
 Exculpate, while the feebly- judging starve 
 The just cause, babbling "mutual was the offence!" 
 The man was weak; not wholly vile. 'Twas well, 
 Doubtless, to free him; yet in after years. 
 When early blight had struck his radiant head. 
 The girl bewailed the pride that left, thus tempted, 
 The man she loved; arraigned the wrath that left him 
 Almost without farewell. His letter, too, 
 Unopened she returned. 'Twas strange ! so sweet — 
 
THE SISTERS 247 
 
 Not less there lived within her, down, far down, 
 A fire-spring seldom wakened ! When a child, 
 At times, by some strange jealousy disturbed. 
 From her still dream she flashed in passion quelled 
 Ere from her staider sister's large blue eyes 
 The astonishment had passed. Such moods remained, 
 Though rare — that wrath of tender hearts, which 
 
 scorns 
 Revenge, which scarcely utters its complaint. 
 And yet forgives but slowly. 
 
 In those days. 
 Within the maiden's bosom, there arose 
 Sea-longings, and desire to sail away 
 She knew not whither; and her arms she spread. 
 Weeping, to winds and waves, and shores unknown. 
 Lighted by other skies; and inly thus 
 She reasoned, self-deceived. " What keeps thee 
 
 here? 
 'Twas for a farther bourne thou bad'st farewell 
 To those at home, and here thou art as one 
 That hangs between two callings." In her heart. 
 Tempests, low-toned, to ocean-tempests yearned. 
 And ever, when she marked the shipmast forest 
 That on the smoky river swayed far off. 
 Her wish became a craving. Soon, once more. 
 Alone, 'mid hundreds on a rain-washed deck 
 She stood, and saw the billows heave around 
 And all the passions of that headlong world. 
 Dark-visaged ocean frowned with hoary brows 
 Against dark skies; huge, lumbering water-weights 
 
248 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Went shouldering through the abysses; streaming 
 
 clouds 
 Ran on the lower levels of the wind; 
 And, in the universe of things, she seemed 
 An atom, random blown. Full many a morn 
 Rose red through mists, like babe that weeps to rise; 
 Full many an evening died from wave to wave; 
 Then gradual peace possessed her. Love may wound, 
 But 'tis self-love that wound exasperates; 
 A noble nature casts out bitterness. 
 And o'er the scar, like pine-tree incorrupt, 
 Weeps healing gums. Heart-whole she gazed at last 
 On the great city, chiefest of that realm 
 Which wears the Future's glory. Landed, soon 
 Back to old duties with a mightier zest 
 Her heart, its weakening sadness passed, returned. 
 Kindness made service easier, and the tasks. 
 At first distasteful, smiled on her ere long. 
 There she was loved once more; there all went well; 
 And there in peace she might have lived and died. 
 Yet in that region she abode not long. 
 In part, a wayward instinct drave her forth; 
 In part, a will that from the accomplished end, 
 Unstable, swerved; in part, a hope forlorn. 
 She sought a site, their sojourn who had left 
 Long since her village. There old names, old voices. 
 Faces unknown, yet recognised, thronged round her 
 In unconsummate union (hearts still like. 
 Yet all beside so different), not like Souls 
 Re-met in heaven — more like those Shades antique 
 
THE SISTERS 249 
 
 That, 'mid the empurpled fields, of other airs 
 
 Mindful, in silence trod the lordly land, 
 
 Or flocked around the latest guest of Death 
 
 With question sad of home. Imperfect ties 
 
 Rub severance into soreness. Mary passed, 
 
 Thus urged, ere long to lonelier climes; she tracked, 
 
 Companioned sometiriies, sometimes without friend, 
 
 The boundless prairie, sailed the sea-like lake, 
 
 Descended the broad river as it rushed 
 
 Through immemorial forests; lastly stood 
 
 Sole, 'mid that city by the southern sea. 
 
 There sickness fell upon her; there her hand 
 Dropt, heavier daily, on her task half done; 
 Her feet wore chains unseen. The end, she thought, 
 Was coming. Ofttimes, in her happier days. 
 She wished to die, and be with God; yet now, 
 Wearied by many griefs, to life she clung, 
 Upbraiding things foregone and inly sighing, — 
 "None loves to die." Sorrow, earth-born, in some 
 Breeds first the Earth-infection; in them works. 
 Like those pomegranate seeds that barred from light 
 For aye sad Ceres' child ! Alas ! how many. 
 The ill-honoured ecstasies of youth surceased, 
 Exchange its clear spring for the mire ! Hope sick. 
 How oft Faith dies ! How few are they in whom 
 Virgin but yields to Vestal; casual pureness 
 Merged in essential; childhood's matin dew 
 Fixed, ere exhaled, in the Soul's adamant! 
 Mary with these had part; to her help came — 
 That help the proud despise. One eve, it chanced. 
 
250 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Upon the vast and dusking quays she stood, 
 
 Alone and weeping. She that mom had sent 
 
 Her latest hoardings to her grandmother, 
 
 And half was sorry she had naught retained. 
 
 The warm rain wet her hair; she heard, within, 
 
 The silver ringing of its drops commingling 
 
 With that still mere beside her childhood's home. 
 
 And with the tawny sedge that girt it round, 
 
 And with its winter dogwood far away 
 
 Reddening the faint, still gleam. As thus she stood, 
 
 Upon her shoulder sank a hand. She turned; 
 
 It was a noble lady, clothed in black. 
 
 And veiled. That veil thrown back, she recognised 
 
 At once the luminous stillness and the calm 
 
 Ethereal which the sacred cloister breeds. 
 
 A voice, as pure and sweet as if from heaven, 
 
 Toned as friend speaks to friend, addressed her thus : 
 
 "You lack a home: our convent is hard by." 
 
 The lady, Spanish half, and Irish half. 
 No answer sought, but with compulsion soft 
 Drew her, magnetic, as the tree hard by 
 Draws the poor creeper on the ground diffused, 
 And lifts it into light. The child's cold hand 
 Lurked soon in hers; and in that home, which seemed 
 An isle of heaven, the meek lay-sister lived. 
 Ere long by healthier airs to strength restored, — 
 A rapturous life of Christian freedom masked 
 In what but servitude had been to one 
 Lacking vocation true. The Life Divine, 
 "Hidden with God," is hidden from the world, 
 
THE SISTERS 251 
 
 Lest Virtue should be dimmed by Virtue's praise. 
 
 Heroic Virtue least by men is prized. 
 
 The hero in the saint the crowd can honour, — 
 
 The saint, at best, forgive. To this world's ken, 
 
 Convents, of sanctity chief citadels — 
 
 Though sanctity in every place is found — 
 
 The snowy banners and bright oriflambs 
 
 Of that resplendent reahii by Counsels ruled, 
 
 Not Precept only, — spread in vain, despised, 
 
 Or for their earthly good alone revered. 
 
 Not for their claims celestial. Different far 
 
 The lesson Mary learned. The poor were fed. 
 
 The orphan nursed; around the sick man's couch, 
 
 Gentle as light, hovered the healing hand; 
 
 And beautiful seemed, on mountain-tops of truth. 
 
 The foot that brought good tidings ! Times of trial 
 
 Were changed to Sabbaths; and the rude, rough girl, 
 
 Waiting another service, found a home 
 
 Where that which years had marred returned once more, 
 
 Like infant flesh clothing the leprous limb. 
 
 Yet these things Mary found, were blossoms only; 
 
 The tree's deep root was secret. From the Vow, 
 
 Which bound the Will's infinitude to God, 
 
 Upwelled that peaceful strength whose fount was God; 
 
 From Him, behind His sacramental veil 
 
 In holy passion for long hours adored. 
 
 Came that great Love, which made the bonds of earth 
 
 Needless, thence irksome. Wondering, there she 
 
 learned 
 The creature was not for the creature made, 
 
252 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 But for the sole Creator; that His kingdom, 
 Glorious hereafter, lies around us here. 
 Its visible splendour painfully suppressing, 
 And waiting its transfigurance. Was it strange, 
 If, while those Brides of Christ around her moved, 
 Her heart sang hymns to God? Much had she 
 
 suffered; 
 Much of her suffering, gladly there she learned. 
 Came of her fault; and much had kindliest ends. 
 Not yet in her fulfilled. A light o'ershone her. 
 Which slays Illusion, — that white snake which slimes 
 The labyrinth of self-love's more tender ways. 
 Virtue's most specious mimic. She was loosed; 
 The actual by the seeming thraldom slain; 
 Her life was from within and from above; 
 And, as, when Winter dies and Spring new-born 
 Her whisper breathes o'er earth, the earlier flowers. 
 Unlike the wine-dark growths of Autumn dipped 
 In the year's sunset, rise in lightest hues — 
 An astral gleam, white, green, or delicate yellow 
 More light than colour, — so the maiden's thoughts 
 Flashed with a radiance that permitted scarce 
 Human affections tragic. Oft, she told me. 
 As faithless to old friends she blamed herself : — 
 One hand touched Calvary, one the Eternal Gates; 
 The present nothing seemed. The years passed on; 
 The honeymoon of this heart-bridal waned; 
 But nothing of its spousal truth was lost. 
 Nor of its serious joy. If failures came — 
 And much she marvelled at her slow advance, 
 
THE SISTERS 253 
 
 And for the first time, pierced by that stern grace 
 
 Wherein no sin looks trivial, feared; — what then? 
 
 Failures, that deepened humbleness, but sank 
 
 Foundations deeper for a loftier pile 
 
 Of solid virtue; transports, homeward summoned, 
 
 For more disinterested love made way. 
 
 More perfect made Obedience. 
 
 If a Soul, 
 Half-way to heaven, death past, once more to earth 
 Were sent, it could but feel as Mary felt, 
 When on the convent grates a letter smote, 
 Loud, harsh, with summons from the outward world. 
 Her sister, such its tidings, was a wife, 
 (That matron whom you praised : — ay, comely is she, 
 And good; laborious, kindly, faithful, true; 
 Yet Time has done Time's work, her spiritual beauty 
 Transposing gently to a lower key). 
 Her grandmother bereft, and weak through age. 
 Needed her tendance sorely. Would she come? 
 Alas ! what could she ? Duty stretched from far 
 An iron hand that stayed her mounting steps; 
 The little novices wept aloud, — " Abide ! " 
 Long on her neck the saintly sisterhood 
 Hung ere they blessed her; then she turned, and went. 
 
 And so once more she trod this rocky vale, 
 And scarcely older looked at twenty-six 
 Than at sixteen. Before so gentle, now 
 A humbler gentleness was o'er her thrown; 
 Nor rufHed was she ever, as of yore. 
 
254 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 With gusts of flying spleen : nor feared she now 
 Hindrance unlovely, or the word that jarred. 
 The sadness, hers at first, dispersed ere long, 
 And such strange sweetness came to her, men said 
 A mad dog would not bite her. Lowliest toils 
 Were by her hand ennobled; Labour's staff 
 Beneath it burst in blossom. In the garden, 
 'Mid earliest birds, and singing like a bird. 
 She moved, her grandmother asleep. She mixed 
 The reverence, due to years, with tenderness. 
 The infant's claim. 'Twas hers to bring the crutch, 
 • Nor mark the lameness; hers with question apt 
 To prompt, not task, the memory. Tales twice-told 
 Wearied not her, nor orders each with each 
 At odds, nor causeless blame. Wiles she had many 
 To anticipate harsh moods, lest one rash word 
 Might draw a cloud 'twixt helpless eld and heaven, 
 Blotting the Eternal Vision, felt not seen 
 By hearts in grace. With works of gay caprice, 
 Needless — yet prized — she made the spectre, Want, 
 Seem farther off. Thus love in narrow space 
 Built a great world. The grandmother preferred 
 To her, that dreamful girl of old, the woman 
 Who from the mystic precinct first had learned 
 Humanity, yet seemed a human creature 
 O'erruled by some angelic guest. At heart 
 Ever a nun, she ministered with looks 
 That healed the sick. The newly-widowed door 
 Its gloom remitted when she passed; stern foes 
 Downtrod their legend of old wrongs. To her 
 
THE SISTERS 255 
 
 Sacred were those that grieved; — those, tearless yet, 
 
 Sacred scarce less, because they smiled, nor knew 
 
 The ambushed fate before them. When a child, 
 
 Grey-haired companionship or solitude 
 
 Had pleased her more than childish mates; but, now. 
 
 All the long eves of summer in the porch 
 
 The children of her sister and the neighbours, 
 
 A spotless flock, sat round her. From her smiles 
 
 The sluggish mind caught light, the timid heart 
 
 Courage and strength. Unconscious thus, each day 
 
 Her soft and blithesome feet one letter traced 
 
 In God's great Book above. So passed her life; — 
 
 Sorrow had o'er it hung a gentle cloud; 
 
 But; like an autumn-mocking day in spring, 
 
 Dewy and dim yet ending in pure gold. 
 
 The sweets were sweeter for the rain, the growth 
 
 Stronger for shadow. 
 
 You have seen her tomb ! 
 Upon the young and beautiful it closed : 
 Her grandmother yet lingers ! What is Time? 
 Shut out the sun, and all the summer long 
 The fruit-tree stands as barren as the rock ; 
 May's offering March can bring us. Of the twain, 
 The younger, doubtless, in the eyes of God, 
 Had inly lived the longest. She had learned 
 From action much, from suffering more, far more, 
 For stern Experience is a sword whose point 
 Makes way for Truth. Her trials, great and little, 
 And trials ever keep proportion just 
 With high vocations and the spirit's growth, 
 
256 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Had done their work till all her inner being, 
 
 Freed from asperities, in the light of God 
 
 Shone like the feet of some old crucifix 
 
 Kissed into smoothness. Here I fain would end, 
 
 Leaving her harboured; but her stern, kind fates 
 
 Not thus forewent her. Like her life her death. 
 
 Not negative or neutral; great in pains. 
 
 In consolations greater. Many a week 
 
 Much ailed her; what the cause remained in doubt; 
 
 When certainty had come, she trembled not; 
 
 Fixed was her heart. Those pangs that shook her 
 
 frame. 
 Like tempests roaring round a mountain church, 
 Shook not that peace within her! She was thankful; 
 "More pain if such Thy Will, and patience more," — 
 This was her prayer; or, wiping from moist eyes 
 The trembling tear, she whispered, — " Give me, Lord, 
 On earth Thy cleansing fire that I may see 
 Sooner Thy Face, death past ! " 
 
 Alleviations, 
 Many and great, God granted her. Once more 
 Her sister was her sister ! Unlike fortunes 
 Had placed at angles those two lives that once 
 Lay side by side; and love, that could not die. 
 Had seemed to sleep. It woke; and, as from mist. 
 Once more shone out their childhood ! Laughed and 
 
 flashed 
 Once more the garden-beds whose bright accost 
 Had cheered them for their parents mourning. Tears 
 Remembered stayed the course of later tears; 
 
THE SISTERS 257 
 
 The prosperous from the unprosperous sister sought 
 Heart-peace; nor wealth nor care could part them 
 
 more; 
 And sometimes Margaret's children seemed to her 
 As children of another! Greetings sweet 
 Cheered her from distant regions. Once, it chanced, 
 The nuns a relic sent her, ne'er before 
 Seen in our vales, a fragment of that Cross 
 Whereon the world's Redeemer hung three hours: — 
 The neighbours entering knelt and wept, and smote 
 Their breasts; her hands she raised in prayer; and 
 
 straight 
 Such Love, such Reverence in her heart there rose. 
 Her anguish, like a fiend exorcised, fled; 
 And for an hour at peace she lay as one 
 Imparadised. A solace too was hers. 
 Known but to babes. Her body, not her mind, 
 Was racked; the pang to come she little feared, 
 Nor lengthened out morose the pang foregone; 
 Once o'er, to sleep she sank in thankful prayer. 
 
 A week ere Mary died all suffering left her; 
 And, from the realms of glory, beams, as though 
 Further restraint they brooked not, fell on her 
 Yet militant below, as there she lay 
 In monumental whiteness, spirit-lit. 
 The anthems of her convent charmed once more 
 Her dreams; and scents from woods where she had sat 
 In tears. Then spake she of her wandering days; — 
 Herself she scarcely seemed to see in them; 
 
258 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Plainly thus much I saw : When all went well, 
 Danger stood nigh; but, soon as sorrow came, 
 Within that darkness nearer by her side 
 Walked her good Angel. In that latest week, 
 Some treasures hidden ever near her heart 
 She showed me: faded flowers; her mother's hair; 
 Gold pieces that have raised our chapel's Cross; 
 A riband by her youthful comrade worn : — 
 Upon its cover some few words I found 
 There traced, when first beyond the western main 
 She heard the homeless cuckoo's cry well-known: 
 "When will my People to their land return?" 
 
 From the first hour her grandchild sank, once more 
 She that for years bed-ridden lay had risen, 
 And, autumn past, put forth a wintry strength. 
 Ministering. Her frame was stronger than her mind; 
 O'er that at times a dimness hung, like cloud 
 That creeps from pine to pine. Inly she missed 
 Her wonted place of homage lost; she mused 
 Sadly upon the solitary future; 
 But in her there abode a rock-like will. 
 And from her tearless service night or day 
 No man might push her. Seldom spake the woman; 
 She called her grandchild by her daughter's name, 
 Her daughter buried thirty years and more. 
 And once she said in wrath, — "Why toil they thus? 
 Nora is dead." She laboured till the end. 
 It came — that mortal close! 'Twas Christmas Eve; 
 Far, far away were heard the city bells; 
 The sufferer slept. At midnight I went forth; 
 
THE SISTERS 259 
 
 Along the ice-filmed road a dull gleam lay, 
 And a sepulchral wind in woods far off 
 Sang dirges deep. Upon her crutches bent, 
 The aged woman stood beside the door, 
 With that long gaze intense, which is an act. 
 Silently looking toward that hill of graves 
 We trod to-day; a sinking moon shone o'er it: 
 Then whispered she — the light of buried years 
 Edging once more her eyes — " Each Saturday, 
 Of those that in that churchyard sleep three Souls, 
 Their penance done, ascend, and are with God." 
 
