University of Virginia Library

FAND.

“Tell me that tale of Cuhoolin, Emer, reveal it to me,
As once was thy promise: 'tis thou that alone canst relate it aright:
How, from the wiles of the beautiful Fand, the immortal, the goddess, thou settest him free,
Leading him back, by the lure of thy love, to be chief of the heroes of Eirë for ever.”
Thus spake the Bard of Cooalni, agèd and grey, to the lady,
The fair-browed Emer, agèd and grey:
Who answered him: “Yea, it is meet that I tell it,
And thou shalt record it,
That a mem'ry to all generations the tale of his tempting be.”
This was the tale the fair-browed Emer told.
Midsummer's fairest day was near its end,
The hot land panting for the cool of night,
When from the doon Cuhoolin wandered forth,
And I beside him, tow'rds the evening star.
We came to the lake's brink and ling'ring stood
Watching the marvel of the sunset sky:
Field beyond field of radiance delicate
High in the upper heaven and nearer earth
The jewelled dust from the sun's chariot wheels
O'er him an arch of triumph: suddenly
It seemed that, from the glow, two brightest clouds
Took swiftest motion tow'rds us, as they came
Into the glooming east, where the sun's day
Was failing, scattering dazzling day renewed:
But nearer seen they were not clouds, but birds,
That slowly sinking earthwards on the lake
Alighted, sending through the quivering wave
Pulses of golden joy.
Cuhoolin said:
“Thine are these birds, O Emer.”
Moored close by
His boat was ready, and on the head of day
Grey not one gold hair grew, ere with skilled stroke
Of oar he paddled towards them: motionless
Seemed they to wait him, uttering low sweet notes
Of broken magic music; but when he
Should have been nigh them, they were again afar
With motion unapparent: he pursued,—
The gloom behind,—the light in front of him,
Intense towards the clear west:—his shadow lying
Giant-like on the water,—and the birds
Gliding before him, ever lured him on,
Over the broad expanse, until the light
Sank on the falling sun, and purple mist
Rose round him, and mine eyes could see no more.
Only, far off and faint, I heard the cry
Of the birds' music circling round the shores
Enchanted: other noise the night had none:
The air no breath, the lake no ripple had,
But glimmerings faint, mingled with shadows deep,
By forest margin. There in vain I stood,
Waiting the plash of his returning oars,
That still refused to break the spells of night:
Myself half-held in chains of some sweet spell,
That kept fear far from me. Wearied at last
Homeward I took my way, and lingered not
To find repose: but, when I waked with day,
The flood of fear restrained rushed on my soul
At once remembering: messengers I sent
In eager haste impetuous; o'er the lake
They rowed: they searched the shores: for many a mile,
On all sides round, they roamed and left no nook
Of forest or hill or cave or rushy shore
Unsearched, but tidingless returned: days fled:
At noon I said, “evening his face will see:”
At midnight, “morning surely bringeth him:”
But with despairing glance went evenings by,
And empty of my gift came many a morn.
So then for help I sought the druids wise,
Who, practising their arts, thus answered me.
“Cuhoolin lives: he has been lured from thee
By wiles of the bright goddess beautiful,
Fand, wife of Mananaun Mac Lir, who now
Estranged, take pleasure in divided lives,
Plucking the fruits of bliss from varied boughs.
But she, ere quite she may thy husband win,
Must spells perform of slow accomplishment.
They are not all yet wrought: therefore, if thou
Canst quickly follow and find him, ere they be,—
And long the way which thou must wend alone,
And all unhelped thou must the task achieve,
Haply thou may'st regain him.”
Then they added
Way-guiding words, showing me how to reach
The place: and, having heard them, I set forth
With trembling hopes, alone: for many days
Southward I journeyed over waste and wild;
Through woods: o'er many a mead; past many a doon,
By Tara's regal mansions, and beyond
The fords of Liffey: over flattest plains
With hills to left;—over the esker ridge
Dividing Eirë midwards: onwards still
Beneath Slieve Blahma, and the lofty peaks,
Whereon Bove Derg is throned: o'er plains again,
Among the sons of Eber; till the long swell
Of southward mountains rose against the sky;
And there, beneath the highest summits, I knew
The goddess on Cuhoolin worked her charms.
Into a land of wonder I was come:
The year in the north was autumn's: here not so;
Young summer by the charm of leafier woods,
And greener meads, and sweeter flowers detained.
Yet did I see but little till I reached
The long-sought shores, and the fair water lay,
Circling its isles before me; round it rose
Mountains, that were but banks of woods and flowers,
Some, with a sudden spring, upheaving high
Their breasts, bright-plumed, like unto gorgeous birds
Exulting in rich beauty, richly robed.
Others, in wider spaces more removed,
Rolled up in endless terraces to heaven
Broad fields dark green with forests of the pine.
The slopes, that touched the lake, ran down below
So clear, it seemed the underwater sky
Revealed the palaces of fairyland;
And in the upper bowers of oak and beech,
Glossy as in mid May, the sunlight revelled
Like some fair half-tamed creature, new set free:
Above, the naked peaks nearer the sun
Burned, like the golden dwellings of the gods.
Rapt from my purpose by that beauty awhile,
Marvelling, I gazed, till startled by a voice,—
“What seeketh Emer on the shores of Leane?”
I turned and saw a man of rudest garb,
Wild-haired and shaggy—a herd or fisherman—
But keenest-eyed—and asked him, fearing not,
“How know'st my name?”
“I answer not,” he said,
“Yet may I serve thee, for I know thy quest;
Fand and Cuhoolin are in yonder isle.”
My heart leaped strangely, and I could not speak.
Continued he, “if thou would'st reach the isle,
A boat is here: hasten, lest from thy lips
Delay should wring a lamentable ‘too late.’”
“Oh! never name the word,” I cried: “thy boat—
Where is it? take me: greatly will I reward thee.”
“I ask for no reward,” he said: “but come.”
He led me to a little rocky cove
Close by: there lay the boat: he helped me in,
Followed, and rowed: soon we were in mid lake.
There paused he: “ere we reach the isle,” he said,
“Hear thou my counsel: in a bower in the isle
Lies thy Cuhoolin; on this very day
Fand works her last enchantments: when thou reachest
The place, and hear'st her singing, linger thou
Till the last note has died:—then quickly in,
And thou wilt find thy hero lying asleep
Alone; rouse him, and ere the goddess return
Hasten him from the bower.”
We touched the shore.
The wave lay lucid, golden-clear and green
As ocean's round a reef in the mid-deep:
And out of it with arch fantastical,
And many a fair vault hollowed, rose the grey
Of the low rocky shore, over whose brim
O'erflowed the emerald herb: and in the clefts
The holly's gloss with darker ivy vied.
Yew mingled with arbutus, that still kept
Its bloom of crimson fruit; and over these
Waved ash-trees tall, letting a netted shade
Dance on the shrubs and flowers.
I stept ashore
And made for the mid-isle, threading my path
Through the green tangle to what seemed a light:
And, coming to an open space of grass,
Beheld before me, in the midst thereof
A wall of reddest roses front my way:
I heard within the wall a voice that sang.
The music of her last triumphant words
Floated in golden eddies round the bower,
And choral echoes answered and singing birds;
Such was its sweetness, but for the goad of fear
Myself had swooned into forgetfulness.
But when the last was heard, with hasty steps,
Stealthy, I crept around and found a way
Between the branches: there on a golden couch,
Strewn with soft cushions and rich coverlets,
In gently smiling sleep Cuhoolin lay
Alone: I took his hand and kissed his brow,
Saying “awake, O husband! it is day,—
Mid-day, when none but sluggards take their ease:
And art thou drowsy, who wert wont to chide
The laggard footsteps of the summer morn?”
He woke, and stared at me amazedly.
“What does this mean?” he asked: “when last I waked
I talked with Fand: can Fand to Emer fade?
The roses lose no blush: I am perplexed.”
“Oh! come,” said I, “this air is oversweet,
Laden with languid dreams and drowsiness;
Beside the lake there moves a clearer air,
Come, and thou soon wilt understand.”
He rose
Bewildered but compliant: a moment more
I had snatched him from the goddess easily;
When lo! there was a parting of the boughs,
And all the bower was filled with sudden light,
Richer than sunshine, as she came before us,
Fand, the most marvellous: ask me not to give thee
The measure of her beauty: there is none
That mortal women yield, and should I speak,
Striving to recreate her to thine eyes,
Faint is the image I should conjure up,
To wrong my tempted hero: this I know,
The uttermost perfection of her shape
Was steeped in colour, lovelier than eve's or morn's;
There is something of mere childhood in the morn,
And all the hues of sunset hint of death:
She had them all, but lit by noon's white light
Intense, the goddess life that glowed in her.
Then to Cuhoolin said she “how I grieve
For thy sweet slumber being broken,
Wherein thy soul's eyes had been closed for ever
To all the world of men,
And to the gods' thrown open.
Yet is it not too late; give me thy hand;
And, troubled though thy vision be
With mingled gleams of either land,
I will steady thee, I will guide thee
Safely over the stepping stones:
And, when thy feet are firm on the further shore,
There will I unravel
The web of light and shadow,
That now imprisons thy spirit;
From thy vision will I pluck the threads of darkness,
And the raiment of thy soul reweave in light.”
But I, with sudden movement of quick fear,
Sprang to his side and came between them,
Clasped his hands and shielded from her touch:
“Hasten, O Cuhoolin, hasten,
Ere the spell-cloud, I have broken
Close again around thy soul.”
Yet moved he not, and with dismay I saw
Trouble in his eyes, and anger on his brow;
And petulant his words were, as a child's
Suddenly roused from sleep, not like a man's,
Much less the chief of heroes:
“What hast thou done?
Why wakened me? The dreams I had were filled
With richer happiness, by far, than all
The joys of all my waking hours: thou art like
A creature spiteful, mischievous, who breaks
Some lovely thing, rare art has wrought, that ne'er
Delights the eyes again, when once destroyed.
Oh! wert thou not a woman I could strike thee.”
“Heed her not!”
Interposed the temptress softly,
“Know'st thou not the skill of hand,
That made thy bliss, abides with Fand?
I can restore thy broken jewel of joy
To rarer lustre.”
Still was he perplexed:
Her chain seemed broken: mine he would not have.
Then, from the mountains of his spirit, suddenly
Came there a gust, like that, which from a hill
Swoops on a lake and scoops the water up,
Whirling the wave in the misplacèd air,
And flattening to the water sails surprised,
As thus he cried “evil be on you both,
Spoilers of what you never may renew:
With Fand it had been sweet to dream,
Should I not hear sharp wailings of reproach,
And see a cloud-like shadow float between
Myself and my bright sun.
Fair too the ancient strenuous life had been,
Had I the new not known:
Now are both horrible: I am torn in twain:
Each of you has a half: are you content?
A bleeding half:—oh! that my veins would yield
A flood to gulf you in! oh! woe! my woe!”
Silent, in uttermost grief, I gazed on him.
Amazed stood also Fand: at length I cried,
“Thou hast done this: away, thou evil thing!
Desperate beauty take thy light away,
That makes me pale, and he will come to me.
Truly has it been said of thee
“Hosts to madness leadeth she,”
Since Cuhoolin thou hast led.
I pray thee go and work no further ill.
He has cursed us both. Leave him to me to cure.
Though here thy voice be potent, matched with mine,
To hold and trouble him, let him once return
Among the old things, and a thousand voices
Will sing with gathering murmur, as the leaves
Of forest boughs innumerable,—will sing
The old sweet peace into his breast again.
I am but one leaf,—nothing; thou a tree:
Yet is the tree but little to the forest
Of friends, loves, occupations will surround him
In his own home, Cooalni. Have compassion:
Return, O Fand, to thine immortal spouse,
And leave to me my mortal.”
“Nay,” she said;
“If he is troubled, whose the blame but thine,
Who hast cut the tendrils, that had clasp'd with strength
The life of fuller joy;—rashly, unheedingly;
Caring for nothing but to get him back,
Yet not for that so much as get from me?
Loving him truly thou had'st left him to me.
Yet, be thou not unwarned: take him from me,
If such thy power, I leave a sting behind,
The sting of my remembrance, a quick pain
No skill of thine can e'er pluck out of him.
With me 'tis different: I can pluck thee out,
And with immortal kisses heal the wound.”
Strange was the thought her words aroused.
What if 'twere better that he went with her?
I could not yet endure it: “why,” I sobbed,
“Why do you envy us our best,
Why pluck from us our hero-flowers,
To make more rich the airs of heaven,
Leaving our scentless gardens desolate?
Nay, and this too may be,
The flower, that men the sweetest deem,
May, in that rarer atmosphere
The gods inhale, prove odourless:
What need of hero's strength have they,
What care for man's achievement?”
“Nay,” said Fand,
Well the gods know, they know full well
The difference in the deeds of men.”
“Ay, do they so?” I said: have I not heard
Wise druids say mankind was but a field
Of plants, wherein the gods their trials made,—
Plucking the rarest,—making thus new gods,
Enriching heaven, leaving the weeds to earth?”
“It may be so,” she answered, “or, perchance,
Lest men should grow too mighty; howbeit
With thee I wrangle not: Cuhoolin, hear!
From the land, where I would lead thee,
Have my birds, the golden-throated,
Brought for thee the dews of healing:
They shall pour them in thine ear: Hear!”
Then from a bird among the boughs unseen
Burst forth a long note, sweet,—sweet and clear:
“Spring without its frosts and chills,
Summer, but no scorching heat,
Autumn's gold without decay:
Winter shall not freeze our rills,
Save an hour we dream of it,
Waking find it fled away.”
It ceased, and he upraised his head,
Calmly, all his passion gone,
And urged me this strange plea:—
“Tell me, why should I not
Linger awhile with her?
How beautiful she is thou seëst;
And what accomplishments are hers, what powers,
Thou also may'st behold.
Here, when we came, the hills were bare,
Slimy the lake, and cold:
She sat and sang and all things quickly changed:
The dark cloud-roof upon the mountains broke,
And all the upper azure lights of heaven
Softly down the hill sides stole,
Clothing them in hazy gold.
The lake below grew limpid clear;
And from the wonder-breeding shores
Came forth a living host,
The verdurous multitude of woods:
The hollows of the hills they peopled,
Like a flood they overbrimmed them;
And the crags they scaled,
Round them flinging arms of shade.
Then also came the flowers, I knew not whence:
Then came the birds;
O Emer, great though thine accomplishments
They are not skilled like hers.
Then leave me in this region of delight,
And love of thee will linger in my heart:
Better be loved far off than hated near;
And loving thee, perchance I shall return,
Wearied of this sweet world,
With willing footsteps to thine arms again.”
Oh! how my soul was troubled!
There was a strange persuasion in his voice,
That all but conquered me; yet felt I, too,
It was the goddess spake through it, not he:
And thus I cried, “hating or loving me,
Come now, or thou returnest nevermore.”
Again came in the voice of Fand,
Rich with its sweet temptation,
Subtly-pleading, dangerous:—
“Return not to that pale imperfect world,
Where all things seem to be, but nothing is.
This woman, thy wife, she is a type of it.
Fair she may be, as mortal women are fair,—
Fairer than most;—look at her: then at me;
So, ev'n in all things, differ our separate worlds.”
She spoke and all my heart within me sank
And my poor cheeks grew paler,—brighter hers
Glowed in her exultation, as the rose
Of summer against the fading, pale spring flowers,
That men admire, ere richer blooms appear.
Cuhoolin wavered, and I marvelled not;
And once again the music of her voice
Was heard, and it was sweeter than the choirs
Of all the woodlands singing, for every word
Came floating in a mist of melody:
She ceased; he must have gone,
If grief the chords of my faint spirit had struck not
And waked one feeble wail. “Woe, woe!” I cried:
“How weak and pale am I!
Ah! by what beauty shall I win thee back,
Made weaker by my sorrows and my fears?
My words dissolve in sighs,
That should persuade thine ears;
I have only tears
To make mine eyes more beautiful.”
Again he wavered tow'rds me,
For pity swayed his soul,
And that approach of his gave force to me,
And I arose with strength for pleading:
“Heed her not, O Cuhoolin, husband mine;
Delusive is the bliss she offers thee,
Bliss that will to torment turn,
Like one bright colour for ever before thine eyes,
Since of mortal race thou art.
Man is the shadow of a changing world;
As the image of a tree,
By the breeze swayed to and fro,
On the grass, so changeth he;
Night and day are in his breast;
Winter and summer, all the change
Of light and darkness and the season's marching;—
Flowers that bud and fade,
Tides that rise and fall.
Even with the waxing and the waning moon
His being beats in tune;
The air that is his life
Inhales he with alternate heaving breath;
Joyous to him is effort, sweet is rest;
Life he hath and death.
Then seek not thou too soon that permanence
Of changeless joy that suits unchanging gods,
In whom no tides of being ebb and flow.
Out of the flux and reflux of the world
Slowly man's soul doth gather to itself,
Atom by atom, the hard elements
Firm, incorruptible, indestructible,
Whereof when all his being is compact,
No more it wastes nor hungers, but endures,
Needing not any food of changing things,
But fit among like-natured gods to live,
Amongst whom, entering too soon, he perishes,
Unable to endure their fervid gaze.
Though now thy young, heroic soul
Be mate for her immortal might,
Yet think, thy being is still but as a lake,
That, by the help of friendly streams unfed,
Full soon the sun drinks up.
Wait till thou hast sea-depths:—
Till all the tides of life and deed,
Of action and of meditation;—
Of service unto others and their love,
Shall pour into the caverns of thy being
The might of their unconquerable floods:
Then canst thou bear the glow of eyes divine;
And like the sea, beneath the sun at noon,
Shalt shine in splendour inexhaustible.
Therefore no more be tempted by her lures.
Not that way lies thine immortality:
But thou shalt find it in the ways of men,
Where many a task remains for thee to do,
And shall remain for many after thee,
Till all the storm-winds of the world be bound.
Thy glory lies with me.”
But there brake from the lips of Fand sweet scorn of the softest laughter,
Nearer as she moved to him:
“Let not that cold breath of hers
Chill thee back in fancy to her side:
Hear at last the truth that she would hide:
Thou no weakling mortal art:
Surely of all the beings bright,
Who bear the name divine De Danann,
Lives not one, in whom a soul
Burns more radiant than thine:
Call to mind Lu's bright-faced glory,
Which thou, who art his son, inheritest,
From no mortal father sprung:
And since, although a god, thou wanderest
Dark in this exile of a mortal world,
I would recall thee to thine own true home
And lead thee back to the joys, that should be thine:
Leaving the spectral glances and pale-lipped kisses of women,
Come thou, Cuhoolin, to mine.”
Softly she moved to his side and her arms threw around him and kissed him,
And bare him away, as a billow, that rolls on the surface of summer seas,
Strong with the pulse of the storm, that has ceased, irresistibly lifteth the swimmer,—
So gently the strength of her charm upraised him and bare him away from me:
And around him a rosy light from her radiant shape enwrapped him,
Till beside her his god-like strength seemed even as a green oak tree's,
Overgrown by the bloom of a rose, that spreads the hues of her rapture,
Till more is the glow of the bloss'm than the green rich gloss of the leaves.
And I, for my soul was still half-thralled of her song's enchantment,
Half by the chill of my fear made numb, stood silent and watched him go:
Child and the land he had loved so well, and I, though the last, abandoned,
And the strength of the mightiest soul of men by a shameful craft brought low:
“Yet does it matter?” within me I said, “when he goes and with soul so willing;
Leaps the high sun from the midst of heaven, when his feet to the noon were nigh:”
But, as out of my sight, he passed from the bower, and she to his side close-clinging
I flung myself to the earth with a bitter cry,
And, burying my face in the grass, shaken with sobs I lay.
It could not have been long that I thus lay:
It might have been a moment, month, or year,
For all I knew: the suffering one, whose brain
Lies boiling on the fever furnace, knows not
The count of hours or days: no more knew I,
Stunned, smitten, and torn; the heart of all my life
Plucked from my bleeding breast, and I alive.
Suddenly over me I heard a voice,
That seemed to reach to me from some clear star,
Speaking dearest consolation:—
“Thou hast pierced to my heart with the dart of thy weeping,
Grievest thou, Emer, for me?”
And the voice was Cuhoolin's, and the dear consoler was he;
And he lifted me up to his lips, and I clung to his breast still weeping,
“For whom should I sorrow but thee?”
Here paused a moment Emer in her speech;
From the deep fountains of her memory
Bringing up mingled waters bitter-sweet
Of joy and sorrow; and her voice sank low,
Caught by the ancient sob: her listener then
Softly, “so hadst thou thy Cohoolin won!”
“Yea, I had won,” she answered, “yet not won;
Things strange to be recounted yet remain:
Quickly they passed, like lightning, dazzling-swift,
Then the loud thunder and long storm behind.
Parting from that embrace we heard a sob.
I looked, and there stood the defeated one,
Pale, broken, blank, despairing;—the bright eyes
Like unto withered flowers: I pitied her,
As, with hands clasped in front of her, she stood.
Yet hardly, ev'n for pity was there time,
When, with loud cries, there burst into the bower
A score of Ulster women; friends of mine
They were, yet now they served me not, I deem:
Purposing help they followed in my track,
And now, beholding Fand, tow'rds her they ran
With vengeful screams.
“Ha! goddess though she be,
Now shall she learn that Ulster women are strong,
Her beauty shall our husbands tempt no more.”
She moved not: if they had laid hands on her,
Too dreadful were the deed that had been done.
But, from the woods, or from the cleavèd earth,—
I knew not whence, suddenly stood between them,
A shape majestic, radiant, beautiful,—
A man, yet more than man, with shining eyes:
He was superb as is a summer surge,
Rolling to shorewards on such reefs as lie
Beneath the cliffs of Irros or Malinmore:
Dazzling it rolleth from the sapphire deeps,
Curling to emerald and snow: he towered o'er us:
The women were wash'd back, and from the lips
Of Fand came faintly the revealing name,
“Mananaun!” It was the sea-god and her spouse.
“Alas!” she cried, “how poor a sight for thee!
How pitiable the state of me, thy wife,
Rejected by a mortal!”
“Be consoled,”
Gravely he answered: “I have wronged thee much;
Yet will I now atone and give thee peace:
Depart! and I will shake my cloak between you,
And then thou wilt remember him no more.”
Silent and shamed she went: he, from his shoulders
Took off the cloak wonderful, crystalline,
Green as the vivid sea, broidered with foam,
And flaked with mother o' pearl: he shook it thrice,
And from the folds burst forth a storm of sound,
Of murmurous music, as of all the waves
On all the shores of Eirë: when it ceased,
Unto Cuhoolin pointing, thus he spake
“She will forget thee, thou shalt not forget;”—
Turned and was gone. Like unto shipwrecked folk,
Stunned, drenched, and scarce escaped with life were we.
Thus for a time it was. The lightest leaf
Is easiest stirred, and the first words were mine,
“Cuhoolin, let us go!” For answer came
A thunder peal of groans.
“Ay, let us go,
Since Fand and joy are gone from me for ever.
And thou wert glad to see that marvel vanish!
Thinkest thou now to keep me, wretched one?
Away, for I will find her, though the god
Hide her beneath all oceans” He was gone.
Then came the women near to comfort me.
“Fear not,” they said, “since he can never find her;
He will outwear his madness in the search,
Then seek thy face again.” They brought me home,
Here to Cooalni. After months had passed,
Tidings were heard of him: he had been seen
Wandering throughout the woods and wilds of Eirë;
Taking mad leaps among the craggy hills;
By stony brink of the dim mountain meres;
On ocean shores unpeopled, when the storm
Drave the tossed waters on the torturing crags:
In calm of mystic evenings, when the lone sea-bird
Silent stalked on crimson sands, that mirrored
The Atlantic sunset: seeking, ever seeking
The glory of the lost immortal eyes.
Thus for a year the fruitless search he urged;
Then, by some chance, finding himself near home,
He came and stayed. Haggard he was and worn,
Haunted and troubled still. Our druids then
Took counsel for his healing; this they did.
They made him waters of forgetfulness:
He drank them, and perchance he did forget;
Till, on the scorched ground of his memory,
Fand's fires had burned, the verdure bloomed again.
Yet this I know that 'mid the growth renewed
Grew also her remembrance,—a slight shoot,
With flowers faint-tinted by the rose of Fand.
I found it in a bunch he gave to me,
These words, the last he spoke concerning her:
I may repeat them, though they laud myself:
Such virtue have the praises of such lips,
It were false shame in those whom they commend
To deem them undeserved. The words are these.
“Emer, be proud: what woman e'er
Shall praised above thy glory be,
Since hands immortal could not tear
The prize they grasped away from thee.
Welcome the old dear love again;
The heart of calm in tempest stress,
No see-saw joy that dips to pain,
And bliss that is not blessedness.”
She ceased; and after silence, thus the bard.
“Oh! well for him, whom love to duty draws:
Whose spirit is not torn in sunder
By direful conflict of the primal laws:
His shall be th' achievement high,
Whereat the after ages wonder;
The clear peak shining in the upper sky,
The heart of rock that lies the mountains under.”

Epilogue.