 | Fand and Other Poems |  |
Moored close by
His boat was ready, and on the head of day
Grey not one gold hair grew, ere with skilled stroke
Of oar he paddled towards them: motionless
Seemed they to wait him, uttering low sweet notes
Of broken magic music; but when he
Should have been nigh them, they were again afar
With motion unapparent: he pursued,—
The gloom behind,—the light in front of him,
Intense towards the clear west:—his shadow lying
Giant-like on the water,—and the birds
Gliding before him, ever lured him on,
Over the broad expanse, until the light
Sank on the falling sun, and purple mist
Rose round him, and mine eyes could see no more.
Only, far off and faint, I heard the cry
Of the birds' music circling round the shores
Enchanted: other noise the night had none:
The air no breath, the lake no ripple had,
But glimmerings faint, mingled with shadows deep,
By forest margin. There in vain I stood,
Waiting the plash of his returning oars,
That still refused to break the spells of night:
Myself half-held in chains of some sweet spell,
That kept fear far from me. Wearied at last
Homeward I took my way, and lingered not
To find repose: but, when I waked with day,
The flood of fear restrained rushed on my soul
At once remembering: messengers I sent
In eager haste impetuous; o'er the lake
They rowed: they searched the shores: for many a mile,
On all sides round, they roamed and left no nook
Of forest or hill or cave or rushy shore
Unsearched, but tidingless returned: days fled:
At noon I said, “evening his face will see:”
At midnight, “morning surely bringeth him:”
But with despairing glance went evenings by,
And empty of my gift came many a morn.
So then for help I sought the druids wise,
Who, practising their arts, thus answered me.
“Cuhoolin lives: he has been lured from thee
By wiles of the bright goddess beautiful,
Fand, wife of Mananaun Mac Lir, who now
Estranged, take pleasure in divided lives,
Plucking the fruits of bliss from varied boughs.
But she, ere quite she may thy husband win,
Must spells perform of slow accomplishment.
They are not all yet wrought: therefore, if thou
Canst quickly follow and find him, ere they be,—
And long the way which thou must wend alone,
And all unhelped thou must the task achieve,
Haply thou may'st regain him.”
His boat was ready, and on the head of day
Grey not one gold hair grew, ere with skilled stroke
Of oar he paddled towards them: motionless
Seemed they to wait him, uttering low sweet notes
Of broken magic music; but when he
Should have been nigh them, they were again afar
With motion unapparent: he pursued,—
The gloom behind,—the light in front of him,
Intense towards the clear west:—his shadow lying
Giant-like on the water,—and the birds
Gliding before him, ever lured him on,
Over the broad expanse, until the light
Sank on the falling sun, and purple mist
3
Only, far off and faint, I heard the cry
Of the birds' music circling round the shores
Enchanted: other noise the night had none:
The air no breath, the lake no ripple had,
But glimmerings faint, mingled with shadows deep,
By forest margin. There in vain I stood,
Waiting the plash of his returning oars,
That still refused to break the spells of night:
Myself half-held in chains of some sweet spell,
That kept fear far from me. Wearied at last
Homeward I took my way, and lingered not
To find repose: but, when I waked with day,
The flood of fear restrained rushed on my soul
At once remembering: messengers I sent
In eager haste impetuous; o'er the lake
They rowed: they searched the shores: for many a mile,
On all sides round, they roamed and left no nook
Of forest or hill or cave or rushy shore
Unsearched, but tidingless returned: days fled:
At noon I said, “evening his face will see:”
At midnight, “morning surely bringeth him:”
But with despairing glance went evenings by,
And empty of my gift came many a morn.
So then for help I sought the druids wise,
Who, practising their arts, thus answered me.
“Cuhoolin lives: he has been lured from thee
By wiles of the bright goddess beautiful,
Fand, wife of Mananaun Mac Lir, who now
4
Plucking the fruits of bliss from varied boughs.
But she, ere quite she may thy husband win,
Must spells perform of slow accomplishment.
They are not all yet wrought: therefore, if thou
Canst quickly follow and find him, ere they be,—
And long the way which thou must wend alone,
And all unhelped thou must the task achieve,
Haply thou may'st regain him.”
| Fand and Other Poems | |