 Thus as she spake a cry was heard within. 
 And many voices raised the Litany 
 For a departing Soul. Long time — too long — 
 Had seemed that dying ! Now the hour was come. 
 And change ineffable announced that Death 
 At last was standing on the floor. O hour. 
 When in brief space our life is lived again ! 
 Down cast the latest stake ! when fiends ascend. 
 Beckoning the phantoms of forgotten sins 
 Conscience to scare, or launching as from slings 
 Temptations new; while Angels hold before us 
 The Cross unshaken as the sun in heaven. 
 And whisper, — " Christ." O hour, when prayer is all ! 
 And they that clasp the hand are thrown apart 
 By the world's breadth from that they love ! The act, 
 Sin's dread bequest that makes an end of sinning. 
 Long lasted, while the heart-strings snapt, and all 
 The elements of the wondrous sensuous world 
 Slid from the fading sense, and those poor fingers. 
 
260 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 As the loose precipice of life down crumbled, 
 Plucked as at roots. Storm-winged, the hours rushed 
 
 by; 
 There lay she like some bark on midnight seas. 
 Now toiling through the windless vale, anon 
 Hurled on and up to meet the implacable blast 
 Upon the rolling ridge, when not a foot 
 Can tread the decks, and all the sobbing planks 
 Tremble o'erspent. The morning dawned at last. 
 Whitening the frosty pane; the lights removed, 
 (Save that tall candle in her hand sustained 
 By others) she descried it: "Ah! " she said, 
 "Thank God! another day! " Then, noting one 
 Who near her knelt, she said, — "The night is sped, 
 And you have had no sleep; alas! I thought 
 Ere midnight I should die." Her eyelids closed; 
 Into a sleep, as quiet as a babe's. 
 Gradual she sank; and, while the ascending sun 
 Shot 'gainst the western hill his earliest beam, 
 In sleep, without a sigh, her spirit passed. 
 
 I would you could have seen her face in death ! 
 I would you could have heard that last dread rite. 
 The mighty Mother's, o'er the stormy gulf 
 And all the moanings of the unknown abyss 
 Flinging victorious anthems, or the strength 
 Of piercing prayer: "Oh! ye, at least, my friends, 
 Have pity on me ! plead for me with God ! " 
 That Rite complete, the dark procession wound 
 Interminably through the fields and farms. 
 While, wailing like a midnight wind, the keen 
 
THE SISTERS 261 
 
 Expired o'er moor and heath. At eve we reached 
 The graveyard; slowly, as to-day, the sun 
 Behind a tomb-like bank of leaden cloud 
 Dropt while the coffin sank, and died away 
 The latest Miserere 
 
 More than once 
 I would have ceased; but he, my friend and guest, 
 Or touched or courteous, willed me to proceed. 
 Perhaps that tale the wild scene harmonised 
 By sympathy occult; perhaps it touched him, 
 Contrasting with his recent life — with England, 
 With Oxford, long his home; its ordered pomp; 
 Its intermingled groves, and fields, and spires, 
 Its bridges spanning waters calm and clear; 
 The frequentation of its courts; its chimes; 
 Its sunset towers, and strangely youthful gardens 
 That breathe the ardours of the budding year 
 On the hoar breadth of grove-like cloisters old, 
 Chapels, and libraries, and statued halls, 
 England's still saintly City! Time has there 
 A stone tradition built like that all round 
 Woven by the inviolate hedges, where the bird 
 Her nest has made and warbled to her young, 
 May after May secure, since the third Edward 
 Held his last tournament, and Chaucer sang 
 To Blanche and to Philippa lays of love — 
 Not like lernian records. Sad we rose, 
 That tale complete; and, after silence long. 
 As homeward through the braided forest-skirt 
 
262 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 We trod the moonlight-spotted rocks, my friend 
 Resumed, with pregnant matter, oft more just 
 In thought than application; but his voice 
 Was softer than it used to be. At last, 
 After our home attained, we turned, and, lo ! 
 With festal fires the hills were lit ! Thine eve. 
 Saint John, had come once more; and for thy sake, 
 As though but yesterday thy crown were won, 
 Amid their ruinous realm uncomforted 
 The Irish people triumphed. Gloomy lay 
 The intermediate space; thence brightlier burned 
 The circling fires beyond it. "Lo! " said I, 
 "Man's life as viewed by Ireland's sons; a vale 
 With many a pitfall thronged, and shade, and briar. 
 Yet over-blown by angel-haunted airs. 
 And by the Light Eternal girdled round." 
 
 Brief supper past, within the porch we sat. 
 As fire by fire burned low. We spake; were mute; 
 Resumed; but our discourse was gently toned. 
 Touched by a spirit from that wind-beaten grave. 
 Which breathed among its pauses, as of old 
 That converse Bede records, when by the sea, 
 'Twixt Tyne and Wear, facing toward Lindisfarne, 
 Saxon Ceolfrid and his Irish guest. 
 Evangelist from old lona's isle, 
 'Mid the half Pagan land in cloisters dim 
 Discussed the Tonsure, and the Paschal time. 
 Sole themes whereon, in sacred doctrine one. 
 They differed; but discussed them in such sort 
 That mutual reverence deeper grew. We heard 
 
THE SISTERS 263 
 
 The bridgeless brook that sang far off, and sang 
 
 Alone; for not among us builds that bird 
 
 Which changes light to music, haply ill-pleased 
 
 That Ireland bears not yet, in song's domain, 
 
 To Spenser worthy fruit. Our beds at last. 
 
 Wearied, yet glad, we sought. Ere long the wind. 
 
 Gathering its manifold voices and the might 
 
 Of all its wills in valleys far, and rolled 
 
 From wood to wood o'er ridge and ravine, woke 
 
 Those Spectres which o'erhang my sleep in storm, — 
 
 A hundred hills to me by sound well known. 
 
 That stand dark clustered in the night, and bend 
 
 With rainy skirt o'er lake and prone morass, 
 
 Or by sea-bays lean out procumbent brows, 
 
 Waiting the rising sun. 
 
 At morn we met 
 Once more, my friend and I. The evening's glow 
 Had from his feelings passed; in their old channels 
 They flowed, scarce tinged. But still his thoughts 
 
 retained 
 The trace of late impressions quaintly linked 
 With kindred thought-notes earlier. Half his mind 
 Scholastic was; his fancy deep; the age 
 Alone had stamped him modern. Much he spake 
 Of England wise and wealthy — now no more. 
 He said, "a haughty nation proud in arms," 
 Nor, as in Saxon times, a crowned child 
 Propped 'gainst the Church's knee; but ocean's 
 
 Queen, 
 Spanning the world with golden zone twin-clasped 
 
264 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 By Commerce and by Freedom ! But no less 
 Of pride and suffering spake he, and that frown 
 Sun-pressed on brows once pure. Of Ireland next: — 
 How strange a race, more apt to fly than walk ; 
 Soaring yet slight; missing the good things round 
 
 them, 
 Yet ever out of ashes raking gems; 
 In instincts loyal, yet respecting law 
 Far less than usage; changeful, yet unchanged! 
 Timid, yet enterprising; frank, yet secret; 
 Untruthful oft in speech, yet living truth, 
 And Truth in things divine to life preferring: — 
 Scarce men; yet possible angels ! " ' Isle of Saints ! ' 
 Such doubtless was your land — again it might be — 
 Strong, prosperous, manly never ! ye are Greeks 
 In intellect, and Hebrews in the soul: 
 The solid Roman heart, the corporate strength, 
 Is England's dower!" "Unequally, if so," 
 I said, " in your esteem the Isles are matched. 
 They live in distant ages, alien climes; 
 Native they are to diverse elements. 
 Our swan walks awkwardly upon dry land; 
 Your boasted strength in spiritual needs so helps you 
 As armour helps the knight who swims a flood." 
 He laughed. "At least no siren streams for us, 
 Nor holy wells! We love 'the fat of the land,' 
 Meads such as Rubens painted ! Strange our fates ! 
 Our feast is still the feast of fox and stork. 
 The platter broad, and amphora long-necked; — 
 111 sorted yoke -mates truly. Strength, meanwhile, 
 
THE SISTERS 265 
 
 Lords it o'er weakness ! " " Never yet," I answered, 
 "Was husband vassal to an intricate wife 
 But roared he ruled her; " ere his smile had ceased. 
 Continuing thus: "Ay! strength o'er weakness 
 
 rules! 
 Strength hath in this no choice. But what is Strength ? 
 Two Strengths there are. Club-lifting Hercules, 
 A mountained mass of gnarled and knotted sinews, 
 How shows he near the intense, Phoebean Might 
 That, godlike, spurns the ostent of thews o'ergrown; 
 That sees far off the victory fixed and sure. 
 And, without effort, wings the divine death 
 Like light, into the Python's heart? My friend, 
 Justice is strength; union on justice built; 
 Good-will is strength — kind words — silence — that 
 
 truth 
 Which hurls no random charge. Your scribes long 
 
 time 
 Blow on our island like a scythed wind; 
 The good they see not, nor the cause of ill; 
 They tear the bandage from the wound half-healed. 
 Is not such onset weakness? Were it better. 
 Tell me, free-trader staunch, for sister Nations 
 To make exchange for aye of scorn for scorn. 
 Or blend the nobler powers and aims of each, 
 Diverse, and for that cause correlative. 
 True commerce, noblest, holiest, frankest, best, 
 And breed at last some destiny to God 
 Glorious, and kind to man? — If torn apart 
 One must her empire lose, and one her all." 
 
266 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Thus as we spake, the hall clock vast and old, 
 A waif from Spain's Armada, chimed eleven; 
 And from the stables drew a long-haired boy 
 Who led a horse as shaggy as a dog, 
 A splenetic child of thistles and hill blast, 
 Rock-ribbed, and rich in craft of every race 
 From weasel to the beast that feigns to die. 
 Mounting — alas, that friends should ever part!^ — 
 My guest bade thus adieu: " For good or ill 
 Our lands are linked. " And I rejoined, " For which ? 
 This shall you answer, when, your pledge fulfilled, 
 Before the swallow you return, and meet 
 The unblown Spring in our barbaric vale." 
 
LYRICS, SONNETS, AND EPIGRAMS 
 
Not willingly the Muses sing of love ; 
 
 But, ere their Songs disperse o'er man's domain, 
 Through the dark chambers of the poet's brain 
 
 They pass, and passing take the stamp thereof; 
 
 And, as the wind that sweeps the linden grove 
 Wafts far its odour, so that sphere-born Strain 
 Learns from its mortal mould to mourn and plain, 
 
 Though the strong Muses sit like Gods above. 
 
 True poetry is doubly-dowered — a brightness. 
 
 Lit from above, yet fuelled from below ; 
 
 A moon that rolls through heaven in vestal whiteness, 
 Yet, earthward stooping, wears an earthly glow. 
 
 Mysteries the Muse would hide, the Bards reveal — 
 They love to wound ; her mission is to heal. 
 
SONG 
 
 Sing the old song, amid the sounds dispersing 
 That burden treasured in your hearts too long; 
 Sing it, with voice low-breathed, but never name 
 her: 
 She will not hear you, in her turrets nursing 
 
 High thoughts, too high to mate with mortal song — 
 Bend o'er her, gentle Heaven, but do not claim 
 her! 
 
 In twilight caves, and secret lonelinesses. 
 She shades the bloom of her unearthly days; 
 
 And the soft winds alone have power to woo 
 her: 
 Far off we catch the dark gleam of her tresses; 
 
 And wild birds haunt the wood-walks where she 
 strays, 
 Intelligible music warbling to her. 
 
 That Spirit charged to follow and defend her, — 
 He also, doubtless, suffers this love-pain; 
 
 And she, perhaps, is sad, hearing his sighing: 
 And yet that face is not so sad as tender; 
 
 Like some sweet singer's, when her sweetest strain 
 From the heaved heart is gradually dying! 
 269 
 
270 LYRICS, SONNETS, 
 
 TO 
 
 My hope, in happier days than these, 
 
 My love — hope past; 
 Memory's one star on lonely seas; 
 
 My anchor, last ! 
 Why ask' St thou, with subdued surprise, 
 
 And that mild glee, 
 Wherefore I turn, still turn mine eyes 
 
 From all, to thee? 
 
 The blind man turns — and none forbids 
 
 Into sunshine 
 His filmy, cold, unlighted lids; 
 
 The deaf incline 
 To harps whence songs, for them unborn. 
 
 Float light and free; 
 To graves long-cherished, hearts forlorn; 
 
 And I to thee. 
 
 AN OLD POET'S LOVE 
 I 
 
 Ah, that a lightly-lifted hand 
 
 Should thus man's soul depress or raise, 
 And wield, as with a magic wand, 
 
 A spirit steeled in earlier days ! 
 
AND EPIGRAMS Tt\ 
 
 Ah, that a voice whose speech is song, 
 
 Whose pathos weeps, whose gladness smiles. 
 
 Should melt a heart unmoved so long. 
 And charm it to the Syren Isles ! 
 
 Ah, that one presence, morn or eve, 
 Should fill deserted halls with light; 
 
 One breeze-like step, departing, leave 
 The noonday darker than the night ! 
 
 Thy power is great : but Love and Youth 
 Conspire with thee. With thee they dwell : 
 
 From those kind eyes, in tenderest ruth. 
 On mine they look, and say, — " Farewell ! " 
 
 As when, deep chaunts abruptly stayed. 
 The Thoughts that, music-born, advanced 
 
 In tides of puissance, music-swayed. 
 And waves that in the glory danced, — 
 
 Contract, subside, and leave at last. 
 
 Where late the abounding floods were spread, 
 A vale of darkness, grim and vast, 
 
 A buried river's rocky bed; 
 
 Thus — when thou goest — my heart, my life 
 Descend to dim sepulchral caves; 
 
 My world, but late with rapture rife. 
 Becomes a world of rocks and graves. 
 
272 LYRICS, SONNETS, 
 
 Come back ! From mountain-cells, afar, 
 My soul's strong river shall return. 
 
 Come back ! Again the Morning Star 
 Shall shine against the exhaustless urn. 
 
 Ill 
 
 ^'Can Love be just? can Hope be wise? 
 
 Can Youth renew his honours dead? " 
 On me my Psyche turned her eyes; 
 
 And all my great resolves were fled. 
 
 "Psyche," I said, "when thou art nigh 
 Transpicuous grow the mists of years; 
 
 I cannot ever wholly die 
 
 If on my grave should drop thy tears. 
 
 "Nor thine a part in mortal hours; 
 
 Thy flower nor autumn knows, nor May; 
 Thou bendest from sidereal bowers, 
 
 A dateless glory, fresh for aye ! 
 
 " Though I be nothing, yet the best 
 To thee no gift of price could give; 
 
 Fall then, in radiance, on my breast, 
 And in thy blessing bid me live ! " 
 
AND EPIGRAMS 273 
 
 TROUVERE SONGS 
 
 I MAKE not songs, but only find ; 
 
 Love, following still the circling sun. 
 His carol casts on every wind, 
 
 And other singer is there none. 
 
 I follow Love, though far he flies; 
 
 I sing his song, at random found 
 Like plume some bird of Paradise 
 
 Drops, passing, on our dusky bound. 
 
 In some, methinks, at times there glows 
 The passion of some heavenlier sphere 
 
 These too I sing ; but sweetest those 
 I dare not sing, and faintly hear. 
 
 Phoebus paced the wooded mountains, 
 Kindled dawn, and met a doe; 
 
 " Child, what ails thee that thou rovest 
 O'er my bright hills, sad and slow? 
 
 "That upon thy left side only 
 
 Thou thy noontide sleep dost take ; 
 
 That thy foot the fountain troubles 
 Ever, ere thy thirst thou slake? " 
 
 T 
 
274 LYRICS, SONNETS, 
 
 Answered thus the weeping creature : 
 "Once beside me raced a fawn; 
 
 Seest her, O thou God all-seeing! 
 O'er thy hills, in wood or lawn? 
 
 " On my left side sleep I only, 
 For 'tis there my anguish stirs; 
 
 And my foot the fountain troubles. 
 Lest it yield me shape like hers." 
 
 Then the Sun-God marvelled, musing,- 
 "When my foolish Daphne died. 
 
 Rooted 'mid Peneian laurels. 
 Scarce one little hour I sighed." 
 
 PEASANT'S SONG 
 
 Hark, the Spring ! She calls ! 
 
 With a thousand voices 
 'Mid the echoing forest-halls 
 
 One great heart rejoices ! 
 
 Hills, where young lambs bound, 
 Whiten o'er with daisies; 
 
 Flag-flowers light the lower ground, 
 Where the old steer srrazes. 
 
AND EPIGRAMS 275 
 
 Meadows laugh, flower-gay; 
 
 Every breeze that passes 
 Waves the seed-cloud's gleaming grey 
 
 O'er the greener grasses. 
 
 O thou Spring ! be strong, 
 
 Exquisite new-comer ! 
 And the onset baffle long 
 
 Of advancing Summer ! 
 
 ZARA TO ANTAR 
 
 I HEARD his voice, and I was dumb 
 Because to his my spirit cleaved. 
 
 He called me from afar: I come. 
 Because I loved him, I believed. 
 
 He said, "Though love be secret yet, 
 Eternity its truth shall prove." 
 
 It seemed not gift, but ancient debt 
 Discharged, to answer love with love. 
 
 MARRIAGE SONG 
 
 Love begins upon the heights. 
 As on tree-tops in the spring 
 
 April with green foot alights 
 While the birds are carolling: 
 
276 LYRICS, SONNETS, 
 
 Ay, but April ends with May, — 
 Love must have the marriage-day ! 
 
 Love begins upon the heights. 
 As o'er snowy summits sail 
 
 First the dewy matin lights 
 
 Destined soon to reach the vale : 
 
 Ay, but maidens must not grieve 
 
 That morn of love hath noon and eve. 
 
 Love is Dream and Vision first; 
 
 Proud young Love the earth disdains 
 But his cold streams, mountain-nursed, 
 
 Warm them in the fruitful plains 
 Ere the marriage-day is sped : 
 Peal the bells ! The bride is wed ! 
 
 SONG 
 
 Seek not the tree of silkiest bark 
 
 And balmiest bud 
 To carve her name, while yet 'tis dark. 
 
 Upon the wood ! 
 The world is full of noble tasks, 
 
 And wreaths hard -won; 
 Each work demands strong hearts, strong hands. 
 
 Till day is done. 
 
AND EPIGRAMS 277 
 
 Sing not that violet-veined skin, 
 
 Tiiat cheek's pale roses; 
 The lily of that form wherein 
 
 Her soul reposes ! 
 Forth to the fight, true man, true knight ! 
 
 The clash of arms 
 Shall more prevail than whispered tale 
 
 To win her charms. 
 
 The warrior for the True, the Right, 
 
 Fights in Love's name; 
 The love that lures thee from that fight 
 
 Lures thee to shame. 
 That love which lifts the heart, yet leaves 
 
 The spirit free, — 
 That love, or none, is fit for one, 
 
 Man-shaped, like thee. 
 
 LINES 
 
 Heart-winged once; self-doomed 
 To pine in bonds the saddest; 
 
 Strong spirit, self-entombed 
 Within the vaults thou madest : 
 
 Thy Will it is, thy Will 
 
 That holds thee prisoner still ! 
 
278 LYRICS, SONNETS, 
 
 O Soul, in vain thou strainest 
 Against thy prison bar; 
 
 Of all vain things the vainest 
 Our poor, half efforts are. 
 
 Wholly be free ! — till then 
 Thou dost but hug thy chain. 
 
 A LAMENT 
 
 A SIGH in the morning grey ! 
 And a solitary tear, 
 
 Slow to gather, slow to fall; 
 And a painful flush of shame 
 At the naming of thy name — 
 
 This is little, this is all. 
 False one, which remains to say 
 That thy love of old was here; 
 That thy love hath passed away ! 
 
AND EPIGRAMS 279 
 
 "THEY NEVER MET" 
 
 Somewhere she lives — I know not who or where — 
 The good, the kind, the tender, and the true, 
 Whose least of charms is this, that she is fair; 
 
 Who lives unknown, scarce known, or known to few. 
 
 He will not meet her ! her, who might renew 
 A spring that flowerless died, and bid him wear 
 That summer crown they only win who share — 
 
 Noon's forest-wreath, still fresh with morning dew. 
 
 Is she then happy? Are her fates fulfilled? 
 Perchance she sits, this fading eve, alone 
 By yonder ebbing Thames, with fingers chilled, 
 
 Clasping some rain-washed rosebud never blown. 
 How oft he may have passed thee, sweet Unknown, 
 Sole amid crowds, with pulse a moment stilled ! 
 
 TO 
 
 She sat amid a soft-eyed company 
 
 Of little children, whom she taught to love 
 That God Who deigned a child on earth to move,- 
 
 And, loving Him, to fear. Hand, lip, and eye. 
 
 And many a smile, and sometimes a short sigh. 
 Were beautiful to incite and to reprove ; 
 And with that holier wisdom from above 
 
 Enlarge our sorrowful humanity. 
 
280 LYRICS, SONNETS, 
 
 And yet, O blameless, and thyself a child ! 
 
 How canst thou teach? Thy rosy lips make sweet 
 The faults they fain would chide ! Of all that group 
 
 The timidest such wrath as thine would meet 
 Gladly, if so that dovelike hand might droop 
 Upon her shoulder or her tresses wild. 
 
 Happy are they who kiss thee, morn and even. 
 
 Parting the hair upon thy forehead white ! 
 
 For them the sky is bluer and more bright. 
 And purer their thanksgivings rise to Heaven. 
 Happy are they to whom thy songs are given; 
 
 Happy are they on whom thy hands alight; 
 
 And happiest they for whom thy prayers at night 
 In tender piety so oft have striven ! 
 
 i\way with vain regrets and selfish sighs — 
 Even I, dear friend, am lonely, not unblest; 
 Permitted sometimes on that form to gaze, 
 
 Or feel the light of those consoling eyes; 
 If but a moment on my cheek it stays, 
 I know that gentle beam from all the rest ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 The spring of my sweet life thou madest thine ; 
 And on my summer glories thou hast fed; 
 And now the vernal melodies are dead 
 
AND EPIGRAMS 281 
 
 On lips that mourn for joys no longer mine. 
 
 The summer brilliance now hath ceased to shine 
 Upon a brow so oft disquieted 
 By agonising doubts; thy love is fled; 
 
 And thou art flying — how dare I repine? 
 
 How could I hope so great a love would cleave 
 To one whose fault too well was known to thee? 
 Lament not, O my love; or, if thou grieve. 
 
 For me lament not, though my grief thou share; 
 For I have known in dreams my destiny. 
 And what I ought to welcome I can bear. 
 
 IV 
 
 Let me be near thee, and I will not touch 
 
 Thy hand; or grieve thee with reproach or praise; 
 
 Or look into thine eyes. Is this too much? 
 Sweet Lady, say not so, for I would gaze 
 On thee for ever. Be but what thou art, 
 
 A Beauty shrined within a silver haze; 
 
 And in the silence let me fill my heart 
 With memories calmly stored for wintry days. 
 
 O Ladyl there is sorrow here below; 
 
 And gladness seldom comes, and cannot last; 
 
 Thou art all summer; thou wilt never know 
 The cold and cloudy skies which I forecast; 
 
 Deny not thou long years of future woe 
 
 Their comfort sad and sole — a happy Past. 
 
282 LYRICS, SONNETS, 
 
 Pause, lovely Lady, pause ! with downward eye 
 Regard this humble tomb awhile; and read 
 The name of him who loved you well, now freed 
 
 F'rom pains of love — ah, mournful liberty ! 
 
 Sigh forth, too late, an unavailing sigh; 
 And, if thy spirit be to pity moved. 
 Pray that a ceaseless dream of her he loved 
 
 Abide upon him everlastingly. 
 
 Stay, lovely Lady, stay ! O, stay for hours ! 
 
 I feel thy tear-drops falling one by one. 
 
 Yet do not stay, for grief and shame it were 
 That tears should fall so fast from eyes so fair; 
 
 And feet, that scarcely bend the meadow flowers. 
 
 Linger so long upon the chilling stone. 
 
 TO AN INFANT 
 
 Familiar Spirit ! that so graciously 
 Dost take whatever fortune may befall, 
 Trusting thy fragile form to the arms of all, 
 
 And never counting it indignity 
 
 To sit caressed upon the humblest knee; 
 Thou, having yet no words, aloud dost call 
 Upon our hearts; the fever and the gall 
 
 Of our dark bosoms are reproved in thee. 
 
AND EPIGRAMS 283 
 
 From selfish fears and lawless wishes free, 
 
 Thou hast no painful feeling of thy weakness; 
 
 From shafts malign and pride's base agony 
 Protected by the pillows of thy meekness; 
 
 Thou hast thy little loves which do not grieve 
 thee, 
 
 Unquiet make thee, or unhappy leave thee. 
 
 HUMAN LIFE 
 
 Sad is our youth, for it is ever going, 
 
 Crumbling away beneath our very feet; 
 
 Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing, 
 In current unperceived, because so fleet; 
 Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing. 
 
 But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat; 
 
 Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing; 
 And still, O still, their dying breath is sweet! 
 
 And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us 
 Of that which made our childhood sweeter still; 
 And sweet our life's decline, for it hath left us 
 A nearer Good to cure an older 111; 
 
 And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize 
 
 them 
 Not for their sake, but His, Who grants them or 
 denies them. 
 
284 LYRICS, SONNETS, 
 
 ^SCHYLUS 
 
 A SEA-CLIFF carved into a bas-relief ! 
 
 Dark thoughts and sad, conceived by brooding 
 Nature, 
 
 Brought forth in storm : — dread shapes of Titan 
 stature, 
 Emblems of Fate and Change, Revenge and Grief, 
 And Death and Life : — a caverned Hieroglyph 
 
 Confronting still, with thunder-blasted frieze. 
 
 All stress of years, and winds, and wasting seas: — 
 The stranger nears it in his fragile skiff, 
 
 And hides his eyes. Few, few shall pass, great 
 Bard, 
 Thy dim sea-portals ! Entering, fewer yet 
 Shall pierce thy mystic meanings, deep and hard; 
 But these shall owe to thee an endless debt; 
 The Eleusinian caverns they shall tread 
 That wind beneath man's heart; and wisdom learn, 
 with dread. 
 
 TASSO'S HOUSE AT SORRENTO 
 
 O Leonora, here thy Tasso dwelt. 
 
 Secure, ere yet thy beauty he had seen; 
 Here with bright face, and unterrestrial mien. 
 
 He walked, ere yet thy shadow he had felt; 
 
 From that green rock he watched the sunset melt 
 
AND EPIGRAMS 285 
 
 On through the waves; yon cavern was his screen 
 When first those hills, which gird the glowing scene, 
 Were thronged with heavenly warriors, and he knelt 
 
 To hail the vision ! Syren baths to him 
 
 ■ Were nothing; Pagan grot, or classic fane, 
 
 Or glistening pavement, seen through billows dim: 
 Far, far o'er these he gazed on Judah's plain, 
 
 And more than manhood wrought was in the boy — 
 Why did the Stranger meddle in his joy? 
 
 THE RENAISSANCE AND SAVONAROLA 
 
 Painter, that on these sacred convent walls 
 The symbols paintest of the fleeting Hours, 
 Reserve thine art, poor spoil from Pagan bowers. 
 
 To deck withal the rich man's secular halls! 
 
 Are these the Hours? aerial Bacchanals, 
 
 With urn down-bent, or basket heaped with flowers. 
 Through sunshine borne, light Zephyr' s paramours ? — 
 
 Thralls though we be, we are not Pleasure's thralls ! 
 
 When God, with thunder, and his prophet's voice. 
 The temples where of old he chose to dwell 
 Chooses to shake in judgment, cleanse or quell. 
 
 How impious sounds thy summons to rejoice! 
 Erase thy work; kneel on the tombstones bare; 
 Thine eye with fastings purge ; make firm thy hand 
 with prayer ! 
 
