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THE WHITE DOVE.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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THE WHITE DOVE.

[_]

The rapid conversion of the ancient Irish from Druidism to Christianity, compared to the slow progress of missionary efforts among other Northern nations, may be accounted for by the fact that the dominant people in Ireland were of a different race from those of England, Wales and the northern part of Europe. Originally, doubtless, Ireland was settled by the branch of the family known as Kelts, as other parts were by the branches usually called Belgæ and Teutones. Comparatively few in numbers, they gave way before the Teutonic sea-kings, the Fermorians, who were in turn displaced by the Belgæ, or Firbolgs, who were in turn driven out or exterminated by what appears to have been a Dacian invasion—the Tuatha de Danaan. All these seem to be of the same race—all of large, coarse build, with blue eyes and yellow or golden hair—the exceptions being so rare as to call for distinctive names when they appeared. The last invaders, who maintained permanent possession, were of a different race, and of different physical characteristics. They were called Milesians, or Gael, from their leaders, or Scoti, from the mother of Milesius, and came mediately through Spain from the Greek islands of the Mediterranean, between which and Ireland there can be traced some similarity of customs. They differed from the Kelto-Belgo-Teutonic race in appearance, their figures being more graceful, their hair dark, and their eyes blue—the ruling Irish type to-day. Their mythology was more intellectual, their habits less barbarous, their practices more chivalrous, and their folk-lore more innocent than that of their Keltic, Belgic or Teutonic predecessors. Hence probably their easier conversion. But it was nearly a century before Druidism was entirely destroyed, and the supremacy of the Gael practically established.

At that time lived Achy, the Druid, and Vauria, his wife, in a cot
Which stood in a glen of Sliabh Boughta, a lone and a desolate spot.
A Druid and Pagan was Achy; while Christians were others around,
He clung to the faith he was bred in, and for Crom kept undaunted his ground.

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With the pair was their twelve-year granddaughter, of kin, but she was not of kind;
Sweet her face as the dawning of morning; as pure as the night-dew her mind;
Her hair of the tint of the sunlight; her eyes, of the sky overhead;
And her smile thrilled the heart of the gazers—'twas visible music, they said.
A life full of woe for the orphan, to toil for her grandsire compelled;
He hated her much for her father, but more for the faith that she held;
To make her deny or forsake it, nor curse nor caress could avail—
Though her face was the face of the Firbolg, her heart was the heart of the Gael.
“Disobedient your mother,” said Achy, “sole child, and she scoffed my desire;
She fled with a hated Milesian, in spite of the ban of her sire;
She was false to the faith of her father, the worship of Crom she disdained,
And you, of the union sole offspring, in pestilent error she trained.
“Your father was slain in a battle, your mother soon sickened and died;
The haughty Milesians disowned you, and drove you away in their pride.
I gave you that shelter and succor which vainly from others you sought,
Yet you cling to their creed and defy me, and Crom and our rites set at naught.”

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And so they were cruel to Aoifè, however their love she implored,
Her dress of the coarsest, in tatters, her food what was left on the board;
But she clung to the Blessed Redeemer, she lacked in no duty she owed,
Was gentle in speech and in manner, and bore with sweet patience her load.
Grew daily the wrath of her grandsire, and hotter the fire of his hate,
And blows fell at times with his curses; and sadder and sadder her fate,
Till at last, in a frenzy of passion, he drove her away from the door,
And bade her go forth to the stranger, and trouble his household no more.
Sore-beaten, heart-heavy and tearful, went Aoifè perforce on that day,
Bewildered, through forest and coppice, she wearily wended her way,
Till sudden, a low, gentle cooing she heard in the branches around,
And then came a dove from the covert, and fearlessly stood on the ground.
It was white as the snow-drift in winter, on body and pinions and crest,
Save a cross that was colored like blood-drops, and borne plainly marked on the breast;
And Aoifè, forgetting her sorrow, bent forward to give it her care,
When it fluttered before as she followed, and rose now and then in the air.

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Absorbed in pursuit, she pressed forward, her woe and her bruises unfelt,
Till she came where the forest was ended, and spread there the green Brugh-na-Celt;
Behind her the maze of the woodland; before in the distance there lay,
With glassy repose on its surface, the beautiful water, Lough Rea.
Went the dove out of view for the moment, for there, in the sight of the maid,
Swept near from a break in the forest, a noble and proud cavalcade,
Brave lords and fair ladies well mounted, with servants in waiting beside,
And they paused, when the figure before them, shy, blushing and trembling, they spied.
“Now, who,” said the young prince who led them, “be you who are wandering here—
Are you one of the good fairy people, or wood-nymph awaiting her fere?
And why, child, those rough, ragged garments, where beauty rich velvets would grace,
And what is the cause of the trouble that mantles with sorrow your face?”
The dove came and sat on her shoulder, and lovingly cooed in her ear,
And the child, unabashed at their presence, spake then with nor shyness nor fear:
“For my faith I am homeless, Prince Cormac; few words, and my story is told;
My grandsire is Achy the Druid, my father was Nessa the bold.”

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Up spake Lady Saav, Cormac's mother: “My son, she claims wardship from you,
For brother-at-arms to your father was Nessa, the brave and the true.
That dove on her shoulder is token, for Nessa, her sire, on his shield,
Bore it argent, cross gules on its bosom, displayed on a fair azure field.
“She is heiress to all wide Cioncarragh; her uncle, proud Ronan the Red,
Seized her land, drove her off to her grandsire, and told all the world she was dead.
The tale, it appears, was a false one; Red Ronan relies on his might;
You are prince of Iar Conacht; your duty to see that the wronged has her right.”
A sound in the distance like thunder, a crash and a far-distant cry;
The dove in the air swiftly circled, then melted away in the sky;
And soon came a giolla swift riding, to tell how a cliff overhead
Had fallen and crushed the lone cottage, and Achy and Vauria were dead.
Nine years rolled away, and a banquet for noble and peasant was spread,
When Aoifè, the Flower of Cioncarragh, to Cormac, of Conacht, was wed;
And her lord threw aside the half-lion, he had borne up to then as his crest,
For the dove that was white as a snow-drift, a cross of blood-red on its breast.