University of Virginia Library

THE EIGHTH DUAN. THE DEATH OF THE SONS OF USNA.

In the first silver light of the young day they brought
The Sons of Usna, bound, to Conchobar; and there
The cloud of druidry fell from them, and they saw
In anguish and deep rage the cunning net wherein
They had foredone themselves. But Deirdrè came unbound,
With Gaier in her arms, guarded; the King's fierce eyes
Flamed on her as she stood, tearless and stern, despair
Clutching her throat, but pride upon her scornful face.
Dumb before Conchobar she stood, never more fair,
Never more proud. She looked at Naisi; and such love
Shone in her faithful eyes, that love and jealousy
Tore the King's heart in his breast. She looked at Conchobar
With such a fearless hate, that madness in his brain
Wrought murderously. ‘What peace or comfort shall I have,
Though I have her,’ he thought, ‘If still her lover live?’
And Deirdrè's face was flame within him, and burnt up
The memory of his vow to Cathvah, and all ruth
Went with his honour; rage seemed weak to glut revenge.
‘Have I no friends,’ he cried, ‘to wreak upon these thieves—
These traitors, my great wrong, slaying them for me now?’
But not a man of all the Province spoke nor moved
To do his bidding. Then, like one wounded, he groaned:
‘Have I no friend?’ and looked on Eoghan of Fern-moy,
The Son of Durthach, come to make a pact with him,
And craving subsidy. He faltered forth: ‘O King,
If there be found none else to serve thee, that will I;
Although to slay men bound be hateful to my hand!’
Then came Maini the Red, son of a Norway King,
To Conchobar, and said: ‘O King, this right is mine!
By me their heads shall fall; for these three slew my sire,
And my two brothers. Them I avenge, avenging thee.’
And Deirdrè shrieked like one hurt with a stabbing sword,
And round their necks she flung her beautiful white arms,
And kissed them one by one, piteously through her tears
Murmuring soft words of love. Gaier in childish fear
Wept at her weeping. ‘Ah, my girl!’ said Naisi, ‘right,
Right was thy word, and true, as thy true heart. For sure
Never such treachery stained an Irish King before.
I am happier to lie down in my cold bed, than he
To send me there, and live, and be the thing he is.
Ah Deirdrè! we have lived, now must we die. Farewell!
Pulse of my heart, farewell! Courage, and save the boy.’
From her last clinging kiss then was she torn away
By Eoghan, who drew nigh with Maini, aiding him.
And Maini said: ‘The blood of my father, slain by you,
Calls me to shed your blood, or Conchobar might wait
Until his cairn was green, ere I had done this deed.’
‘Thou art in thy right,’ they said, ‘and we bound in thy hand;
But in fair fight we slew thy brothers and thy sire.’
Now a contention rose between the brothers three,
Which of them first should die. ‘The youngest,’ said Ardàn,
‘And that am I.’ ‘Not so,’ said Ainli, ‘spare mine eyes
The sorrow of thy death.’ Said Naisi: ‘Take my sword,
That sword which Manannàn, the Son of Lir, gave once
To Usna: it shall have the slaying of his Sons;
For with it thou mayest smite our three heads at a blow.’
Shrill as a Banshee shrieked the sword at Naisi's thigh,
As Maini loosed the belt, and took it. ‘Put it now,’
Said Naisi, ‘to my lips.’ He kissed the sword, and said:
‘A good friend thou hast been, and trusty. Thou hast kept
My life a thousand times; now shalt thou give me death,
And swiftly.’ Then he said to Maini: ‘Loose our bonds,
For shame it is to slay men bound.’ Their bonds he loosed,
And in their arms awhile they held each other fast,
And tenderly they took their last farewell, and all
The men of Ulster wept, so piteous was the sight.
There on the sward they knelt, and bared their necks, and twined
Their battle-winning arms around each-other; and so
Knelt Naisi in the midst, and Ainli on his right,
And on his left Ardàn; and high they raised their heads
To look upon the sun, bringing their day of death
In splendour from the east. And dewy was the morn,
And loudly sang the lark. Thus they abode the stroke.
Now Maini drew the sword; and with a second shriek
It flashed out of the sheath. ‘Well mayst thou shriek, old friend,’
Said Naisi. ‘By my troth, when we spared Conchobar,
That was our fault! And now, farewell, land of my heart,
Farewell Ireland! There swims no better land this day
On the waters of the world, with truer comrades in it,
Or wives more loving, fair, and faithful, as I know.
There is no better land, for valour and kindly mirth;
No better land for harps, music, and sweet-voiced songs
That gush like silver streams of living water through it;
No better land for love and beauty, and the taste
Of the sweet air of the morn, with horses and with hounds.
O, for the balmy woods of Ireland, for the trees
Of her green woods, the stags of her wild mountain glens!
The fern, the furze, the heath; the cunning creatures in them,
The shy otter, the stoat, the badger, and the hare!
O, for the swans of her loughs, the salmon of her streams!
O, for the blackbird's note, and the thrush's in the morn,
The cuckoo's coo of spring, the robin's autumn dirge!
All these, I loved them well, and Ireland has my love;
Would that we died for her! Maini, thy hand be true;
And when we three are dead, I charge thee, give my sword
To the hand of Manannàn. Now, courage, man, and strike!’
Then, for the last time shrieked the sword, and with that shriek
Together on the sward fell their three heads: the sod
Of Ireland drank their blood. None better ever dimmed
The dew on the shamrock leaves, or turned the daisy's face
Red on the Irish sod. So died, slain at one blow,
In their fresh prime of life, Usna's three noble Sons.
Deirdrè, meanwhile, the guards led back to the Red Branch House,
And as she went she heard the three marvellous cries
The sword of Manannàn sent forth, and at the third
She felt the cold of death clutching her heart; and three
Great drops of blood were shed from the breast above her heart;
And so she knew their death, yet kept for Gaier's sake,
The sick faint from her brain; and in the Red-Branch House
Sat down without a tear, lulling him in her arms.
There she began to chant a Sleep-song, sweet and low,
Crooning the pain from her heart in sweet music, so sweet,
It seemed as though the Swans of Lir were singing there
Low dirges of the sea. And Gaier slept; and all
Who heard that music slept, for the magical sweet pain
That seized their dreaming souls. And Deirdrè, singing still,
With Gaier in her arms, walked out upon the Green,
And no man stayed her steps; whither she would she went.
And fair and terrible she looked that morn. She seemed
A phantom of the morn, as on swiftly she strode,
Singing, over the Green, with feet that trembled not
Nor stayed; o'er gory heaps of dead men, slain for her—
Her own blood on her breast, their blood upon her feet
And on her sweeping skirts. The dead appalled her not—
She saw them not, but still fled from the living eye,
To the hills away. From far she saw where on the plain
They dug in the green grass three black-mouthed graves. She saw,
And shed no tear; but on she hastened by the way
Towards Dundalgan, on, with Gaier in her arms.
Far, on Dundalgan's shore, Cuchullin heard the wave
Of Rury roar amain, as Naisi on the Green
Smote down the King; and now, furiously driving, bound
To Eman in his car, he came. Swiftly the steeds
Leaped at the voice of Laeg, his charioteer, the Son
Of Riangowra, high the wheels bounded at every stride;
And in his battle-car the Champion stood, full-armed.
There in his path he saw a woman, holding high
A child, stand, with a cry: ‘Stay! stay, Cuchullin, stay!’
And pale she looked and wild, and on her tunic's breast
Three gouts of blood, and blood upon her skirts and feet:
And that was Deirdrè. There he stayed the car, and down
He leaped to her; and she stared on him, crying: ‘Swift help
Thou bringest Conchobar; but he is safe, and there
Lies Naisi slain, there lie the Sons of Usna slain!’
‘How should this fall!’ he groaned. ‘And Fergus, where is he?
Is he too slain with them?’ ‘Nay, nay,’ said she, ‘he feasts
With Barach, who hath laid, at Conchobar's command,
His champion's vow upon him: Ne'er to refuse a feast.
Illàn is slain for us, but Buinè sold our heads,
For broad lands, to the King.’ And Deirdrè made this lay:

DEIRDRÈ'S SONG OF THE TREACHEROUS FEAST.

‘Ochone!’ Cuchullin said. ‘A black day is this day
For the Red-Branch! This deed of Conchobar's has brought
Sorrow and shame on us, and henceforth sorrow and shame
Will wake us in the morn, and in the night lie down
Beside us where we lie! But who gave them their death?’
‘Maini the Red,’ said she. ‘By him fell their three heads.’
‘Not long then, by my sword, shall Maini wear his head
Upon him, for this deed,’ said he; ‘and were they slain
Under my surety, well must Conchobar himself
Look to his life to guard it.’ ‘Would it were thou indeed,’
Said she, ‘that brought us back; for now well had we sped.
Surely one foolish hour has brought long days of woe.
‘But yesternight they lived, their help in their own hands,
Now is the day but young, and yet they live no more
For any help of thine. But here, upon thy vow
To succour those who need, I charge thee, take this child,
Naisi's and mine; bring him to the Isle of Manannàn,
There shalt thou leave him safe with the Wizard of the Sea,
To foster him, and rear a champion of the blood
Of Usna, to avenge the wrongs his father had.’
‘This will I do,’ said he. And so into his arms
She gave her son. Then first, kissing the sleeping child,
The rivers of her tears thawed in her eyes; and long
She bent o'er him and wept, sighing: ‘My boy, my boy!’
‘Farewell!’ she said, ‘With thee goes the best blood of my heart,
And with thee goes the warmth out of my breast! Sound, sound
Thy sleep be; but the sleep that holds thy father's eyes
Be far from thine! Farewell, for of the dead am I,
And to the dead go back!’ Then, with heartbreaking sobs
Choked in her breast, she turned, and to Cuchullin waved
A last farewell. The tears were warm in his blue eyes,
Mounting his car again with Gaier in his arms,
Tenderly held. And slow the car passed from her sight.
There for a little space on the thymy sward she lay,
Nigh death for sobbing, cold, weeping away her blood
In tears of agony. A robin from a thorn
Burst into gurgling song, for joy of the glad sun:
She felt it like the pain of wakening life in one
Snatched from the sea, rose up, and like a homeless wraith
Drawn by the spells of death from the sweet world of day
Back to the grave, she fled back to her place of dole.
To the three graves she came—three shallow pits, lined all
With slabs rough-hewn, and set anglewise like three rays
Of one black flower of death. And stones unhewn they brought
To build the chambers three, ere over them they heaped
One common cairn. And there, a stone-cast off, were laid
On hurdles, side by side, the three brothers. And there
On pillows of green sods, each in its proper place,
With eyes closed as in sleep were laid their three pale heads.
When Deirdrè saw that sight, she tore her sunny hair,
And beat her breast. ‘Ochone that ever we came here!
A great sin, O sweet Sons of Usna, did ye sin
Against yourselves, to sail from Alba of the Lakes,
Against my counsel! O, for Alba, of the deer!
Would ye were hunting now in Alba, and myself
To keep your house for you!’ And there made she this lay:

DEIRDRÈ'S LITTLE LAMENTATION FOR THE SONS OF USNA.

With a low moan, stumbling, she groped for Naisi's breast,
Like a faithful dog that creeps to die by his dead lord,
And there lay like one dead. And no man of the guard
Durst speak to her a word, for pity, and the awe
Of her terrible white face; but news to Conchobar
Was brought, that she was there, lying among the dead.
Thereat the King rejoiced with a grim joy; for fierce
Had been his rage that none could find her, nor could tell
The manner of her flight from the House of the Red-Branch.
And straight he gave command to bury the three Sons
Of Usna, and to bring Deirdrè before his face.
But when they came to lay the brothers in their tomb,
She was a thing distraught. She kissed them o'er and o'er,
Going, like a beast of chase that fondles her dead cubs
Full in the hunter's eye, restlessly to and fro
From bier to bier, tearless, low-moaning. Naisi first,
And Naisi last, she kissed passionately, till her lips
Were dabbled with his blood. At last she rose, and stood
Over them, her great eyes glaring from her white face,
Blood on her piteous lips, blood on her draggled hair,
Blood on her silken robe; yet in her beauty still
Superb and terrible. With such a majesty
Of woe might come once more out of the dreadful past
Some warrior queen, death-pale, risen from some last lost field
Of slaughter, all bestrained with Ireland's dearest blood,
To warn her of new woes. So Deirdrè looked that day
When she stood up to raise her keene over the Sons
Of Usna: and she sang this death-song by their tomb:

DEIRDRÈ'S LAMENTATION FOR THE SONS OF USNA.

THE GREAT LAMENTATION.

And when they laid the Sons of Usna in their tomb
Deirdrè would have lain down with Naisi, and endured
With him the covering stones; but the guards forced her thence,
In pity pitiless; and so to Conchobar
Was she brought back, more like a corpse dug from the grave
Than a living woman, fair, with red blood in her veins.