286 LYRICS, SONNETS, 
 
 ^ 
 
 Then rise, and paint the Hours ; and launch them forth 
 Like sequent arrows hurled from God's right hand, 
 Or eagles of the ocean borne to earth 
 
 By solid storm their wings no more withstand; 
 
 Vet, calm in speed, a stern, predestined band. 
 In meditative might or gloomy mirth 
 Speed them, dread forms of elemental birth; 
 
 And let one bear the trump, and one the brand ! 
 
 Fix thou their mighty eyes the dark locks under 
 Massed o'er their fervid foreheads, like a cloud 
 Whose heart is flame; and be their faces bowed. 
 
 As though they listened to unsleeping thunder; 
 The breaking of the billows of Time's sea 
 On the far confines of Eternity ! 
 
 GALATEA AND URANLA; OR, ART AND 
 FAITH 
 
 " Dread, venerable Goddess, whom I fear. 
 
 Gaze not upon me from thy starry height ! 
 
 I fear thy levelled shafts of ruthless light. 
 Thine unfamiliar radiance and severe. 
 Thy sceptre bends not ! stern, defined, and clear. 
 
 Thy Laws; thy face intolerantly bright; 
 
 Thine is the empire of the Ruled and Right; 
 Never hadst thou a part in smile or tear ! 
 
AND EPIGRAMS 287 
 
 " I love the curving of the wind-arched billow \ 
 The dying flute tone, sweeter for its dying; 
 To me less dear the Pine tree than the Willow, 
 
 The mountain than the shadows o'er it flying." 
 Thus Galatea sang — whilst o'er the waters 
 Urania leant — and cowered 'mid Ocean's foam- 
 white daughters. " 
 
 THE POET'S SONG 
 
 Far rather let us loathe and scorn the power 
 Of Song, than seek her fane with hearts impure, 
 Panting for praise or pay, the vulgar lure 
 
 Of those on whom the Muse doth scantly shower, 
 
 Or not at all, her amaranthine dower; 
 
 Ye that would serve her, first of this be sure, 
 Her glorious Pseans will for aye endure 
 
 Whether or not she smile upon your bower. 
 
 Go forth. Eternal Melodies, go forth 
 
 O'er all the world, and in your broad arms wind 
 
 it! 
 Go forth, as ye are wont, from South to North; 
 No spot so barren but your spells can find it. 
 So long as Heaven is vaulted o'er the earth. 
 So long your power survives, and who can bind 
 it? 
 
288 LYRICS, SONNETS, 
 
 SOLITUDE WITHOUT VOCATION 
 
 In this Seclusion, from the world secure, 
 
 Her frauds, her force, her clamour, and her din, 
 O, what a prosperous height might virtue win. 
 
 If, entering first these courts, the soul were pure ! 
 
 But to a tainted soul, how weak the lure 
 
 Of outward things compared with snares within. 
 Where thought tracks thought, insatiable pursuer, 
 
 On through the inmost caves of lurking sin — 
 
 Dark thoughts which nobler presences had scared, 
 And palpable duties crushed ! Ah, well of old 
 Fabled the priest, if priest he were or bard. 
 
 His Dian strenuous of life and bold; 
 
 A Huntress o'er the mountain summits hard, 
 Her couch beside the fountain calm but cold. 
 
 A POET TO A PAINTER 
 
 That which my fault has made me, O paint not ! 
 Paint me as that which I desire to be : 
 The unaccomplished good that died in thought. 
 
 That Limbo of high hopes, seek out, set free. 
 
 And all I might have been concede to me; 
 
 The mask my errors and the world have wrought, 
 Remove; the cloud disperse; erase the blot; 
 
 Bid from my brow the temporal darkness flee ! 
 
AND EPIGRAMS 289 
 
 In that celestial and pure fount, whereof 
 
 Some drops affused my childhood, bathe me 
 
 wholly; 
 And shield me from my own deserts; lest they, 
 Who now but see me by the light of love, 
 A sterner insight learn from thee one day; 
 And love pass from them like some outworn 
 folly. 
 
 THE POET'S CHOICE 
 
 Free born, it is my purpose to die free. 
 
 Away, degrading cares; and ye, not less. 
 
 Delights of sense, and gauds of worldliness ! 
 I have no part in you, nor you in me. 
 They that walk brave, wear the world's livery; 
 
 Their badge of service is their sumptuous dress; 
 
 Seek then your prey in gilded palaces; 
 Revere my hovel's humble liberty! 
 
 Are there no flowers on earth, in heaven no stars. 
 That we must place in such low things our 
 
 trust? 
 Let me have noble toils, if toil I must. 
 
 The Patriot's task, or Friendship's sacred cares! 
 Beside my board that man shall break no crust, 
 Who sells his birthright for a feast of dust. 
 
290 LYRICS, SONNETS, 
 
 ON READING AN UNTRUE CHARGE 
 
 Beautiful Land ! They said, " He loves thee not ! " 
 
 But in a churchyard, 'mid thy meadows, lie 
 
 The bones of no disloyal ancestry. 
 To whom in me disloyal were the thought 
 Which wronged thee. For my youth thy Shakspeare 
 wrought; 
 
 For me thy minsters raised their towers on high; 
 
 Thou gav'st me friends whose memory cannot die : — 
 I love thee, and for that cause left unsought 
 
 Thy praise. Thy ruined cloisters, forests green, 
 Thy moors where still the branching wild deer roves. 
 Dear haunts of mine by sun and moon have been 
 
 From Cumbrian peaks to Devon's laughing coves. 
 They love thee less, fair Land, who ne'er had heart 
 To take, for truth's sake, 'gainst thyself thy part. 
 
 POLAND AND RUSSIA 
 
 The Strong One with the Weak One reasons thus : 
 "Through sin of thine our eagle wings are dipt; 
 Through frost of thine our summer branch is nipt: 
 
 Thy wounds accuse; thy rags are mutinous; 
 
 The nations note thine aspect dolorous. 
 
 Like some starved shape that cowers in charnel crypt, 
 Or landscape in eclipse perpetual dipt, 
 
 And, ignorant, cavil, not at thee but us ! " 
 
AND EPIGRAMS 291 
 
 Then answer makes that worn voice, stern and 
 slow: 
 "Am I a dog the scourger's hand that licks, 
 And fattens? Blind reproof but spurns the 
 pricks. 
 That which I am thou mad'st me ! long ago 
 My face thou grav'dst to be a face of woe, 
 Fixed as the fixed face of a Crucifix." 
 
 ISLAM 
 
 That Asian ardour, deep, and wide, and still, 
 
 Which once, like Heaven o'er glowing sands, did 
 
 brood 
 Over this People's heart, stubborn and rude, 
 
 Hath left them. Did it yet their pulses fill, 
 
 They had not lost that fateful might of Will 
 Which from Imaus on to Atlas hewed 
 A way before them — in its terrible mood 
 
 "Making ridiculous" the boasted skill 
 
 Of Western Art alike and Arms. Of old 
 This People's spirit was an arch of fire, 
 Like a "clear heat at harvest." Now remains 
 Nought but the hoary herb and branded plains. 
 Which beasts shall trample, issuing in their ire 
 Forth from the depth of their morasses cold ! 
 
292 LYRICS, SONNETS, 
 
 THE AMERICAN STRUGGLE 
 
 Sword ! ere the sheath that hid thy light so Ion 
 
 That splendour quench, go thou like lightnin 
 forth, 
 
 High Bride of Justice, not of South or North, 
 And raise, as now, the weak, and quell the strong ! 
 Advance, till from the black man's hearth the song 
 
 Rises to God, and by the black man's hearth 
 
 Humanity hath leave in godly mirth 
 To sit, forgetful of her ancient wrong ! 
 
 Then rest for ever; for to work like thine. 
 While the world lasts, no other can succeed 
 Equal, or second. Hang in heaven, a Sign, 
 
 But stoop no more to earth or earthly need ; 
 Nor ever leave thy starry home august. 
 Vassal of vulgar wars, and prone Ambition's lust. 
 
 ON THE CENTENARY OF AMERICAN 
 LIBERTY 
 
 A CENTURY of sunrises hath bowed 
 
 Its fulgent forehead 'neath the ocean-floor 
 Since first upon the West's astonished shore, 
 
 Like some huge Alp, forth struggling through the 
 cloud, 
 
 \ 
 
AND EPIGRAMS 293 
 
 A new-born nation stood, to Freedom vowed. 
 Within that time how many an Empire hoar, 
 And young Republic, flushed with wealth and war, 
 
 Alike have changed the ermine for the shroud ! 
 
 O "sprung from earth's first blood," O tempest- 
 nursed, 
 For thee what Fates ? — I know not. This I know : 
 The Soul's great freedom — gift, of gifts the 
 first — 
 Thou first on man in fulness didst bestow; 
 
 Hunted elsewhere, God's Church with thee found 
 
 rest: 
 Thy future's Hope is She — that queenly Guest. 
 
 EPIGRAMS 
 I 
 
 A FAREWELL 
 
 Round me thy great woods sigh 
 In their full-foliaged glory; but I die. 
 
 Ah, blame me not; although 
 Tired and o'er-spent, I never prayed to go. 
 
 In thine old towers I leave 
 A cradled pledge to take his mother's part,- 
 
 To vex thee not, nor grieve. 
 Yet lay, at times, my hand about thy heart. 
 
294 LYRICS, SONNETS, 
 
 II 
 
 AN EPITAPH 
 
 From Youth's soft haunt she passed to Love's fair nest 
 Thence on to larger Love and heavenlier rest: 
 Four years their sunshine, two their shadows lent 
 To enrich a heart with either lot content. 
 Pray well, pure Spirit ! and some sad grace accord 
 To him once more thy suppliant; once thy lord. 
 
 Ill 
 
 THREE PRAYERS 
 
 Three prayers to Heaven the Lover doth present : 
 That she he loves rest ever innocent: 
 Next for her happiness: and last that he 
 Shield of that goodness and that peace may be. 
 Dear friend, repine no longer — be content: 
 For thou hast gained two wishes out of three ! 
 
 IV 
 
 A traveller's grace 
 
 Take, pretty birds — to you these crumbs are given - 
 Your portion of our meal ere yet begun; 
 
 And waft our thanks in melody to Heaven, 
 
 Should we forget them, when that meal is done. 
 
AND EPIGRAMS 295 
 
 ON A GREAT PLAGIARIST 
 
 Phcebus drew back with just disdain 
 
 The wreath; the Delphic Temple frowned. 
 
 The suppliant fled to Hermes' fane, 
 That stood on lower, wealthier ground. 
 
 The Thief-God spake, with smile star-bright: 
 " Go thou where luckier poets browse 
 
 The pastures of the Lord of Light, 
 And do — what I did with his cows." 
 
 VI 
 
 AN epicurean's EPITAPH 
 
 When from my lips the last faint sigh is blown 
 
 By Death, dark waver of Lethean plumes, 
 O, press not then with monumental stone 
 
 This forehead smooth, nor weigh me down with 
 glooms 
 
 From green bowers, grey with dew, 
 Of Rosemary and Rue ! 
 Choose for my bed some bath of sculptured marble 
 Wreathed with gay nymphs; and lay me — not 
 alone — 
 Where sunbeams fall, flowers wave, and light birds 
 warble. 
 To those who loved me, murmuring in soft tone, — 
 
296 LYRICS, SONNETS, AND EPIGRAMS 
 
 "Here lies our friend, from pain secure and cold; 
 And spreads his limbs in peace under the sun- warmed 
 mould ! " 
 
 VII 
 
 AN EPITAPH WITHOUT A NAME 
 
 I HAD a Name. A wreath of woven air, 
 
 A wreath of letters blended, none knew why, 
 Floated, a vocal phantom, here and there. 
 For one brief season, like the dragon-fly 
 That flecks the noontide beam. 
 Flickering o'er downward, forest-darkened stream. 
 What word those Letters shaped I tell you not : 
 Wherefore should such this maiden marble blot. 
 Faint echo, last and least, of foolish Fame? — 
 I am a Soul; nor care to have a Name. 
 
 VIII 
 
 DE VIA 
 
 From North unto South, from the East unto the West 
 
 There is no rest; 
 Wind sigheth unto wind, sea moaneth unto sea, 
 "Not in me," 
 And the loud waves that roar 
 In the deep, and on the shore : — 
 Never, till thou resteth in the green earth's breast, 
 Shalt thou rest. 
 
MEMORIAL POEMS 
 
An altar I would rear beside the Rhine, 
 And by the Arno, and the Adrian sea, 
 For there, O Friends beloved, one hour had we. 
 
 And thence, O Friends beloved and ever mine. 
 
 We ranged together. Alp and Apennine 
 
 Henceforth are rich in household nooks to me, 
 Nor wholly solitary can I be 
 
 Whether the Palm my tent I make, or Pine. 
 
 How large a portion of earth's populous ball 
 
 Have you to me endeared! Therefore, less keen 
 Sorrow one day shall prove, or Fortune's spleen, 
 
 Or all the ills that lonely age befall. 
 
 Ah yes ; — and 3'et, had I been worthier, all 
 Which was so dear still dearer might have been. 
 
CHRISTMAS, i860 
 
 Alone, among thy books, once more I sit; 
 
 No sound there stirs, except the flapping fire; 
 
 Strange shadows of old times about me flit, 
 As sinks the midnight lamp, or flickers higher. 
 I see thee pace the room; with eye thought-lit 
 
 Back, back, thou com'st once more to my desire; 
 
 Low- toned thou read'st, once more, the verse new- 
 writ, — 
 Too deep, too pure for worldlings to admire. 
 
 That brow all honour, that all-gracious hand, 
 That cordial smile, and clear voice musical, 
 That noble bearing, mien of high command. 
 
 Yet void of pride — to-night I have them all. 
 
 Ah, phantoms vain of thought ! The Christmas air 
 Is white with flying flakes. Where art thou — where ? 
 
 To-night, upon thy roof the snows are lying; 
 
 The Christmas snows lie heavy on thy trees; 
 
 A dying dirge, that soothes the year in dying, 
 Swells from thy woodlands on the midnight breeze. 
 299 
 
300 MEMORIAL POEMS 
 
 Our loss is ancient; many a heart is sighing 
 This night a late one, or by slow degrees 
 Heals some old wound, to God's high grace reply- 
 ing:— 
 
 A time there was when thou wert like to these. 
 
 Where art thou? In what unimagined sphere 
 
 Liv'st thou, sojourner, or no transient guest? 
 
 By whom companioned ? Access hath she near. 
 In life thy nearest, and beloved the best? 
 
 What memory hast thou of thy loved ones here ? 
 
 Hangs the great Vision o'er thy place of rest? 
 
 Ill 
 
 "Sweet-sounding bells, blithe summoners to prayer! " 
 
 The answer man can yield not, ye bestow; 
 
 Your answer is a little Infant bare, 
 Wafted to earth on night-winds whispering low. 
 Blow him to Bethlehem, airs angelic, blow! 
 
 There doth the Mother-maid his couch prepare. 
 
 His harbour is her bosom ! Drop him there, 
 Soft as a snow-flake on a bank of snow. 
 
 Sole Hope of man ! Sole Hope for us, for thee ! 
 "To us a Prince is given: a Child is born! " 
 Thou sang'st of Bethlehem, and of Calvary, 
 
 The Maid Immaculate and the twisted Thorn. 
 Where'er thou art, not far, not far is He 
 Whose banner whitens in yon Christmas morn ! 
 
AT VEVEY 301 
 
 AT VEVEY 
 
 SEPTEMBER 1 5, 1 85 6 
 
 From terraced heights that rise in ranks 
 Thick set with ahuond, fig, and maize, 
 
 O'er waters blue as violet banks, 
 I hear the songs of boyhood's days. 
 
 Up walnut slopes, at morn and eve, 
 And downward o'er the pearly shore 
 
 From Clarens on they creep ; nor leave 
 Uncheered cold Chillon's dungeon-floor. 
 
 Fair girls that please a mother's pride. 
 Bright boys from joy of heart that sing. 
 
 The voice of bridegroom and of bride, — 
 Through clustered vines how clear they ring ! 
 
 For me, they blot these southern bowers; 
 
 The ghosts of years gone by they wake; 
 They send the drift of northern showers 
 
 Low-whispering o'er a narrower lake. 
 
 Once more upon the couch he lies 
 
 Who ruled his halls with stately cheer; 
 
 Waves slow the lifted hand; with eyes 
 And lips rewards the strains most dear. 
 
302 MEMORIAL POEMS 
 
 And ah ! from yon empurpled slope 
 
 What fragrance swells that arch beneath ! 
 
 Geranimn, jasmine, heliotrope — 
 
 They stay my breath : of her they breathe ! 
 
 Flower-lover! wheresoe'er thou art, 
 
 May flowers and sunshine greet thee still, 
 
 And voices vocal to the heart: 
 No sound approach of sad or ill ! 
 
 SIR WILLIAM ROWAN HAMILTON 
 
 Friend of past years, the holy and the blest, 
 When all my day shone out, a long sunrise; 
 When aspirations seemed but sympathies, 
 
 In such familiar nearness were they dressed; 
 
 When Song, with swan-like plumes and starry crest, 
 O'er-circled earth and beat against the skies, 
 And fearless Science raised her reverent eyes 
 
 From heaven to heaven, that each its God confessed 
 
 With homage ever widening ! Friend beloved ! 
 From me those days are passed; yet still, O, still, 
 This night my heart with influx strange they fill 
 
 Of beaming memories from my vanished youth : 
 On thee — the temporal veil by Death removed — 
 Rests the great Vision of Eternal Truth ! 
 
EDWIN, EARL OF DUNRAVEN 303 
 
 At times I see that ample forehead lit, 
 
 Bright as the day-spring round the mounted lark; 
 At times I see thee stand in musing fit; 
 
 At times in woodlands of that twilight park, 
 
 Deciphering well-loved names on beechen bark; 
 Where Rotha's moonlight ripples past thee flit, 
 I see thee kiss a grave — then by it sit — 
 
 Her grave that left the land's chief Poet dark. 
 
 This day I read thy letters. Word and scene 
 Recur with strangely mingled joy and ruth; 
 Thy soul translucent; yet thine insight keen, 
 
 Thy heart's deep yearnings and perpetual youth; 
 Thy courtesy, thy reverence, and thy truth — 
 All that thou wert, and all thou mightst have been ! 
 
 EDWIN, EARL OF DUNRAVEN 
 
 Once more I pace thy pillared halls. 
 And hear the organ echoes sigh 
 
 In blissful death on storied walls: 
 
 But where art thou? not here; nor nigh. 
 
 Once more the rapt spring-breezes send 
 A flash o'er yonder winding flood. 
 
 And with the garden's fragrance blend 
 A fresher breath from lawn and wood. 
 
304 MEMORIAL POEMS 
 
 Friend! where art thou? Thy works reply; 
 
 The lowly School; the high-arched Fane. 
 Who loves his kind can never die; 
 
 Who serves his God, with God shall reign. 
 
 SIR JOHN SIMEON 
 
 FEAST OF THE PURIFICATION 
 
 This day we keep our Candlemas in snow. 
 
 Wan is the sky; a bitter wind, and drear, 
 
 Wrinkles the bosom of yon blackening mere; 
 Of these I reck not, but of thee, and O ! 
 Of that bright Roman morn, so long ago, 
 
 When, children new of her, that Church more 
 dear 
 
 To liegeful hearts with each injurious year, 
 We watched the famed Procession circling slow. 
 
 Once more I see it wind with lights upholden 
 On through the Sistine, on and far away; 
 Once more I mark beneath its radiance golden 
 
 Thy forehead shine, and, with it kindling, say, — 
 "Rehearsals dim were those, O friend; this hour 
 Surely God's light it is that on thee rests in power ! " 
 
SIR JOHN SIMEON 305 
 
 II 
 
 Again we met. We trod the fields and farms 
 
 Of that fair isle, thy happy English home; 
 
 We gazed upon blue sea, and snowy foam, 
 Clipt in the jutting headland's woody arms. 
 The year had reached the fulness of her charms; 
 
 The Church's year, from strength to strength in- 
 creased, 
 
 Its zenith held, that great Assumption feast 
 Whose sun with annual joy the whole earth warms. 
 
 That day how swiftly rushed from thy full heart 
 Hope' s glorying flood ! How high thy fancy soared, 
 Kenning, though far, once more thine England's 
 crest, 
 
 A light to Christendom's old heaven restored! 
 " In a large room " thy heart its home had found : 
 The land we trod that day to thee was holy ground. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The world external knew thee but in part; 
 
 It saw and honoured what was least in thee : 
 
 The loyal trust, the inborn courtesy; 
 The ways so winning, yet so pure from art; 
 The cordial reverence, keen to all desert. 
 
 All save thine own; the accost so frank and free; 
 
 The public zeal that toiled, but not for fee, 
 And shunned alike base praise and hireling's mart. 
 
 X 
 
306 MEMORIAL POEMS 
 
 These things men saw; but, deeper far than these, 
 The under-current of thy soul worked on, 
 Unvexed by surface-ripple, beam, or breeze, 
 
 And, unbeheld, its way to ocean won. 
 
 Life of thy life was still that Christian Faith 
 The sophist scorns. It failed thee not in death. 
 
 CARDINAL NEWMAN 
 
 Thy ninety years on earth have passed away. 
 
 At last thou restest 'mid that heavenly clime 
 
 Where Act is Rest, and Age perpetual prime; 
 Thy noblest, holiest work begins this day, — 
 Begins, not ends! Best Work is Prayer; and they 
 
 Who plead, absolved from bonds of Space and 
 Time, 
 
 With lordliest labour work that work sublime. 
 Order our planet with benignest sway. 
 
 So work, great Spirit ! Thy toils foregone, each year, 
 Bear fruit on earth! Thousands but praise thee 
 
 now; 
 Those laureates soon will bend a brightening brow 
 O'er tomes of thine; on each may drop a tear 
 
 For friends that o'er blind oceans pushed their 
 
 prow, 
 Self-cheated of a guiding light so clear. 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 307 
 
 CARDINAL MANNING 
 
 I LEARNED his grcatness first at Lavington. 
 
 The moon had early sought her bed of brine, 
 
 But we discoursed till now each starry sign 
 Had sunk; our theme was one, and one alone. 
 "Two minds supreme," he said, "our earth has 
 known ; 
 
 One sang in science; one served God in song; 
 
 Aquinas — Dante." Slowly in me grew strong 
 A thought, — "These two great minds in him are 
 one; — 
 
 " 'Lord, what shall this man do? ' " Later, at Rome, 
 Beside the dust of Peter and of Paul, 
 Eight hundred mitred sires of Christendom 
 
 In Council sat. I marked him 'mid them all; 
 I thought of that long night in years gone by. 
 And cried, — "At last, my question meets reply." 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 Shakespeare's old oak "gnarled and unwedgeable 
 Yields not so sweet a wood to harp or lyre 
 As tree of smoother grain; and chorded shell 
 
 Is spanned by strings tenderer than iron wire. 
 
 What then? Stern tasks iron and oak require ! 
 Iron deep-mined, hard oak from stormy fell; 
 
308 MEMORIAL POEMS 
 
 Steel-armed, the "black ship" breasts the ocean's 
 swell; 
 Oak-ribbed, laughs back the raging tempest's ire. 
 
 Old friend, thy song I deem a ship whose hold 
 Is stored with mental spoils of ampler price 
 Than Spain's huge galleons, in her age of gold, 
 
 Or Indian caracks from the isles of spice. 
 Brave Argosy! cleave long the waves as now; 
 And all the Sea-Gods sing around thy prow ! 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON 
 I 
 
 THE land's vigil 
 
 How many a face throughout the Imperial Isle, 
 From Kentish shores to Scottish hill or hall, 
 From Cambrian vales to Windsor's royal pile, 
 
 Turned sadly towards one House more sad than all, — • 
 
 Turned day by day, fear-blanched! When evening's 
 pall 
 Shrouded a day that scarce had heart to smile. 
 How oft sad eyes, spelled by one thought the while, 
 
 Not seeing, seemed to see a taper small. 
 
 Night after night, flashed from one casement high ! 
 Let these men sing his praise ! Others there are 
 Who fitlier might have sung them in old time. 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON 309 
 
 Since they loved best who loved him in his prime. 
 Their youth, and his, expired long since and far. 
 Now he is gone, it seems "again to die." 
 
 II 
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY 
 
 'Tis well ! Not always nations are ingrate ! 
 
 He gave his country "of his best; " and she 
 
 Gave to her bard in glorious rivalry 
 Her whole great heart. A People and a State 
 Had met, through love a tomb to consecrate. 
 
 In the Abbey old each order and degree 
 
 Low knelt, and upward gazing seemed to see, 
 Not that dark vault, but Heaven's expanding gate. 
 
 O'er him the death-song he had made they sung: — 
 Thus, when in Rome the Prince of Painters died, 
 His Art's last marvel o'er his bier was hung, 
 
 At once in heavenly hope and honest pride: 
 
 Thus England honoured him she loved that day; 
 Thus many prayed — as England's Saints will pray. 
 
 Ill 
 
 THE POET 
 
 None sang of Love more nobly; few as well; 
 
 Of Friendship none with pathos so profound; 
 
 Of Duty sternliest-proved when myrtle-crowned; 
 Of English grove and rivulet, mead and dell; 
 Great Arthur's Legend he alone dared tell; 
 
310 MEMORIAL POEMS 
 
 Milton and Dryden feared to tread that ground ; 
 For him alone o'er Camelot's faery bound 
 The "horns of Elf-land " blew their magic spell. 
 
 Since Shakespeare and since Wordsworth none hath 
 sung 
 
 So well his England's greatness; none hath given 
 
 Reproof more fearless or advice more sage. 
 None inlier taught how near to earth is Heaven; 
 
 With what vast concords Nature's harp is strung; 
 
 How base false pride; faction's fanatic rage. 
 
 IV 
 
 THE REWARD 
 
 The land, whose loveliness in verse of thine 
 
 Shows lovelier yet than prank 'd on Nature's page, 
 Shall prove thy poet in some future age, 
 
 Sing thee, her Poet, not in measured line 
 
 Or metric stave, but music more benign; 
 Shall point to British Galahads who wage 
 Battle on Wrong; to British maids who gage, 
 
 Like Agnes, heart and hope to Love divine. 
 
 Worn men, like thy Ulysses, scorning fear. 
 Shall tempt strange seas beneath an alien star; 
 Old men, from cherished haunts and households 
 dear 
 
 Summoned by death to realms unknown and far, 
 Thy "Silent Voices" from on high shall hear, — 
 With happier auspice cross thy "harbour bar." 
 
UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME. 
 
 THE HUMOURS OF THE COURT: 
 
 A COMEDY. 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 By ROHERT Bridges. i2mo. Gilt top. Price, ^1.25. 
 
 Also an Edition de Z,?v!.r^, printed on English hand-made paper, 8vo, 
 Price, 113.50. 
 
 THE POEMS OF WILLIAM WATSON. 
 
 iMew Edition, Rearranged by the Author. With Additions and a 
 New Portrait. i2mo, gilt top. Price, $1.25. 
 
 Also an Edition de Liixe, printed on English hand-made paper, 8vo. 
 Price, ^3.50. 
 
 BALLADS AND BARRACK-ROOM 
 BALLADS. 
 
 By RUDYAkD KIPLING. 
 Author of" Plain Tales from the Hills," " The Naulahka," etc. 
 
 New Edition, with Additional Poems. i2mo, cloth extra, 217 pp. 
 Price, $1.25. 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO., New York. 
 
7 3 89' * 
 

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