The banshee and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

And once, ere sunset, fell a darkness on the deep,
And sharp Fianoula cried: “Ochone for us this night!
Bad is our preparation! the storm is in our wings
To drive us four apart on seas unknown to-night.

3

“Forlorn this night shall be our bed in the black waters,
Forlorn our lonely sailing on seas without a star;
Sharing no more together the comfort of our wings,
Sad must we walk to-night the waves of Sruth-na-Moyle!

4

“Tell me then, where shall be the trysting of the Swans,
If life be left in us to see the storm go down?”

“Be it the Rock of the Seals, Carrig-na-Ron,” they cried,
‘Carrig-na-Ron's the word! May we all see it soon!”

5

Ere midnight swooped the storm, and scowling o'er the deep
They saw the eyes of Oifa, and heard her in the blast
Howling, as they were driven apart on the wild sea.
None knew his brother's path all night, nor saw his own.

6

For all night long the storm dashed them about the deep
In blinding spray and freezing rain; and the lightning's glare
Showed them but heaving mountains, black on the gleaming sea;
So all night long they fought for life with the rude waves.

7

With night fled the fierce wind. They knew the east, and steered
O'er seas of separation, while rosily in the dawn
Gleamed their subsiding crests. But the four were far apart,
And lonely came Fianoula first to the Rock of Seals.

8

To the rock she fluttered; there, with wings too weak for flight,
Stared on the waste of waters thundering about her feet;
And many a foamy crest, white on the lowering grey,
Her anxious eyes believed a swan—that never came.

FIANOULA'S LAMENTATION ON THE ROCK.

1

Bad is life in my state,
My wings droop at my sides,
The furious blast hath shattered
The heart in my breast for Oodh.

2

Three hundred years as a swan
On the waters of Derryvarragh
I was shut from my human shape;
But worse is one night like this!

3

Belov'd the three, oh, belov'd the three
Who nestled beneath my wings!
Till the dead come to meet the living
I shall meet them never more.

4

No sign of Oodh nor Fiachra!
Of Conn the comely no news!
Have pity for me who live, ye dead,
In misery bad is life!

9

There sat she till night fell, and through that night forlorn,
Till the rising of the day, blind with her dazzling watch.
At last there came a swan—young Conn, with drooping head
And feathers drenched in brine. Then joy sang in her heart.

10

And Conn she comforted beneath her wings, that glowed
With the new glow of her heart; and then came Fiachra, cold,
Half dead, a drifting waif; and word he could not speak,
For hardship of the sea. Him too she cheered with life.

11

And the third night the three together on the rock
Nestled, and sighed for Oodh. And, with the rising sun,
Came Oodh, his glorious head high-held, his feathers preened,
And flew to them, and brought the sun upon his wings.

12

Then on the Swans the sun shone, and a rush of joy
Startled the tide of life in the bosom of the four;

And heartily Fianoula welcomed Oodh, her missing one,
Heartily Conn and Fiachra their brother from the deep.

13

And Oodh Fianoula warmed with the feathers of her breast;
And over Fiachra spread her right wing; and her left,
The wing of her heart, o'er Conn. “Bitter these days” she said,
“But worse will come to pinch the wandering Swans of Lir.”

14

There dwelt they, with the seals, the human-hearted seals,
That loved the Swans, and far followed with sad soft eyes,
Doglike, in sleek brown troops, their singing, o'er the sea;
So for their music yearned the nations of the seals.

15

And there they sorely learned the hardship of the sea,
The misery of the birds, their penury and toil.
Summer passed, winter came, and nipt them with a night
The like of which, for cold, they had never felt before.

16

That January night upon the rock they lay,
One heap of feathery snow, their inmost feathers cold
As fleeces filled with frost. One huddling heap they lay
Cold in the windy tent of their sun-loving wings.

17

Hoarse o'er the hissing waves howled Oifa in the blast,
And dreadful through the night the chill glare of her eyes

Gleamed in the dazzling snow; and through the Swans the surf
Shot arrows, burning cold, barbed by the stinging frost.

18

Thus they endured that night, close-huddled to keep warm
Life's embers in them. There late morning found them, fast
Frozen to their cold bed. They roused their ebbing powers,
And grimly, with wild pain, at length tore themselves free.

19

But on the frozen rock their bed was flaked with blood,
Bent quills, and bloody down, and broken plumes; for there
They left the skin of their breasts, they left the skin of their feet,
And half the soaring strength of their sun-loving wings.

FIANOULA'S LAMENTATION IN THE COLD.

1

Ochone for the Swans left bare
Of the warm fleece of their feathers!
Ochone for the feet that bleed
On the rough teeth of the rocks!

2

False, false was our mother,
When she drove us with Druid's craft
Adrift on the roaring waters,
In the outlawry of birds.

3

For happy home she gave us
The fleeting surge of the sea,
For share of the lordly ale-feast
The loathing of bitter brine.

4

One daughter, and three sons,
Behold us, Lir, on the rocks,
Featherless, comfortless, cold,
We print our steps in blood.

20

Then, with their bleeding wounds, they plunged in Sruth-na-Moyle,
For painful was their path on the limpet-studded rocks:
There on the wandering tides they made their patient bed,
Until their wounds were whole, their wings bold on the blast.

This is the song of the hardship of the Swans,
Of songs most mournful,
Sorrowful is my song.