 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
III. OISEEN'S YOUTH.
‘Patrick! thy priests do ill to jeer,
Not me, but Oscar's self, and Fionn:
Wise are they; but the dead are dear:
This deed is not well done.
Not me, but Oscar's self, and Fionn:
Wise are they; but the dead are dear:
This deed is not well done.
‘Who dares to say the king lies bound
By angel hosts in bonds abhorred?
Had these lain bound, great Fionn had found
And freed them with his sword!
By angel hosts in bonds abhorred?
Had these lain bound, great Fionn had found
And freed them with his sword!
‘Had Fionn but heard thine Eve lament
The apple stol'n—the curse on men—
For eric apples he had sent,
Shiploads threescore and ten!
The apple stol'n—the curse on men—
For eric apples he had sent,
Shiploads threescore and ten!
‘Likewise that Serpent slain had he!
Fionn ever said this way was best,
To kill the bad that killed should be,
And be loving to the rest.
Fionn ever said this way was best,
To kill the bad that killed should be,
And be loving to the rest.
178
Patrick, a pact with thee I make:
Because my warriors they deride
With thee to heaven my father take,
And leave thy priests outside!
Because my warriors they deride
With thee to heaven my father take,
And leave thy priests outside!
‘Patrick, this other boon I crave,
That I to thee in heaven may sing
Full loud the glories of the brave
To thee and Him, thy King!’
That I to thee in heaven may sing
Full loud the glories of the brave
To thee and Him, thy King!’
‘Oiseen, in heaven the praises swell
To God alone from Soul and Saint:—’
‘Then, Patrick, I their deeds will tell
In a little whisper faint!
To God alone from Soul and Saint:—’
‘Then, Patrick, I their deeds will tell
In a little whisper faint!
‘Who says that Fionn his sentence waits
In some dark realm, the thrall of sin?
Fionn would have burst that kingdom's gates,
Or ruled himself therein!’
In some dark realm, the thrall of sin?
Fionn would have burst that kingdom's gates,
Or ruled himself therein!’
‘Old man, have peace! To warriors true
None know what Grace in death is given:
Some served that Truth they never knew;
Some hail it first in heaven.
None know what Grace in death is given:
Some served that Truth they never knew;
Some hail it first in heaven.
‘Old man, for once thy chiefs forget—’
(Thus oft the Saint his rage beguiled):
‘Sing us thine own glad youth, while yet
A stripling, or a child.’
(Thus oft the Saint his rage beguiled):
‘Sing us thine own glad youth, while yet
A stripling, or a child.’
‘O Patrick, glad that time and dear!
It wrought no greatness, gained no gain;
Not less those things thou long'st to hear
Thou shalt not seek in vain.
It wrought no greatness, gained no gain;
Not less those things thou long'st to hear
Thou shalt not seek in vain.
179
‘My mother was a princess, turned
By magic to a milk-white doe:—
Such tale, a wondering child, I learned:
True was it? Who can know?
By magic to a milk-white doe:—
Such tale, a wondering child, I learned:
True was it? Who can know?
‘I know but this, that yet a boy,
I raced beside her like the wind:
We heard the hunter's horn with joy,
And left the pack behind.
I raced beside her like the wind:
We heard the hunter's horn with joy,
And left the pack behind.
‘A strength was mine that knew no bound,
A witless strength that nothing planned:
When came the hour, the deed I found
Unsought for in my hand.
A witless strength that nothing planned:
When came the hour, the deed I found
Unsought for in my hand.
‘Forth from a cave I stept at Beigh:
O'er mountain cliffs the loose clouds rushed:
With them I raced, and reached ere they
The loud seas sandhill-hushed.
O'er mountain cliffs the loose clouds rushed:
With them I raced, and reached ere they
The loud seas sandhill-hushed.
‘By Brandon's Head an eagle brown
O'erhung our wave-borne coracle:
I hurled at him my lance, and down
Like falling stars he fell.
O'erhung our wave-borne coracle:
I hurled at him my lance, and down
Like falling stars he fell.
‘On that green shore of Ardrakese
I made an untamed horse my slave,
And forced him far o'er heaving seas,
And reinless rode the wave.
I made an untamed horse my slave,
And forced him far o'er heaving seas,
And reinless rode the wave.
‘Methinks my brow I might have laid
Against a bull's, and there and then
Have pushed him backward up the glade,
And down the rocky glen!
Against a bull's, and there and then
Have pushed him backward up the glade,
And down the rocky glen!
180
‘So ran my youth through dark and bright
In deeds half jest. Their time is gone:
The glorious works of thoughtful might
For Oscar were and Fionn!
In deeds half jest. Their time is gone:
The glorious works of thoughtful might
For Oscar were and Fionn!
‘Where met the hosts in mirth I fought:
My war-fields still with revel rang:
My sword with such a God was fraught
That while it smote it sang!
My war-fields still with revel rang:
My sword with such a God was fraught
That while it smote it sang!
‘My spear, unbidden to my hand
Leaped, hawk-wise, for the battle's sake:
Forth launched, it flashed along the land
With music in its wake.
Leaped, hawk-wise, for the battle's sake:
Forth launched, it flashed along the land
With music in its wake.
‘I bore a shield so charged and stored
With rage and yearnings for the fight,
When foes drew near it shook, and roared
Like breakers in the night:
With rage and yearnings for the fight,
When foes drew near it shook, and roared
Like breakers in the night:
‘But when at last the iron feast
Of war its hungry heart had stilled,
It murmured like a whispering priest
Or frothing pail new-filled!’
Of war its hungry heart had stilled,
It murmured like a whispering priest
Or frothing pail new-filled!’
‘Say, knew'st thou never fear or awe?’
Thus Patrick; and the Bard replied,
‘Yea, once: for once a man I saw
Who—not in battle—died!
Thus Patrick; and the Bard replied,
‘Yea, once: for once a man I saw
Who—not in battle—died!
‘I sang the things I loved; the fight;
The chance inspired that all decides;
That pause of death, when Fate and Flight
Drag back the battle tides:
The chance inspired that all decides;
That pause of death, when Fate and Flight
Drag back the battle tides:
181
‘The swords that blent their lightnings blue;
The midnight march; the city's sack:
The advancing ridge of spears that threw
The levelled sunrise back.
The midnight march; the city's sack:
The advancing ridge of spears that threw
The levelled sunrise back.
‘And yet my harp could still the storm,
Redeem the babe from magic blight,
Restore to human heart and form
The unhappy spell-bound knight.
Redeem the babe from magic blight,
Restore to human heart and form
The unhappy spell-bound knight.
‘And some could hear a sobbing hind
Among my chords; and some would swear
They heard that kiss of branch and wind
That lulled the wild-deer's lair!
Among my chords; and some would swear
They heard that kiss of branch and wind
That lulled the wild-deer's lair!
‘I sang not lusts: where base men thronged
I sat not, neither harped for gold:
My song no gracious foeman wronged,
No woman's secret told.
I sat not, neither harped for gold:
My song no gracious foeman wronged,
No woman's secret told.
‘I sang not hate: with healing breath
Gladness of heaven my harp-strings flung
On bosoms true, but shamed to death
False heart, and ruthless tongue.
Gladness of heaven my harp-strings flung
On bosoms true, but shamed to death
False heart, and ruthless tongue.
‘I sang not lies: amid the flocks
I sang when sunset flushed the spray,
Or when the white moon scaled the rocks
And glared upon the bay.
I sang when sunset flushed the spray,
Or when the white moon scaled the rocks
And glared upon the bay.
‘My stately music I rehearsed
On shadowing cliffs, when, far below,
In rolled the moon-necked wave and burst
And changed black shores to snow.
On shadowing cliffs, when, far below,
In rolled the moon-necked wave and burst
And changed black shores to snow.
182
‘But now I tread a darker brink:
Far down, unfriendlier waters moan:
And now of vanished times I think:
Now of that bourn unknown.
Far down, unfriendlier waters moan:
And now of vanished times I think:
Now of that bourn unknown.
‘I strike my harp; I make good cheer:
Yet scarce myself can catch its sound:
I see but phantoms bending near
When feasters press around.
Yet scarce myself can catch its sound:
I see but phantoms bending near
When feasters press around.
‘Say, Patrick of the mystic lore,
Shall I, when this old head lies low,
My Oscar see, and Fionn, once more,
And race beside that Doe?’
Shall I, when this old head lies low,
My Oscar see, and Fionn, once more,
And race beside that Doe?’
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |