 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
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BOOK III. THE COMBAT AT THE FORD.
ARGUMENT.
Meave sends her herald to Ferdīa the Firbolg, requiring him to engage with Cuchullain in single combat. Ferdīa refuses to fight against his friend; yet, later, he attends a royal banquet given in his honour; and there, being drawn aside through the witcheries of the Princess Finobar, he consents to the fight. The charioteer of Ferdīa sees Cuchullain advancing in his warcar to the Ford, and, rapt by a prophetic spirit, sings his triumph. For two days the ancient friends contend against each other with remorse: but on the third day the battle-rage bursts fully forth: and on the fourth, Cuchullain, himself pierced through with wounds, slays Ferdīa by the Gae-Bulg. He lays his friend upon the bank, and, standing beside him, sings his dirge.
Meantime the queen, ere dawned that ninetieth morn,
Mused, ill at ease: ‘Daily my people die,
And many a stormy brow on me is bent:—
What if they turn on me like starving hounds
That rend their huntsman?’ In her ear once more
Sounded the word of Cailitin: ‘The man
To fight Cuchullain is the man he loves:
His death were death to both.’ Then came the kings
Confederate, saying, ‘Send Ferdīa forth!
Ferdīa is the mightiest of our host:
Ferdīa is Cuchullain's chief of friends:
Westward of Alba in the Isle of Skye
Scatha, that rock-browed northern warrioress,
In amplest lore of battles trained them both:
Except the Gae-Bulg, every feat of arms
Is known to each alike.’
Mused, ill at ease: ‘Daily my people die,
And many a stormy brow on me is bent:—
What if they turn on me like starving hounds
That rend their huntsman?’ In her ear once more
Sounded the word of Cailitin: ‘The man
To fight Cuchullain is the man he loves:
His death were death to both.’ Then came the kings
Confederate, saying, ‘Send Ferdīa forth!
Ferdīa is the mightiest of our host:
Ferdīa is Cuchullain's chief of friends:
Westward of Alba in the Isle of Skye
Scatha, that rock-browed northern warrioress,
In amplest lore of battles trained them both:
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Is known to each alike.’
The queen gave way:
She sent her herald to the man she scorned
With offers huge, tract vaster than his own,
Not barren like his mountains billow-beat,
But laughing in the lap of Ai's plains;
A war-car deftly carved and ribbed with brass;
And, for his clansmen, raiment of all dyes,
Twelve suits. A stalwart man yet fair as strong
The Firbolg towered, dark-eyed, dark-haired, palefaced,
Unlike the Gael. Melodious was his voice
But deeper than a lion's. Ceaseless thought
On immemorial wrongs—he brooded still
O'er glories of Moytura and Tailltenn,
Their great assemblies and their solemn games,
And kingly graves—had stamped upon his brow
Perpetual shade; and ever, on the march
If high on crags there stood some Gaelic tomb
Wind-worn a thousand years, he passed it by
With face averse, muttering, ‘New men! New men!
We note not such!’ The herald's task discharged,
He answered thus, not turning: ‘Tell your queen
That I, a Firbolg, serve, but not for hire,
A cause not mine. Cuchullain is my friend:
Better I died than he!’
She sent her herald to the man she scorned
With offers huge, tract vaster than his own,
Not barren like his mountains billow-beat,
But laughing in the lap of Ai's plains;
A war-car deftly carved and ribbed with brass;
And, for his clansmen, raiment of all dyes,
Twelve suits. A stalwart man yet fair as strong
The Firbolg towered, dark-eyed, dark-haired, palefaced,
Unlike the Gael. Melodious was his voice
But deeper than a lion's. Ceaseless thought
On immemorial wrongs—he brooded still
O'er glories of Moytura and Tailltenn,
Their great assemblies and their solemn games,
And kingly graves—had stamped upon his brow
Perpetual shade; and ever, on the march
If high on crags there stood some Gaelic tomb
Wind-worn a thousand years, he passed it by
With face averse, muttering, ‘New men! New men!
We note not such!’ The herald's task discharged,
He answered thus, not turning: ‘Tell your queen
That I, a Firbolg, serve, but not for hire,
A cause not mine. Cuchullain is my friend:
Better I died than he!’
O'er-awed though wroth
The queen despatched in statelier embassage
Three warriors, and three ollambs, and three bards:
With reverence they addressed him. ‘Chief and Prince!
True prince, though scion of a house deject,
The queen, who judges all men by their deeds,
This day hath in thine honour made a feast
And sues to it thy presence. Kings alone
Partake that banquet; Ailill first, and she
Of princesses the fairest, Finobar!’
Scornful the Firbolg answered, ‘Finobar!
She whose bright face hath frosted with death's white
Full four score faces of war-breathing men
Sent to that Ford successive! Let it be!
Tell them I join their feast: tell them beside
Their bribe shall prove base gold!’
The queen despatched in statelier embassage
Three warriors, and three ollambs, and three bards:
With reverence they addressed him. ‘Chief and Prince!
True prince, though scion of a house deject,
The queen, who judges all men by their deeds,
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And sues to it thy presence. Kings alone
Partake that banquet; Ailill first, and she
Of princesses the fairest, Finobar!’
Scornful the Firbolg answered, ‘Finobar!
She whose bright face hath frosted with death's white
Full four score faces of war-breathing men
Sent to that Ford successive! Let it be!
Tell them I join their feast: tell them beside
Their bribe shall prove base gold!’
In mantle blue
Clasped by a silver torque, and silver belt
Enringed with silver rings innumerable,
That evening from his tent Ferdīa strode
With large attendance. Ailill and the queen
Received him on their threshold. At the board
Princes alone had place. High up, o'er each
Glittered upon the wall his blazoned shield.
King Ailill placed Ferdīa on his right;
Beyond him sat the Princess. In her ear
Her mother whispered as she neared that seat:
She answered with her eyes.
Clasped by a silver torque, and silver belt
Enringed with silver rings innumerable,
That evening from his tent Ferdīa strode
With large attendance. Ailill and the queen
Received him on their threshold. At the board
Princes alone had place. High up, o'er each
Glittered upon the wall his blazoned shield.
King Ailill placed Ferdīa on his right;
Beyond him sat the Princess. In her ear
Her mother whispered as she neared that seat:
She answered with her eyes.
Well-stricken harp
Gladdened that festive throng; and Ailill told,
The rage of hunger lessening by degrees,
Full many a tale of the heroic past,
When, youthful yet, he ranged 'mid friends and foes
Such men as breathed no longer. Servitors
Brimmed oft the goblets: and Ferdīa's brow,
As song to song succeeded, tale to tale,
Remitted its first sternness. Finobar
Unconsciously had dropp'd her jewelled hand
Not far from his: her large and dusky eyes,
Shyly at first from his withdrawn, at last
Full frankly met them: on her lips the smile
Increased, though waveringly, then waned, not died,
And in it sadness mingled as she spake:
‘But late yon harper told us of a dream—
My earliest of remembered dreams was sad;
I saw some princess of your earlier stock
Whose lover late had perished, slain in fight
By ours, methought then recent. At her feet—
Why there I scarcely know—I made lament:
“All thou hast lost for thy sake I renounce:
For me, like thee, no bridal rites forever!
Dead on thy marriage garland lies mine own;
For lo! the stain accursed is on our sword:
Thy race came first: this Island should be theirs!”’
Ferdīa listened; and the icy pride
Thawed in his bosom. With a sudden change
The jubilant music into martial soared,
Wild battle-chaunt. Upon the warrior's hand
Still nigh to hers, there lay a scar. With eye
Reverently dewed the princess gazed thereon:
‘Yes, of your war-deeds I have heard so long,
It seems as though since childhood—Whence that wound?
What battle left it there? What sister bound it?
I would that sister were my sister too,
Partaker of my heart, my hope, my life:
I have no youthful friend!’ She paused: again
But now with paler cheek, and hurried, spake:
‘Beware my mother! She would send you forth
Her knight to meet Cuchullain! Shun that man!
Cuchullain spares not: four score warriors dead
Avouch it. Chief of Gaels he is! Ah me!
The last great battle 'twixt the old race and new
Would find the same sad ending as the first.’
The Firbolg frowned: she faltered, ‘Am I false,
False to my race’—and tears were in her voice—
‘False to my race, who cannot wish such ending?’
She paused; again she questioned of his wars:
He told her of his sire's. Like one who thinks
Not speaks, she murmured low, ‘A soothsayer
Thus warned my mother—I was then a child—
“Bring not that maid to war-fields! She shall die
Grieving for some dead warrior.”’
Gladdened that festive throng; and Ailill told,
The rage of hunger lessening by degrees,
Full many a tale of the heroic past,
When, youthful yet, he ranged 'mid friends and foes
Such men as breathed no longer. Servitors
Brimmed oft the goblets: and Ferdīa's brow,
As song to song succeeded, tale to tale,
Remitted its first sternness. Finobar
Unconsciously had dropp'd her jewelled hand
Not far from his: her large and dusky eyes,
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Full frankly met them: on her lips the smile
Increased, though waveringly, then waned, not died,
And in it sadness mingled as she spake:
‘But late yon harper told us of a dream—
My earliest of remembered dreams was sad;
I saw some princess of your earlier stock
Whose lover late had perished, slain in fight
By ours, methought then recent. At her feet—
Why there I scarcely know—I made lament:
“All thou hast lost for thy sake I renounce:
For me, like thee, no bridal rites forever!
Dead on thy marriage garland lies mine own;
For lo! the stain accursed is on our sword:
Thy race came first: this Island should be theirs!”’
Ferdīa listened; and the icy pride
Thawed in his bosom. With a sudden change
The jubilant music into martial soared,
Wild battle-chaunt. Upon the warrior's hand
Still nigh to hers, there lay a scar. With eye
Reverently dewed the princess gazed thereon:
‘Yes, of your war-deeds I have heard so long,
It seems as though since childhood—Whence that wound?
What battle left it there? What sister bound it?
I would that sister were my sister too,
Partaker of my heart, my hope, my life:
I have no youthful friend!’ She paused: again
But now with paler cheek, and hurried, spake:
‘Beware my mother! She would send you forth
Her knight to meet Cuchullain! Shun that man!
Cuchullain spares not: four score warriors dead
Avouch it. Chief of Gaels he is! Ah me!
The last great battle 'twixt the old race and new
244
The Firbolg frowned: she faltered, ‘Am I false,
False to my race’—and tears were in her voice—
‘False to my race, who cannot wish such ending?’
She paused; again she questioned of his wars:
He told her of his sire's. Like one who thinks
Not speaks, she murmured low, ‘A soothsayer
Thus warned my mother—I was then a child—
“Bring not that maid to war-fields! She shall die
Grieving for some dead warrior.”’
Speaking thus,
Though false the princess lied not.
Though false the princess lied not.
Changed once more
The martial songs to amorous and of mirth,
And once again the torches' golden flame
Laughed on the cup new-brimmed. Again she spake
That lovesome one, ‘I love not songs of love!
Better the war-song! Best, methinks, of all
That lullaby half war and sorrow half
Breathed by some bride while o'er her wounded lord
Softly descends the sleep:—so softly sank
Cold dews of evening on this flower still wet.’
She took it from her breast, and held it near:
He smelt it; kissed it; kept it. With a smile
She added, ‘For your sister? Have you one?
If so, 'tis likely she resembles me:
They chide me oft: “No Gaelic face is thine,
Dark-eyed, dark-browed, a rebel since its birth!”’
She ceased; again she spake: ‘Even now, methinks,
That lullaby I spake of I can hear!
Is it for thee, my friend, or Cuchullain?’
That hand, of flower amerced, drew nearer yet
To his. That smile had passed. Tearful she turned
On him those luminaries of love and death,
Her eyes, like stars in midnight waters glassed;
Turned them, but spake no longer. Through his brain
Shivered their shrouded lustre; through his blood:
The sanguine currents from the warrior's heart
Long sad, to female sympathies unused,
Drank up at once that splendour, and the tears
That splendour's strange eclipse.
The martial songs to amorous and of mirth,
And once again the torches' golden flame
Laughed on the cup new-brimmed. Again she spake
That lovesome one, ‘I love not songs of love!
Better the war-song! Best, methinks, of all
That lullaby half war and sorrow half
Breathed by some bride while o'er her wounded lord
Softly descends the sleep:—so softly sank
Cold dews of evening on this flower still wet.’
She took it from her breast, and held it near:
He smelt it; kissed it; kept it. With a smile
She added, ‘For your sister? Have you one?
If so, 'tis likely she resembles me:
They chide me oft: “No Gaelic face is thine,
Dark-eyed, dark-browed, a rebel since its birth!”’
She ceased; again she spake: ‘Even now, methinks,
That lullaby I spake of I can hear!
Is it for thee, my friend, or Cuchullain?’
That hand, of flower amerced, drew nearer yet
To his. That smile had passed. Tearful she turned
On him those luminaries of love and death,
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Turned them, but spake no longer. Through his brain
Shivered their shrouded lustre; through his blood:
The sanguine currents from the warrior's heart
Long sad, to female sympathies unused,
Drank up at once that splendour, and the tears
That splendour's strange eclipse.
And yet, that hour,
Seen in some lonelier region of his soul
Another presence, O how different, stood!
Again, that hour, he saw those guileless eyes,
Blue as the seas they gazed on; saw once more
That hair like winter sunshine, brow snow-white,
That unvoluptuous form and virginal,
That love-unwakened breast with love for all,
Those hands that knew not what their touch conferred,
Those blithesome, wave-washed, scarce divided feet:—
The huge cliff smiled upon her; seemed to say,
‘Ah little nursling mine! Ah tender child
Of winds and rocks untender!’
Seen in some lonelier region of his soul
Another presence, O how different, stood!
Again, that hour, he saw those guileless eyes,
Blue as the seas they gazed on; saw once more
That hair like winter sunshine, brow snow-white,
That unvoluptuous form and virginal,
That love-unwakened breast with love for all,
Those hands that knew not what their touch conferred,
Those blithesome, wave-washed, scarce divided feet:—
The huge cliff smiled upon her; seemed to say,
‘Ah little nursling mine! Ah tender child
Of winds and rocks untender!’
Had he loved?
Sadness is celibate and eremite:
His converse long had been with injuries past,
In Scatha's isle with frowning crags and clouds—
Ay, but with one beside, a friend, his nearest,
Who loved the daughter of that warrioress
And won Ferdīa's help in love. Ferdīa
Had never spoken love; nor thought, ‘I love:’
And yet, that hour, was false.
Sadness is celibate and eremite:
His converse long had been with injuries past,
In Scatha's isle with frowning crags and clouds—
Ay, but with one beside, a friend, his nearest,
Who loved the daughter of that warrioress
And won Ferdīa's help in love. Ferdīa
Had never spoken love; nor thought, ‘I love:’
And yet, that hour, was false.
A hundred harps
Rang out together, and the feast was o'er:
Murmured the rose-red lips; but what they said
He heard not. Mournfully at last withdrew
That hand so near to his—he had not touched it—
Those eyes, like eyes fated thenceforth to bear
One image on till death. She joined her mother.
Rang out together, and the feast was o'er:
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He heard not. Mournfully at last withdrew
That hand so near to his—he had not touched it—
Those eyes, like eyes fated thenceforth to bear
One image on till death. She joined her mother.
The queen, as he departed, took his hand:
Alone they stood: she spake: ‘That noble scorn
Which spurned a bribe, approves a Firbolg's worth:
'Twas Ailill sent that herald: 'twas not I.
I know you now, and proffer royal terms
Confirmed by guarantee of all our kings:
Accept this combat; and the princess wed!
Ferdīa! I have made that offer thrice
To three dead warriors with the king's consent,
Never, till now, with hers!’
Alone they stood: she spake: ‘That noble scorn
Which spurned a bribe, approves a Firbolg's worth:
'Twas Ailill sent that herald: 'twas not I.
I know you now, and proffer royal terms
Confirmed by guarantee of all our kings:
Accept this combat; and the princess wed!
Ferdīa! I have made that offer thrice
To three dead warriors with the king's consent,
Never, till now, with hers!’
He pledged his word:
The battle day was fixed; the morrow morn:
She took that glittering torque whose splendours clasped
Her mantle red; with it his mantle bound:
Then with attendance to his tent he passed.
The battle day was fixed; the morrow morn:
She took that glittering torque whose splendours clasped
Her mantle red; with it his mantle bound:
Then with attendance to his tent he passed.
Meantime, that night within his forest lair
In dreams Cuchullain lay, and saw in dreams,
Not recent fights, but ocean and that isle
Where with Ferdīa he had dwelt in youth,
With Scatha—and another—loved, yet left.
He mused: ‘The dearest of my friends survives:
These wars will pass; Ferdīa then and I
Thenceforth are one for aye!’ That self-same hour
The Firbolg slowly woke from troubled sleep
Murmuring as one in trance, ‘Against my friend!
Against my only friend!’ His clansmen watched
With gloomy brows his arming. One sole man
They feared—that man Cuchullain. Morn the while
Was dawning, though she raised nor glowing cheek
Nor ardent eyes, with silver wand not gold
Striking the unkindling portals of the East;
And, ere the sun had ris'n, Ferdīa bathed
Three times his forehead in the frosty stream;
And bade his charioteer attend; and drave
Begirt by stateliest equipage of war
Down to the river's brim. In regal pomp
The host confederate followed, keen to watch
With Meave, and Ailill, and with Finobar,
All passions of a fight unmatched till then
On war-fields of the immemorial world;
While clustered here and there, on rock or mound,
Minstrel and food-purveyor, groom and leech
With healing herbs, and charms.
In dreams Cuchullain lay, and saw in dreams,
Not recent fights, but ocean and that isle
Where with Ferdīa he had dwelt in youth,
With Scatha—and another—loved, yet left.
He mused: ‘The dearest of my friends survives:
These wars will pass; Ferdīa then and I
Thenceforth are one for aye!’ That self-same hour
The Firbolg slowly woke from troubled sleep
Murmuring as one in trance, ‘Against my friend!
Against my only friend!’ His clansmen watched
With gloomy brows his arming. One sole man
They feared—that man Cuchullain. Morn the while
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Nor ardent eyes, with silver wand not gold
Striking the unkindling portals of the East;
And, ere the sun had ris'n, Ferdīa bathed
Three times his forehead in the frosty stream;
And bade his charioteer attend; and drave
Begirt by stateliest equipage of war
Down to the river's brim. In regal pomp
The host confederate followed, keen to watch
With Meave, and Ailill, and with Finobar,
All passions of a fight unmatched till then
On war-fields of the immemorial world;
While clustered here and there, on rock or mound,
Minstrel and food-purveyor, groom and leech
With healing herbs, and charms.
The sun arose
And smote the forest roof dew-saturate
As onward dashed through woodlands to the Ford
Cuchullain's war-car. Nearer soon it rolled
Crushing the rocks. Above those wondrous steeds
That Great One glittered through low mist of morn,
Splendour gloom-veiled. Ferdīa's charioteer
Half heard, half saw him. Spirit-rapt, yet awed,
Perforce thus sang he standing near the marge:
And smote the forest roof dew-saturate
As onward dashed through woodlands to the Ford
Cuchullain's war-car. Nearer soon it rolled
Crushing the rocks. Above those wondrous steeds
That Great One glittered through low mist of morn,
Splendour gloom-veiled. Ferdīa's charioteer
Half heard, half saw him. Spirit-rapt, yet awed,
Perforce thus sang he standing near the marge:
‘I hear the on-rushing of the Car! I see
There throned that warrior not of mortal mould
Swathed in the morning. Dreadful are his wheels;
Dreadful as breaker arched, when on its crest
Stands Fear, and Fate upon the rock-strewn shore:
But not sea-rocks they crush, those brazen wheels,
But realms, and peoples, and the necks of men.
There throned that warrior not of mortal mould
Swathed in the morning. Dreadful are his wheels;
Dreadful as breaker arched, when on its crest
Stands Fear, and Fate upon the rock-strewn shore:
But not sea-rocks they crush, those brazen wheels,
But realms, and peoples, and the necks of men.
‘I see the War-Car! Terrible it comes,
Four-peaked; and o'er those peaks a shadowy pall
Pavilioning dim crypt and caves of death:
I see it by the gleam of spears high held,
The glare of circling Spirits. Lo! the same
I saw far northward drifting, months gone by,
Ere yet that madness quelled the northern land.’
Four-peaked; and o'er those peaks a shadowy pall
Pavilioning dim crypt and caves of death:
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The glare of circling Spirits. Lo! the same
I saw far northward drifting, months gone by,
Ere yet that madness quelled the northern land.’
Then cried Ferdīa, stationed where huge trees
Shut out unwelcome vision: ‘For a bribe
Thou seest these portents, singing of my death!’
Shut out unwelcome vision: ‘For a bribe
Thou seest these portents, singing of my death!’
Once more, in agony prophetic, he—
‘The man within that car is Uladh's Hound!
What hound? No stag-hound of the storm-swept hills:
No watch-hound watching by a merchant's store:
The hound he is that tracks the steps of doom;
The hound of realms o'er-run, and hosts that fly;
The hound that laps the blood!’
‘The man within that car is Uladh's Hound!
What hound? No stag-hound of the storm-swept hills:
No watch-hound watching by a merchant's store:
The hound he is that tracks the steps of doom;
The hound of realms o'er-run, and hosts that fly;
The hound that laps the blood!’
Again he sang:
‘The Hound of Uladh is a hound with wings;
A hound man-headed! Yea, and o'er that head
Victory and empire, like two eagles paired,
Sail onward, tempest-pinioned. Endless morn
Before him fleeting over seas and lands,
With shaft retorted lights his chariot-beam.
That chariot stays not, turns not: on it comes
Like torrent shooting from a tall cliff's brow,
Level long time; then downward borne!’
‘The Hound of Uladh is a hound with wings;
A hound man-headed! Yea, and o'er that head
Victory and empire, like two eagles paired,
Sail onward, tempest-pinioned. Endless morn
Before him fleeting over seas and lands,
With shaft retorted lights his chariot-beam.
That chariot stays not, turns not: on it comes
Like torrent shooting from a tall cliff's brow,
Level long time; then downward borne!’
‘A bribe!’
Once more Ferdīa cried; ‘A bribe! a lie!
Traitor! for Ailill's gold and gold of Meave,
Thou sing'st thy master's death-song!’
Once more Ferdīa cried; ‘A bribe! a lie!
Traitor! for Ailill's gold and gold of Meave,
Thou sing'st thy master's death-song!’
By the stream
Cuchullain stood: nor yet he knew his foe:
That foe who slowly to the Ford advanced
Full panoplied, and in his hand a spear.
Long gazed they each on each. Cuchullain spake:
‘Welcome howe'er thou com'st, Ferdīa! Once
In Scatha's Isle far otherwise thou camest
Morn after morn with tidings fresh of war,
Plaything and pastime of our brother brands.
This day thou com'st invader of my land
Murthemné, bulwark broad of Uladh's realm;
Thou com'st to burn my cities, spoil my flocks—
A change there is, Ferdīa!’ Stern of brow
The Firbolg answered: ‘Friends we were; not peers:
The younger thou. 'Twas thine to yoke my steeds;
Arm me for fight. A stripling hopes this day
With brandished spear to make a mountain flee!
Son of the Gael! long centuries since, thy race
Trampled my race: their vengeance hour is near:
I bid thee to depart!’ To him his friend:
‘Ferdīa, in the old days on Scatha's Isle
Thou wert my tribe, my house, my stock, my race!
Questioned I then on battle-plain, or when
On frosty nights we crouched beneath one rug,
Ancestral claims, traditions of the clan?—
A change there is, Ferdīa!’
Cuchullain stood: nor yet he knew his foe:
That foe who slowly to the Ford advanced
Full panoplied, and in his hand a spear.
Long gazed they each on each. Cuchullain spake:
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In Scatha's Isle far otherwise thou camest
Morn after morn with tidings fresh of war,
Plaything and pastime of our brother brands.
This day thou com'st invader of my land
Murthemné, bulwark broad of Uladh's realm;
Thou com'st to burn my cities, spoil my flocks—
A change there is, Ferdīa!’ Stern of brow
The Firbolg answered: ‘Friends we were; not peers:
The younger thou. 'Twas thine to yoke my steeds;
Arm me for fight. A stripling hopes this day
With brandished spear to make a mountain flee!
Son of the Gael! long centuries since, thy race
Trampled my race: their vengeance hour is near:
I bid thee to depart!’ To him his friend:
‘Ferdīa, in the old days on Scatha's Isle
Thou wert my tribe, my house, my stock, my race!
Questioned I then on battle-plain, or when
On frosty nights we crouched beneath one rug,
Ancestral claims, traditions of the clan?—
A change there is, Ferdīa!’
Thus with words
Or mild, or stern, in hope to save not slay,
Those friends contended. Sternest was the man
Whose conscience most aggrieved him.
Or mild, or stern, in hope to save not slay,
Those friends contended. Sternest was the man
Whose conscience most aggrieved him.
‘To this Ford
Thou cam'st the first, old comrade! choice of arms
Is therefore thine by right!’ Cuchullain spake:
Ferdīa chose the javelin. Arrow-swift,
While still the charioteers brought back the shaft,
The missiles flew. Keen-eyed as ocean-bird
That, high in sunshine poised, glimpses his prey
Beneath the wave, and downward swooping slays him,
Each watched the other's movements, if an arm
Lifted too high, or buckler dropped too low
Left bare a rivet. Long that fight endured:
Three times exhausted sank their hands: three times
They sat on rocks for respite, each the other
Eying askance, not silent: ‘Lo the man
Who shields an ox-like or a swine-like race
That strikes no blow itself!’ or thus: ‘Ah pledge
Of amity eterne in old time sworn!
Ferdīa, vow thy vow henceforth to maids!
The man-race nothing heeds thee!’
Thou cam'st the first, old comrade! choice of arms
Is therefore thine by right!’ Cuchullain spake:
Ferdīa chose the javelin. Arrow-swift,
While still the charioteers brought back the shaft,
The missiles flew. Keen-eyed as ocean-bird
That, high in sunshine poised, glimpses his prey
Beneath the wave, and downward swooping slays him,
Each watched the other's movements, if an arm
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Left bare a rivet. Long that fight endured:
Three times exhausted sank their hands: three times
They sat on rocks for respite, each the other
Eying askance, not silent: ‘Lo the man
Who shields an ox-like or a swine-like race
That strikes no blow itself!’ or thus: ‘Ah pledge
Of amity eterne in old time sworn!
Ferdīa, vow thy vow henceforth to maids!
The man-race nothing heeds thee!’
Evening fell
And stayed perforce that combat. Slowly drew
The warriors near; and as they noted, each,
The other bleeding, friendship unextinct
In all its strength returned: round either's neck
The other wound his arms and kissed him thrice:
That night their coursers in the self-same field
Grazed, side by side: that night their charioteers
With rushes gathered from the self-same stream
Made smooth their masters' beds, then sat themselves
By the same fire. Cuchullain sent the half
Of every healing herb that lulled his wounds
To staunch Ferdīa's; while to him in turn
Ferdīa sent whate'er of meats or drinks
Held strengthening power or cordial, to allay
Distempered nerve or nimble spirit infuse,
In equal portions shared.
And stayed perforce that combat. Slowly drew
The warriors near; and as they noted, each,
The other bleeding, friendship unextinct
In all its strength returned: round either's neck
The other wound his arms and kissed him thrice:
That night their coursers in the self-same field
Grazed, side by side: that night their charioteers
With rushes gathered from the self-same stream
Made smooth their masters' beds, then sat themselves
By the same fire. Cuchullain sent the half
Of every healing herb that lulled his wounds
To staunch Ferdīa's; while to him in turn
Ferdīa sent whate'er of meats or drinks
Held strengthening power or cordial, to allay
Distempered nerve or nimble spirit infuse,
In equal portions shared.
The second morn
They met at sunrise:—‘Thine the choice of arms;’
The Firbolg spake; the Gael made answer, ‘Spears!’
Then leaped the champions on their battle-cars
And launched them into battle. Dire their shock
In fiery orbits wheeling now; anon
Wheel locked in wheel. Profounder wounds by far
That day than on the first the warriors gored,
Since closer was the fight. With laughing lip
Not less that eve Cuchullain sang the stave
That chides in war ‘Fomorian obstinacy’:
Again at eve drew near they, slower now
For pain, and interwove fraternal arms:
Again their coursers in the self-same field
Grazed side by side, and from the self-same stream
Again their charioteers the rushes culled:
Again they shared alike both meats and drinks,
Again those herbs allaying o'er their wounds
With incantations laid.
They met at sunrise:—‘Thine the choice of arms;’
The Firbolg spake; the Gael made answer, ‘Spears!’
Then leaped the champions on their battle-cars
And launched them into battle. Dire their shock
In fiery orbits wheeling now; anon
Wheel locked in wheel. Profounder wounds by far
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Since closer was the fight. With laughing lip
Not less that eve Cuchullain sang the stave
That chides in war ‘Fomorian obstinacy’:
Again at eve drew near they, slower now
For pain, and interwove fraternal arms:
Again their coursers in the self-same field
Grazed side by side, and from the self-same stream
Again their charioteers the rushes culled:
Again they shared alike both meats and drinks,
Again those herbs allaying o'er their wounds
With incantations laid.
Forlorn and sad
Peered the third morning o'er the vaporous woods,
The wan grey river with its floating weed,
And bubble unirradiate. From the marge
Cuchullain sadly marked the advancing foe:—
‘Alas, my brother! beamless is thine eye;
The radiance lives no longer on thy hair;
And slow thy step.’ The doomed one answered calm,
‘Cuchullain, slow of foot, but strong of hand
Fate drags his victim to the spot decreed:
The choice to-day is mine: I choose the sword.’
Peered the third morning o'er the vaporous woods,
The wan grey river with its floating weed,
And bubble unirradiate. From the marge
Cuchullain sadly marked the advancing foe:—
‘Alas, my brother! beamless is thine eye;
The radiance lives no longer on thy hair;
And slow thy step.’ The doomed one answered calm,
‘Cuchullain, slow of foot, but strong of hand
Fate drags his victim to the spot decreed:
The choice to-day is mine: I choose the sword.’
So spake the Firbolg; and they closed in fight:
And straightway from his heart to arm and hand
Rushed up the strength of all that buried race
By him so loved! Once more it swelled his breast:
Re-clothed in majesty each massive limb,
And flashed in darksome light of hair and eye
Resplendent as of old. Surpassing deeds
They wrought, while circled meteor-like their swords,
Or fell like heaven's own bolt on shield or helm.
Long hours they strove till morning's purer gleam
Vanished in noon. Sharper that day their speech;
For, in the intenser present, years gone by
Hung but like pallid, thin, horizon clouds
O'er memory's loneliest limit. Evening sank
Upon the dripping groves and shuddering flood
With rainy wailings. Not as heretofore
Their parting. Haughtily their mail they tossed
Each to his followers. In the self-same field
That night their coursers grazed not; neither sat
Their charioteers beside the self-same fire:
Nor sent they, each to other, healing herbs.
And straightway from his heart to arm and hand
Rushed up the strength of all that buried race
By him so loved! Once more it swelled his breast:
Re-clothed in majesty each massive limb,
And flashed in darksome light of hair and eye
Resplendent as of old. Surpassing deeds
They wrought, while circled meteor-like their swords,
Or fell like heaven's own bolt on shield or helm.
Long hours they strove till morning's purer gleam
Vanished in noon. Sharper that day their speech;
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Hung but like pallid, thin, horizon clouds
O'er memory's loneliest limit. Evening sank
Upon the dripping groves and shuddering flood
With rainy wailings. Not as heretofore
Their parting. Haughtily their mail they tossed
Each to his followers. In the self-same field
That night their coursers grazed not; neither sat
Their charioteers beside the self-same fire:
Nor sent they, each to other, healing herbs.
Ere morn the Firbolg drank the strength of dreams
Picturing his race's wrong; and trumpet blasts
Went o'er him blown from fields of ancient wars:
And thus he mused, half-wakened: ‘Not for Meave;
Not for the popular suffrage; not for her
That maid who fain had held me from the snare,
Fight I that fight whose end shall crown this day:
O race beloved, this day your vengeance dawns
Red in the East! The mightiest of the Gaels
Goes down before me! What if both should die:
So best! Thus too the Firbolg is avenged!’
So mused he. Stately from his couch he rose,
And armed himself, sedate. Upon his breast
He laid, in iron sheathed, a huge, flat stone,
For thus he said, ‘Though many a feat of arms
Is mine, from Scatha learned, or else self-taught,
The Gae-Bulg is Cuchullain's!’ On his head
He fixed his helm, and on his arm his shield
Sable as night, with fifty bosses bound,
All brass; the midmost like a noontide sun.
Picturing his race's wrong; and trumpet blasts
Went o'er him blown from fields of ancient wars:
And thus he mused, half-wakened: ‘Not for Meave;
Not for the popular suffrage; not for her
That maid who fain had held me from the snare,
Fight I that fight whose end shall crown this day:
O race beloved, this day your vengeance dawns
Red in the East! The mightiest of the Gaels
Goes down before me! What if both should die:
So best! Thus too the Firbolg is avenged!’
So mused he. Stately from his couch he rose,
And armed himself, sedate. Upon his breast
He laid, in iron sheathed, a huge, flat stone,
For thus he said, ‘Though many a feat of arms
Is mine, from Scatha learned, or else self-taught,
The Gae-Bulg is Cuchullain's!’ On his head
He fixed his helm, and on his arm his shield
Sable as night, with fifty bosses bound,
All brass; the midmost like a noontide sun.
Cuchullain eyed him as he neared the Ford,
And spake to Leagh: ‘This day, if thou shouldst mark
This hand or slack or sluggish, hurl, as wont,
Sharp storm of arrowy railing from thy lips
That so the battle-anger from on high
May flame on me.’ The choice of arms was his:
He chose ‘the Ford-Feat.’ On the Firbolg's brow
A shadow fell:—‘All weapons there,’ he mused,
‘Have place alike: if on him falls the rage
He will not spare the Gae-Bulg!’
And spake to Leagh: ‘This day, if thou shouldst mark
This hand or slack or sluggish, hurl, as wont,
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That so the battle-anger from on high
May flame on me.’ The choice of arms was his:
He chose ‘the Ford-Feat.’ On the Firbolg's brow
A shadow fell:—‘All weapons there,’ he mused,
‘Have place alike: if on him falls the rage
He will not spare the Gae-Bulg!’
Well they knew,
Both warriors, that the fortunes of that day
Must end the conflict; that for one, or both,
The sun that hour ascending shone his last:
Therefore all strength of onset till that hour
By either loosed or hoarded, craft of fight
Reined in one moment but to spring the next
Forward in might more terrible, compared
With that last battle was a trivial thing;
Whilst every weapon, javelin, spear, or sword,
Lawful alike that day, scattered abroad
Huge flakes of dinted mail; from every wound
Bounded the life-blood of a heart athirst
For victory or for death. The vernal day
Panted with summer ardours, while aloft
Noon-tide, a fire-tressed Fury, waved her torch
Kindling the lit grove and its youngling green
From the azure-blazing zenith. Waxed the heat:—
So waxed the warriors' frenzy. Hours went by:
That day they sought not rest on rock or mound,
Held no discourse. Slowly the sun declined;
And as wayfarers tired, when twilight falls,
Advance with strength renewed, so they, refreshed,
Surpassed their deeds at morning. With a bound
Cuchullain, from the bank high springing, lit
Full on the broad boss of Ferdīa's shield,
His dagger-point down turned. With spasm of arm
Instant the Firbolg from its sable rim
Cast him astonished. Upward from the Ford
Again Cuchullain reached that shield: again
With spasm of knee Ferdīa flung him far,
While Leagh in scorn reviled him: ‘As the flood
Shoots on the tempest's blast its puny foam;
The oak-tree casts its dead leaf on the wave;
The mill-wheel showers its spray; the shameless woman
Hurls on the mere that babe which was her shame,
So hurls Ferdīa forth that fairy-child
Whom men misdeemed for warrior!’
Both warriors, that the fortunes of that day
Must end the conflict; that for one, or both,
The sun that hour ascending shone his last:
Therefore all strength of onset till that hour
By either loosed or hoarded, craft of fight
Reined in one moment but to spring the next
Forward in might more terrible, compared
With that last battle was a trivial thing;
Whilst every weapon, javelin, spear, or sword,
Lawful alike that day, scattered abroad
Huge flakes of dinted mail; from every wound
Bounded the life-blood of a heart athirst
For victory or for death. The vernal day
Panted with summer ardours, while aloft
Noon-tide, a fire-tressed Fury, waved her torch
Kindling the lit grove and its youngling green
From the azure-blazing zenith. Waxed the heat:—
So waxed the warriors' frenzy. Hours went by:
That day they sought not rest on rock or mound,
Held no discourse. Slowly the sun declined;
And as wayfarers tired, when twilight falls,
Advance with strength renewed, so they, refreshed,
Surpassed their deeds at morning. With a bound
Cuchullain, from the bank high springing, lit
Full on the broad boss of Ferdīa's shield,
His dagger-point down turned. With spasm of arm
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Cast him astonished. Upward from the Ford
Again Cuchullain reached that shield: again
With spasm of knee Ferdīa flung him far,
While Leagh in scorn reviled him: ‘As the flood
Shoots on the tempest's blast its puny foam;
The oak-tree casts its dead leaf on the wave;
The mill-wheel showers its spray; the shameless woman
Hurls on the mere that babe which was her shame,
So hurls Ferdīa forth that fairy-child
Whom men misdeemed for warrior!’
Then from heaven
Came down upon Cuchullain like the night
The madness-wrath. The Foes confronted met:
Shivered their spears from point to haft: their swords
Flashed lightnings round them. Fate-compelled, their feet
Drew near, then reached, that stream which backward fled
Leaving its channel dry. While raged that fight
Cuchullain's stature rose, huge bulk, immense,
Ascending still: as high Ferdīa towered
Like Fomor old or Nemed from the sea,
Those shields, their covering late from foot to helm,
Shrinking, so seemed it, till above them beamed
Shoulders and heads. So close that fight, their crests
That waved defiance mingled in 'mid air;
While all along the circles of their shields
And all adown their swords, ran, mad with rage,
Viewless for speed the demons of dark moors
And war-sprites of the valleys, Bocanachs
And Banacahs, whose scream, so keen its edge,
Might shear the centuried forest as the scythe
Shears meadow grass. To these in dread response
Thundered far off from sea-caves billow-beat
And halls rock-vaulted 'neath the eternal hills,
That race Tuatha, giant once, long since
To pigmy changed, that forge from molten ores
For aye their clanging weapons, shield or spear,
On stony anvils, waiting the day decreed
Of vengeance on the Gael. That tumult scared
The horses of the host of Meave, that brake
From war-car or the tethering rope, and spread
Ruin around. Camp-followers first, then chiefs
Innumerable were dragged along, or lay
'Neath broken axle, dead. The end was nigh:
Cuchullain's shield splintered upon his arm
Served him no more; and through his fenceless side
Ferdīa drave the sword. Then first the Gael
Hurled forth this taunt: ‘The Firbolg, bribed by Meave,
Has sold his ancient friend!’ Ferdīa next,
‘No Firbolg he, that man in Scatha's Isle,
Who won a maid, then left her!’ Backward stepped
Cuchullain paces three: he reached the bank;
He uttered low, ‘The Gae-Bulg!’ Instant Leagh
Within his hand had lodged it. Bending low,
Low as that stream—the war-game's crowning feat—
He launched it on Ferdīa's breast. The shield,
The iron plate beneath, the stone within it,
Like shallow ice-film 'neath a courser's hoof
Burst. All was o'er. To earth the warrior sank:
Dying, he spake: ‘Not thine this deed, O friend:
'Twas Meave who winged that bolt into my heart!’
Came down upon Cuchullain like the night
The madness-wrath. The Foes confronted met:
Shivered their spears from point to haft: their swords
Flashed lightnings round them. Fate-compelled, their feet
Drew near, then reached, that stream which backward fled
Leaving its channel dry. While raged that fight
Cuchullain's stature rose, huge bulk, immense,
Ascending still: as high Ferdīa towered
Like Fomor old or Nemed from the sea,
Those shields, their covering late from foot to helm,
Shrinking, so seemed it, till above them beamed
Shoulders and heads. So close that fight, their crests
That waved defiance mingled in 'mid air;
While all along the circles of their shields
And all adown their swords, ran, mad with rage,
Viewless for speed the demons of dark moors
And war-sprites of the valleys, Bocanachs
And Banacahs, whose scream, so keen its edge,
Might shear the centuried forest as the scythe
255
Thundered far off from sea-caves billow-beat
And halls rock-vaulted 'neath the eternal hills,
That race Tuatha, giant once, long since
To pigmy changed, that forge from molten ores
For aye their clanging weapons, shield or spear,
On stony anvils, waiting the day decreed
Of vengeance on the Gael. That tumult scared
The horses of the host of Meave, that brake
From war-car or the tethering rope, and spread
Ruin around. Camp-followers first, then chiefs
Innumerable were dragged along, or lay
'Neath broken axle, dead. The end was nigh:
Cuchullain's shield splintered upon his arm
Served him no more; and through his fenceless side
Ferdīa drave the sword. Then first the Gael
Hurled forth this taunt: ‘The Firbolg, bribed by Meave,
Has sold his ancient friend!’ Ferdīa next,
‘No Firbolg he, that man in Scatha's Isle,
Who won a maid, then left her!’ Backward stepped
Cuchullain paces three: he reached the bank;
He uttered low, ‘The Gae-Bulg!’ Instant Leagh
Within his hand had lodged it. Bending low,
Low as that stream—the war-game's crowning feat—
He launched it on Ferdīa's breast. The shield,
The iron plate beneath, the stone within it,
Like shallow ice-film 'neath a courser's hoof
Burst. All was o'er. To earth the warrior sank:
Dying, he spake: ‘Not thine this deed, O friend:
'Twas Meave who winged that bolt into my heart!’
Then ran Cuchullain to that great one dead
And raised him in his arms and laid him down
Beside the Ford, but on its northern bank,
Not in that realm by Ailill swayed and Meave:
Long time he looked the dead man in the face;
Then by him fell in swoon. ‘Cuchullain, rise!
The men of Erin be upon thee! Rise!’
Thus Leagh. He answered, waking, ‘Let them come!
To me what profit if I live or die?
The man I loved is dead!’
And raised him in his arms and laid him down
Beside the Ford, but on its northern bank,
256
Long time he looked the dead man in the face;
Then by him fell in swoon. ‘Cuchullain, rise!
The men of Erin be upon thee! Rise!’
Thus Leagh. He answered, waking, ‘Let them come!
To me what profit if I live or die?
The man I loved is dead!’
But by the dead
Cuchullain stood; and thus he made lament:
‘Ferdīa! On their head the curse descend
Who sent thee to thy death! We meet no more;
Never while sun, and moon, and earth endure.
Cuchullain stood; and thus he made lament:
‘Ferdīa! On their head the curse descend
Who sent thee to thy death! We meet no more;
Never while sun, and moon, and earth endure.
‘Ferdīa! Far away in Scatha's Isle
A great troth bound us and a vow life-long
Never to raise war-weapons, each on each:—
'Twas Finobar that snared thee! She shall die.
A great troth bound us and a vow life-long
Never to raise war-weapons, each on each:—
'Twas Finobar that snared thee! She shall die.
‘Ferdīa! dearer to my heart wert thou
Than all beside if all were joined in one:
Dear was thy clouded face and darksome eye;
Thy deep, sad voice; thy words so wise and few;
Dear was thy silence: dear thy slow, grave ways,
Not boastful like the Gael's.’
Than all beside if all were joined in one:
Dear was thy clouded face and darksome eye;
Thy deep, sad voice; thy words so wise and few;
Dear was thy silence: dear thy slow, grave ways,
Not boastful like the Gael's.’
Silent he stood
While Leagh in reverence from the dead man's breast
Loosened his mail. There shone the torque of Meave:
There where the queen had fixed it yet it lay.
Cuchullain clutched it. ‘Ha! that torque I spurned!
Dark gem ill-lifted from the seas of Death!
Swart planet bickering from the heavens of Fate!
With what a baleful beam thou look'st on me!
'Twas thou, 'twas thou, not I, that slew'st this man’—
He dashed it on the rock, and with his heel
Crushed it to fragments.
While Leagh in reverence from the dead man's breast
Loosened his mail. There shone the torque of Meave:
There where the queen had fixed it yet it lay.
Cuchullain clutched it. ‘Ha! that torque I spurned!
Dark gem ill-lifted from the seas of Death!
Swart planet bickering from the heavens of Fate!
With what a baleful beam thou look'st on me!
'Twas thou, 'twas thou, not I, that slew'st this man’—
He dashed it on the rock, and with his heel
Crushed it to fragments.
Then, as one from trance
Waking, once more he spake: ‘O me—O me,
That I should see that face so great and pale!
To-day face-whitening death is on that face;
And in my hand my sword;—'tis crimson yet.
That day when he and I triumphed in fight
By Formait's lake o'er Scatha's pirate foes
The woman fetched a beaker forth of wine,
And made us drink it both; and made us vow
Friendship eterne. O friend, my hand this day
Tendered a bloody beaker to thy lip.’
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That I should see that face so great and pale!
To-day face-whitening death is on that face;
And in my hand my sword;—'tis crimson yet.
That day when he and I triumphed in fight
By Formait's lake o'er Scatha's pirate foes
The woman fetched a beaker forth of wine,
And made us drink it both; and made us vow
Friendship eterne. O friend, my hand this day
Tendered a bloody beaker to thy lip.’
Again he sang: ‘Queen Meave to Uladh's bound
Came down; and dark the deed that grew thereof;
Came down with all the hosting of her kings;
And dark the deed that grew thereof. We two
Abode with Scatha in her northern isle,
Her pupils twinned. The sea-girt warrioress
That honoured few men honoured us alike:
We ate together of the self-same dish:
We couched together 'neath the self-same shield:
Now living man I stand, and he lies dead!’
Came down; and dark the deed that grew thereof;
Came down with all the hosting of her kings;
And dark the deed that grew thereof. We two
Abode with Scatha in her northern isle,
Her pupils twinned. The sea-girt warrioress
That honoured few men honoured us alike:
We ate together of the self-same dish:
We couched together 'neath the self-same shield:
Now living man I stand, and he lies dead!’
He raised again his head: once more he sang:
‘Each battle was a game, a jest, a sport
Till came, fore-doomed, Ferdīa to the Ford,
I loved the warrior though I pierced his heart.
Each battle was a game, a jest, a sport
Till stood, self-doomed, Ferdīa by the Ford—
Huge lion of the forestry of war;
Fair, central pillar of the House of Fame;
But yesterday he towered above the world:
This day he lies along the earth, a shade.’
‘Each battle was a game, a jest, a sport
Till came, fore-doomed, Ferdīa to the Ford,
I loved the warrior though I pierced his heart.
Each battle was a game, a jest, a sport
Till stood, self-doomed, Ferdīa by the Ford—
Huge lion of the forestry of war;
Fair, central pillar of the House of Fame;
But yesterday he towered above the world:
This day he lies along the earth, a shade.’
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |