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 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
188
VII. OISEEN'S VISION.
As, dim through snowy flakes, the dawn
Peered o'er the moorlands frore,
The old, snow-headed Bard, Oiseen,
Sat by the convent door.
Peered o'er the moorlands frore,
The old, snow-headed Bard, Oiseen,
Sat by the convent door.
His chin he propped on that clenched hand
Of old in battles feared:
And like a silver flood far-kenned
Down streamed to earth his beard.
Of old in battles feared:
And like a silver flood far-kenned
Down streamed to earth his beard.
That sun his eyes could see no more
Their thin lids loved to feel:
It rose; and on his cheek a tear
Began to uncongeal.
Their thin lids loved to feel:
It rose; and on his cheek a tear
Began to uncongeal.
Then slowly thus he spake: ‘Three times
This thought has come to me,
Patrick, that I am older thrice
Than I am famed to be:
This thought has come to me,
Patrick, that I am older thrice
Than I am famed to be:
‘For on the ruins of that house,
Once stately to behold,
Where feasted Fionn the king, there sighs
A wood of alders old.
Once stately to behold,
Where feasted Fionn the king, there sighs
A wood of alders old.
‘And on my Oscar's grave three elms
Have risen, and mouldered three;
And by my father's cairn the oak
Is now a hollow tree.
Have risen, and mouldered three;
And by my father's cairn the oak
Is now a hollow tree.
189
‘Patrick, of me they noised a tale,
That down beneath a lake
A hundred years I lived, unchanged,
For a Faery Lady's sake:
That down beneath a lake
A hundred years I lived, unchanged,
For a Faery Lady's sake:
‘They said that, home when I returned,
The men I loved were dead;
And that the whiteness fell that hour
Like snow upon my head.
The men I loved were dead;
And that the whiteness fell that hour
Like snow upon my head.
‘That was a dream of mine in youth—
The witless deemed it true:
Far other dream was mine in age:
A dream that no man knew.
The witless deemed it true:
Far other dream was mine in age:
A dream that no man knew.
‘For though I sang of things loved well,
I hid the things loved best:—
Patrick, to thee that later dream
This day shall be confessed.
I hid the things loved best:—
Patrick, to thee that later dream
This day shall be confessed.
‘On Gahbra's field my Oscar fell:
Last died my father, Fionn:
The wind went o'er their grassy mounds;
I heard it, and lived on.
Last died my father, Fionn:
The wind went o'er their grassy mounds;
I heard it, and lived on.
‘I loved no more the lark by Lee,
Nor yet the battle-cry;
For that cause in a dell, one day,
I laid me down to die.
Nor yet the battle-cry;
For that cause in a dell, one day,
I laid me down to die.
‘The cold went on into my heart:
Methought that I lay dead:
Yet knew I that two angels waved
Their wings above my head.
Methought that I lay dead:
Yet knew I that two angels waved
Their wings above my head.
190
‘They spake, “This man, for Erin's sake
Shall tarry here an age—
Till He Who died to Erin comes—
In this still hermitage:
Shall tarry here an age—
Till He Who died to Erin comes—
In this still hermitage:
‘“That so, ere yet that great old time
Is wholly gone and past,
Her manlier with her saintly day
May blend in bridal fast.
Is wholly gone and past,
Her manlier with her saintly day
May blend in bridal fast.
‘“And since of deadly deeds he sang
Above him we will sing
The Death that saved: and we from him
Will keep the gadfly's sting.
Above him we will sing
The Death that saved: and we from him
Will keep the gadfly's sting.
‘“For him an age, for us an hour,
Here, like a cradled child,
Shall sleep the man whose hand was red,
Whose heart was undefiled.”
Here, like a cradled child,
Shall sleep the man whose hand was red,
Whose heart was undefiled.”
‘Patrick! That vision, was it truth?
Or fancy's mocking gleam?
That I should tarry till He came—
'Twas not, 'twas not a dream!
Or fancy's mocking gleam?
That I should tarry till He came—
'Twas not, 'twas not a dream!
‘And wondrous is mine age, I know;
For whiter than the thorn
Was this once-honoured head, ere yet
The men now white were born:
For whiter than the thorn
Was this once-honoured head, ere yet
The men now white were born:
‘And on my Oscar's grave three elms
Have risen, and mouldered three;
And on my father's grave, the oak
Is now a hollow tree.
Have risen, and mouldered three;
And on my father's grave, the oak
Is now a hollow tree.
191
Then said the monks, ‘His brain is hurt:’
But Patrick said, ‘They lie!
Thou God that lov'st thy grey-haired child,
Would I for him might die!’
But Patrick said, ‘They lie!
Thou God that lov'st thy grey-haired child,
Would I for him might die!’
And Patrick cried, ‘Oiseen! the thirst
Of God is in thy breast!
He who has dealt thy heart the wound
Ere long will give it rest!’
Of God is in thy breast!
He who has dealt thy heart the wound
Ere long will give it rest!’
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |