Three Irish Bardic Tales :: :: University of Virginia Library

Tall grew the child, and learnt of Cathvah, day by day,
New things: all sleights of song she learnt, and of the harp
Mastery in all the modes; and gracefully to wield
The weapons of a Queen; to run, to leap, to dance;
And in the woods she poured, in gusts of sudden song,
The passion of her heart, like the glad birds, and made
Old tales and heroes dead in her lone childish sports
To live again, peopling the world with her young dreams.

These things she loved; nor less the lore of Lavarcam,
Whose tongue, in quiet hours beside the 'broidery frame,
Flew faster than her hand. But oft some tale of love,
And lover's piteous fates, murmuring in Deirdrè's ear
Made trouble in her heart; and as the virgin bud
Of her wild beauty swelled in ripening womanhood,
Roaming the woods alone, the pageant of her dreams
Grew eager with new shapes, bright faces; and the trees
Sighed with some fond desire, some wordless want. Each dawn
And glowing even breathed rich glamour that made pale
Old druidries. And now long hours in the sweet woods
Dumb would she lie, and dream; amorous of the brooding sky,
And of the glorious sun, amorous of eve's lone star,
Amorous of the sighing winds, amorous of the whispering trees,
And the streams murmuring still that word of mystery: Love.

At last there came a day, her seventeenth summer flown,
When Conchobar beheld her glowing in his eye,
A woman grown, the bride of his long dream. He smiled,
Commanding Lavarcam to ply her woman's craft,
And charm with honeyed words the maiden's fancy now
To soar to royal heights, and circle round her King.

So next when Deirdrè came, a sadness in her eyes
That strove to fathom fate, questioning of Lavarcam:
‘Why do they keep me here, a captive, out of sight
Of the great world of deeds, where men contend with men,
And bards beholding find new splendid themes for song?’
No more did Lavarcam essay to put her by
With words to please a child, but cunningly answered her.
‘Show me your hand,’ she said, ‘I'll read your destiny.
The world will kiss that hand; for here, pulse of my heart,
High fortune waits for you, bound in your line of fate.
Ah Deirdrè, would you be the bride of a great King?’

‘A King?’ she said, and pride flamed in her answering eye,
To meet the call of her fate; the swelling of her soul
Heaved proudly her young breast, one moment. Then the blood
Fled from her cheek; she frowned and bent on Lavarcam
A flashing look, and stern, tenting her to the thought.
‘A King!’ she cried again, ‘Conchobar is a King:
Is it he? Is it for himself that he has mewed me here,
Like a tame falcon? Ay, I see it in your eyes.’

Then Lavarcam essayed with all her guile to lure
This wild hawk from her flight. Like honey from her lips
Words fair in promise fell in Deirdrè's angry ear.
‘Where'er she comes my pearl shall set her beauty's feet
On fairest necks,’ she vowed, ‘the necks of envious Queens

Out-rivalled! O'er the land sage harps shall sound your praise
At lordly ale-feasts where the voice of song is loud;
And you shall have withal the love of this great King!’

She spoke of the long love of royal Conchobar,
A steadfast-burning star, of radiance to outshine
The flame of meaner hearts: a great King in his prime,
The phantom fires of youth burnt out, the genial heat
Of his wise manhood all aglow for one rare maid,
Born for his bride! ‘Could maid sigh for a happier fate?’

‘For this ye have reared me, then!’ cried Deirdrè, white with scorn,
And fled in wrath to the woods. There in a ferny dell
She raged at Fate: ‘I—I, the bride of Conchobar!
Liars were the hopes of the day, liars the dreams of the night,
That never told me this! Sere are the leaves that hang
On that grey tree of love, now budding new for me,
The heart of Conchobar. Meave was a withered leaf
Blown by in passion's gust before my birth, and cold
Poor Enna mouldering lies. They are old songs, these loves
Of royal Conchobar, and now he sisters me
With wrinkled Meave, long since fled in the days of yore
Back to her father's house, for hatred of her lord.
I have no father. Oh! liars are the golden tales
So dear to memory, tales that tell how youth mates youth:
Some maid like me, some King like Conchobar—some youth,
Love's morning in his face, comes boldly ranging by;
Then troubles she no more the King's house with her sighs.
Who comes for me? Where roams my love?’ An eagle then
Swooped on a shuddering hare, stilling her shriek with death;
And Deirdrè saw, sighing, as, with the drooping thing
Gript in his talons, up the bird soared, and was gone.

‘There soars the great High-King,’ she mused, ‘and in his gripe
Holds my slain heart—no help for the weak things of the world!
I will be strong and bold, or, even though weak still bold;
No man in arms unloved shall wind me—better death!’

Thereat a questing wind came rustling through the leaves
Sering to Autumn, whirled a score away, and passed,
Seeming to whisper: ‘Death,’ in answer to her thought;
The word of mystery, Death, breathed where so lately breathed
The word of mystery, Love. And Deirdrè, sad and slow,
Paced through the murmuring wood back to her house of pine.

That Autumn Conchobar was absent in new wars
With vassal Kings, and left, his regent o'er the realm,
Fergus; but e'er he marched from Eman's Green ordained
His marriage for the Spring, and Deirdrè, grave and pale,
Received his trothal-gifts, and visit of farewell,
Bowing her to his will, it seemed, without a word.

But all that Autumn through sadly she looked, like one
Wandering in ways of gloom, and, dark to Lavarcam,
Brooded, and little spoke, save when at times she grew
Restless and sharp of tongue, and suddenly in her face
Would flash strange questions; then, ere the good dame surprised
Could find a smooth reply, would leave her where she stood,
And rush in sullen rage to scour the woods all day,
Hunting. She loved to prove her weapon's might on all
The noble beasts of chase; thinking within her heart
‘All things are strong or weak, cruel is life to the weak,
I will be strong,’ she ranged the woods on tireless feet,
While with her to the chase went Conchobar's great hound,
Congal, and with her went her foster-father, keen
To guard her from ill-hap, and proud to find his child
So apt in arms. And thus the Autumn passed away.

Meanwhile to Fergus came this word from the High-King:
That, even in Winter's teeth still obstinate in war,
Bide would he where he lay, in a strong place far off,
Waiting the Spring, to force the Kings from their last hold.

Then Winter fell, and long the land lay whelmed in snow;
And in the snow the wolves came prowling round the lake;
And Deirdrè, in fair fight, deft spear 'gainst furious fangs,
Slew more than one, laughing to see her grim grey foe
Rage his fierce life away in blood shed by her hand.

One day she chanced to pass with Lavarcam where lay
A beast new slain. And there a raven in the snow
Gorged the fresh blood. Thereat the fire in Deirdrè's breast
Long smouldering flamed in words, for its deep longing's sake
Defying all the world. Reckless of Lavarcam,
The sigh of her soul burst forth: ‘Black be my lover's hair
As yon bold raven's wing, the red and white in his cheek
Blend as yon blood and snow—none else shall have my love!’

New light shone in her eyes, her beauty glowed, new-born,
In her young passionate face. The heart of Lavarcam
Smiled in her; for it held old spite 'gainst Conchobar,
For slights the moody King, she deemed, had cast on her,
And Deirdrè she adored. ‘Fair fall your maiden choice!’
She said, humouring her charge. ‘That very man I know,
Naisi, old Usna's son—hair like the raven's wing,
And the pure colours blend more softly in his cheek
Than blood with snow. There walk, indeed, no better men
On the world's ridge, this day, than Usna's three stout Sons.
O, you should see the three, for sport, on Eman's Green,
Back to back, sword in hand, their shields before them thrown,
Hold all the Province, ranged against them, a full hour
In check with warlike play! Their leaping like the roe's

For lightness; and for weight their rushing like the bull's;
Their sword-play like the thrust of lightning when it strikes,
Unseen for swiftness! Hounds tireless they are in chase,
None swifter: in the plain they can run down the buck,
And take him by the horns alive. And great they are
In song, great harpers too; their music stills the storm,
Draws a man's heart from his breast, and charms the very cows
To brim the pails with milk, such flattery's in the sound.

‘Well, you are Conchobar's; but were I young this day
I could choose. Usna's sons can carry it with the best,
All three: Naisi the Bold, Ainli the Swift of Foot,
Ardàn of the Sweet Voice. For beauty—why they daunt
The eye that looks on them, like the sun's face in heaven!
But Naisi's King of them all, King of the three, for shape,
Beauty of face, and all that makes a man a man.
Why do I tell you this? Ah! sure such men as these
Make a poor woman's tongue break loose out of her head,
Even mine that should be curbed twice over here with you;
For you are Conchobar's, that's sure. But in his court
You must see men, the Sons of Usna with the rest;
But guard your heart, my child, ay, guard your heart, I say.’

Then Deirdrè sighed and said: ‘Till I have sight of him
You set so high, Naisi, I shall have ease no more.’
And slyly Lavarcam spoke in her ear: ‘Well, well,
Give us but smiles for sighs, you shall have sight of him.’

Spring came, and Conchobar, victorious in his wars,
Sent Conall Carnach first, leading the vanguard, home
Laden with spoil; and soon the flower of Eman's youth
Came with Cuchullin back; the King, with half his power,
Tarrying to fix his yoke on the submitted Kings.

So with Cuchullin came the sons of Usna home,
Naisi the Bold, Ainli the Swift of Foot, and last
Ardàn of the Sweet Voice. Anon came Lavarcam
Whispering in Deirdrè's ear: ‘The sun is back in heaven,
The lusty Spring is here, and Naisi's home again.
Now think on Conchobar; for you shall see my Love.’

And soon it chanced one day that Naisi's deer-hound ran
Into the King's close wood: the youth on eager foot
Followed her ere he knew, and coaxed her to the leash.
Then on the forest's bound, glad of the sunshine there,
In a wide furzy space, sweet with the breath of Spring,
Sat down awhile, to feel his heart of gladness leap
At Spring's first kiss. The lark sang in the sky, the blackbirds
Were warbling in the woods; and as he sat alone
He sang like any bird, as carelessly and loud.

But Lavarcam, whose craft followed his going, sure
As hound his master's trail, with word of where he lay
Sought Deirdrè, crying: ‘Come! The rarest bird of spring
Sings in the woods to-day!’ And swiftly to the woods
She led her from the field wherein she walked, a ball
Of cowslips in her hand—swiftly on fatal feet
Hurrying her away, to meet with Naisi, and her doom.

So they drew near the spot where Naisi in the furze
Still sat and sang; and Deirdrè, ere she saw him, heard
His voice filling the air with jubilant song. Her heart
Failed in the flood of sound, that seemed to claim the world
With its bold manhood: tears sprang in her eyes, her breast
Swelled, as she strove with some new rapture, wild to o'erleap
The bounds of the world. Anon, with an imperious hand,
Dismissing Lavarcam, forth, like an eaglet fledged,

That feels the mighty wind's keen summons in her wings,
And sinks upon the unknown abyss of air, she went
Forth from the woods; and straight to Naisi where he sat
Came, like a wild thing lured, looked on him, and passed by.

And Naisi, as she came, ceased from his song, amazed;
For, by him as she went, her beautiful wild face
Faintly aglow, the shy dews of a love new-born
Soft in her glorious eyes, she flashed on him a look
Wistful and strange. The youth sprang from his lair, and made
One step, as though his feet must follow her, murmuring low:
‘Fair is the doe that finds a covert in these woods!’

Thereat she suddenly turned, facing him with a smile,
And answered: ‘Foul or fair, what recks the doe, where hart
May never range?’ And Naisi knew Deirdrè, and stood
Abashed before the bride of Conchobar, whose face
Outshone its whispered fame. The frank unsullied blood
Of a young Irish chief, red in his cheek, proclaimed
His maiden soul, as there, gazing on her, he said,
Low, with a fervent awe: ‘A royal stag alone
Mates with a doe so fair, even the great stag whose range
This Province is, and he alone is worth her thought.’

At this, her heart no more fluttering from shy to bold,
But stung to one rash leap, Deirdrè with passionate tongue
Spake all her mind, crying: ‘No royal stag for me!
I choose the branchless hart, fit for my love: O thou,
Naisi, on whom these eyes ne'er fell till this great hour,
Thou art my love, my fate, thou—thou—not Conchobar!
Be thou my king, and thine for ever will I be,
Or let me die this day!’ Naisi amazed, as though
The sun out of the sky wooed him with passionate words,
Drew back, murmuring: ‘Nay, nay, Maiden, this cannot be;

For so should fall the curse that Cathvah's druid tongue
Foretold should come one day by thee upon this Land.’
She frowned. ‘In that ill word thou wouldst refuse my love?’
‘I must!’ sighed he, and stood before her with bowed head.

‘He scorns me!’ Deirdrè thought, and white with sudden wrath,
Flung in his face the ball of cowslips that she held,
Crying: ‘I thought to find Naisi the Bold, and find
A coward! Be this blow, dealt by a woman's hand,
Disgrace, through thy life's length!’ ‘Ah Deirdrè let me go!’
He answered, ‘or disgrace will fall upon thee first,
And this fair Land through thee.’ ‘Take then thy sword,’ she said,
‘And slay me now, and go—if go thou wilt. Here, here!’

She stood, her maiden breast heaving beneath her hand,
And proudly claimed the stroke. And Naisi, in the shame
Her dauntless passion bred, feeling that passion's flood
Surge over him like flame, blushed like a maid half-won,
And spoke not. Then her hand upon his arm she laid,
Saying: ‘Nay, take me hence, I charge thee—on thy vow
Ne'er to refuse thine aid to wretches in distress.’
And he: ‘Thou hast thy will. There was no other word
Could move me; for the sake of Ulla, that by us
Must suffer many woes. Yet I know well thy love
Is worth a world.’ They kissed, and Deirdrè spoke again:
‘I am a Druid's child, and Cathvah's secret lore
Is mine. Trust me the weird of Druids is no weird
For souls resolved and stern. Let kingdoms rise and fall,
But us two love.’ ‘Be it so,’ said Naisi, ‘O farewell
The Red Branch House, farewell to Eman's Green! To-night
We must be far away, alone, or with my Clan.’

He strode into the sun, and raised his rallying cry:
‘To my side, Clan Usna!’ And soon came bursting thro' the furze
Ainli, the Swift of Foot, and Ardàn. Naisi then
Took Deirdrè by the hand, and said: ‘Brothers, this day
My fate calls me in this fair woman ye see here,
Deirdrè, to whom my heart is bound with such a band
As only death can loose. Make ye your choice, of me
Or Conchobar.’ The twain were troubled at his words,
And Ainli said: ‘No need to speak of Conchobar:
We are thy men—thy kin, the seed of one great sire,
Of one dear mother born. But now where lies our way?
What thing is this thou dost? Bad were it any man
Our comrade of the Branch, board-sharer with us all,
Should, wounding thee, do well, wounding thee for thy fault!’

‘But Deirdrè,’ Naisi said, ‘has laid on me my vow,
That I shall take her hence. What must be, let it be.’
They sighed, and said: ‘Be it so! Evil will come of this,
Yet no disgrace be thine. There is no King so great,
Sits on the ridge of the world who would not see with joy
The shining of our swords come to him. Where we go
Great welcome shall we have. Farewell to Conchobar!’

To Deirdrè then they came and made her kiss their swords,
And kissed them after her. ‘Sword-sister shalt thou be
To Usna's sons, and blood our swords shall drink, ere tears
Redden thine eyes. Thy name, O Deirdrè, shall be dread
Unto thy foes.’ That night went Usna's three stout Sons,
And Deirdrè as the fourth, from Eman, with a band
Of three times fifty men, and three times fifty hounds,
Women and serving-men. Ere Fergus woke next morn,
The four were far away. So Deirdrè spurned the love
Of Conchobar, and fled with Naisi and his Clan.