The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere

The battle of Clontarf, fought A.D. 1014, annulled for ever the Danish power in Ireland. During two centuries and more the sons of the North had landed on the Irish coasts, sacked the monasteries, burned the cities and churches, and in many places well-nigh destroyed the Christian civilisation of earlier times, although they were never able to establish a monarchy in Ireland. The native dynasties for the most part remained; and Brian the Great, then King of all Ireland, though aged and blind, led forth the native hosts against the invaders for one supreme effort. He placed his son Murrough in command; but he offered up, notwithstanding, his life for his country, and wrought her deliverance. His sons and his grandson partook his glory and his fate. His death was a favourite theme with the chroniclers and bards of ancient Erin.

I.

‘Answer, thou that from the height
Look'st to left, and look'st to right,
Answer thou, how goes the fight?’

II.

Thus spake King Brian, by his tent
Kneeling, with sceptred hands that leant
Upon that altar which, where'er
He marched, kept pure his path with prayer.
For after all his triumphs past
That made him wondrous 'mid his peers,
On the blind King God's will had cast
The burden of his fourscore years:

332

And therefore when that morn, at nine,
He rode along the battle's van,
No sword he lifted, but the Sign
Of Him Who died for man.
King Brian's fleshly strength decayed,
Three times in puissance waxed his spirit,
And tall like oak-trees towered his merit,
And like a praying host he prayed:—
From nine to twelve, with crown on head,
Full fifty prayers the King had said;
And unto each such power was given,
It shook the unopening gates of heaven.

III.

‘O King, the battle goes this hour
As when two seas are met in might,
When billow billow doth devour,
And tide with tide doth fight:

‘I watch the waves of war; but none
Can see what banners rise or fall;
Sea-clouds on rush, sea-crests on run,
And blood is over all.’

IV.

Then prayed the King once more, head-bare,
And made himself a cross in prayer,
With outstretched arms, and forehead prone
Staid on that topmost altar-stone
Gem-charged, and cleansed from mortal taint,
And strong with bones of many a Saint.

333

In youth his heart for God had yearned,
And Eire: now thrice his youth returned:
A child full oft, ere woke the bird,
The convent's nocturns he had heard,
In old Kincora, or that isle
Which guards, thus late, its wasted pile,
While winds of night the tall towers shook;
And he would peer into that Book
Which lay, lamp-lit, on eagle's wings,
Wherein God's Saints in gold and blue
Stood up, and Prophets stood, and Kings;
And he the Martyrs knew,
And maids, and confessors each one,
And—tabernacled there in light—
That blissful Virgin enough bright
To light a burnt-out sun.
The blazoned Letters well he kenned
That stood like gateways keeping ward,
Before the Feast-Days set, to guard
Long ways of wisdom without end:
He knew the music notes black-barred,
And music notes, like planted spears,
Whereon who bends a fixed regard
The gathering anthem hears,
Like wakening storms 'mid pines that lean
Ere sunrise o'er some dusk ravine.—
The thoughts that nursed his youth, that hour
Were with his age, and armed with power.

V.

So fifty Psalms he sang, and then
Rolled round his sightless eyes again,
And spake; ‘Thou watcher on the height,
Make answer quick, how goes the fight?’

334

VI.

‘O King, the battle goes as when
The mill-wheel circles round and round:
The battle reels; and bones of men
Beneath its wheel are ground:

‘The war-field lies like Tomar's wood
By axes marred, or charred with fire,
When, black o'er wood-ways ruin-strewed,
Rises the last oak spire.’

VII.

Then to his altar by the tent
Once more King Brian turned, and bent
Unsceptred hands and head discrowned
Down from that altar to the ground,
In such sort that the cold March air
With fir-cones swept his snow-white hair;
And prayed, ‘O Thou that from the skies
Dost see what is, and what must be,
Make mine and me Thy Sacrifice,
But set this People free!’

VIII.

That hour, he knew, in many a fane
Late ravaged by the Pagan Dane,
God's priests were offering, far and wide,
The Mass of the Presanctified:
For lo! it was Good Friday morn,
And Christ once more was crowned with thorn:
God's Church, he knew, from niche and shrine
Had swept those gauds that time consumes,

335

Whate'er sea-cave, or wood, or mine
Yield from their sunless wombs:
Veiled were the sacred images,
He knew, like vapour-shrouded trees,
Vanished gold lamp, and chalice rare;
The astonished altars stripped and bare,
Because upon the cross, stone-dead,
Christ lay that hour disraimented.

IX.

He prayed—then spake—‘How goes the fight?’
Then answer reached him from the height:

X.

‘O King, the battle goes as though
God weighed two nations in His scale;
And now the fates of Eire sink low,
Now theirs that wear the mail:

‘O King, thy sons, through God's decree,
Are dead save one, the best of all,
Murrough—and now, ah woe is me!
I see his standard fall!’

XI.

It fell: but as it fell, above
Through lightning-lighted skies on drove
A thousand heavenly standards, dyed
In martyrdom's ensanguined tide;
And every tower, and town, and fane
That blazed of old round Erin's shore,
Down crashed, it seemed, in heaven again;
So dire that thunder's roar!

336

The wrath had come: the Danes gave way;
For Brian's prayer had power that day;
Seaward they rushed, the race abhorred;
The sword of prayer had quelled their sword.
So fled they to the ship-thronged coast;
But, random-borne through Tolga's glade,
A remnant from that routed host
Rushed by where Brian prayed;
And, swinging forth his brand, down leap'd
Black Brodar, he that foremost rode,
And from the kingly shoulders swept
The old head, praising God;
And cried aloud, ‘Let all men tell
That Brodar, he that leagues with Hell,
That Brodar of the magic mail
Slew Brian of the Gael.’

XII.

Him God destroyed! The Accursed One lay
Like beast, unburied where he fell:
But Brian and his sons this day
In Armagh Church sleep well.
And Brian's grandson strong and fair,
Clutching a Sea-King by the hair,
Went with him far through Tolga's wave;
Went with him to the same sea-grave.
So Eire gave thanks to God, though sad,
And took the blessing and the bale,
And sang, in funeral garments clad,
The vengeance of the Gael.
Silent all night the Northmen haled
Their dead adown the bleeding wharf:
Far north at dawn the Pirates sailed;
But on thy shore, Clontarf,

337

Old Eire once more, with wan cheeks wet,
Gave thanks that He who shakes the skies
Had burst His people's bond, and yet
Decreed that Sacrifice:
For God is One that gives and takes;
That lifts the low, and fells the proud;
That loves His land of Eire, and makes
His rainbow in His cloud.

Thus sang to Eire her Bard of old;
Thus sang to trampled kerne and serf,
While, sunset-like, her age of gold
Came back to green Clontarf.

University of Virginia Library

THE BATTLE OF CLONTARF;

OR, THE KING'S SACRIFICE.

(Ireland in the Eleventh Century.)

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

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X.

XI.

XII.