From the Land of Dreams :: :: University of Virginia Library

Meanwhile a message to the King was brought
By a fleet runner, with the bitter news
Of Connall's fall; and ere the day was old
Two chariots from Dundalgan to the ford
Came racing, swifter than two flames of war.

Far off they saw them blaze like angry stars,
As the wind-outspeeding stallions rushed like fire
Over the plain, and far behind the wheels
Long dust-clouds rose like smoke. In one the King
Rode with the Archdruid Cathvah, and in one
Cuchullain, driven by Laeg, stood like an oak,
Grasping his battle spears.

Conchobar now,
Throned on the seat of judgment, set by him
Grey Cathvah, venerable in magic robes.
There Conlaoch, lightly sinking on his knee,
Made his obeisance, and from the grave King
Great was the praise he heard, with flushing cheeks
And youthful joy of triumph in his heart;
But boldly still refused his name.

Once more
The trumpet blew. Cuchullain from the booth
Come shining to the field, and courteously
Greeted the Boy: “O Youth, in feats of war
Thou hast shamed us all this day! Tell me thy name,
And no dishonour on that name can fall.
I am Cuchullain.” Conlaoch answered him:
“O Champion of the World, better my death
From such a hand than breaking of my vow!

That were my black dishonour.” Cuchullain sighed:
“That face is like the face of one I knew—
Where did I see that face?” A cloud of gloom
Fell on him, as he muttered to himself:
“Dark is my mind, blind is my groping brain!”
Then looked once more on Conlaoch, and sadly said:
“Come! Wilt thou prove on me thy valour now?”

Fast flew their spears. The champion carelessly
Played with him as a master, testing him;
Conlaoch with careful heed of his defence
Watching his play, made answer with a sleight
Fine as his own; and soon Cuchullain saw
One worthy of his arms was in the field,
And shouted praise. And now, like two red stags
Unmatched before, they bounded o'er the grass
Fighting for mastery; till the sunny sky
Was overcast, and growling from the hills
The thunder swooped, as there furiously still
They fought, and in Cuchullain's breast the rage
Of battle flamed, and dreadful grew his face;
Then to the Boy, with wrathful shout, he cried:
“Tell me thy name, or die!” From some deep voice

In Conlaoch's heart came the revealing word:
“This is thy father!” “Know me then by this!”
He shouted back. A spear flew from his hand
Full at his father's head; but by his art
Swerved from its mark, and lightly grazed his brow,
And singing past him quivered in the earth.

Then on Cuchullain madness fell. The lust
Of slaughter darkly blazed in his fierce eyes,
And, grasping in his rage his ghastly spear,
Armed with the dragon's teeth, he cried again:
“Thy hour is come—take from my hand thy death!”
And rashly, in fatal madness, from his hand
He launched the grisliest horror of the world.

Sudden and grim the end its baleful teeth
Made of that noble game, superb in skill
Beyond all combats fought on Irish grass.

Not to be balked or stayed, inevitable,
The demon thing flew screaming o'er the plain,
Through shield and warcoat rending its fierce way,
And Conlaoch fell, pierced by five deadly wounds.

Fast following it Cuchullain cried to him:
“Tell me thy name!” He lifted his weak hand,
And showed the ring, read in the setting sun
That gleamed through clouds parted above the plain,

As o'er the sea the thunder died away.

Cuchullain saw, and knew it. His crime revealed
With a swift pang stabbed his remorseful heart.
In sudden vision rose the Alban shore,
And Aifé waving o'er the sundering sea
Her last farewell. Then with a bitter cry:
“My son! my son!” he knelt beside his boy,
And kissed his blanching lips, and his great voice
Tender with tears, and broken with wild sobs,
Groaned out: “Oh! why this horror? Why the guilt
Of thy dear blood—my own—upon this hand?
Did she—? Black fall my curse upon her head,
Aifé, thy mother, if she planned this guile!”

And Conlaoch, pale with agony, panted slow:
“Curse not my mother—though she laid on me
The vow that slays me! Curse this worm of pain
Your blind desire of victory loosed on me—
Base weapon for a champion! Curse the false heart
That held my father's eyes from knowing me!
Wonder is in my mind you knew me not,
When my spear turned from you. Not mine the shame

This day, falling before you, magic arms
Against me. Never had you put me down
Without this plague whose fangs burn in me now.”

His tortured eyes looked in his father's face,
And saw such love and anguish of remorse,
It touched his heart. Faintly he smiled, and said:
“The pity and the sorrow of the world
Wail in my breast for you, seeing your grief.
Take my forgiveness, father—and give me now
The mercy of your sword!”

Cuchullain groaned
And pierced his heart with ruthful steel. The light
Fled from his eyes, as his young life gushed forth,
Following the blade withdrawn. From his marred flesh
His father drew the spear, and shuddering
Flung it away; then crouched upon the ground,
Pale as the dead, and weak with wild remorse,
Moaned o'er his murdered son: “Ochone for thee,
Son of my youth! Madness was in my brain,
Base wrath in my heart, slaying thee! In thy fall
I am fallen below the beasts; the championship
Flies these red hands of shame! Curst be the spear

That slew thee! Curst am I who gave thee death,
And knew not him I slew! I am grown grey
In aging grief! An outcast o'er the earth
Now must I wander, black upon my brow,
Where honour shone, the brand of infamy!”

Meanwhile the men who stood by Conchobar,
Watching the end in horror and strange fear,
Had heard that anguished cry: “My son! my son!”
But Conchobar to Cathvah whispered low:
“Let us be gone—leave him to mourn his boy
While sorrow tames his heart and makes his limbs
Weaker than rushes bent before the blast.
But when the hour of tears goes by, his grief
Eased, as he chants with music of sad words
Keening above the dead, madness may fall
Again upon him; the raging of his mind
Urge him to turn his fury on ourselves,
And many deaths may hap, ere he be slain
By us or his own sword. Lay thou a spell
Upon him. Let him quench his agony
Fighting the woundless waves on Bala's Strand.”

They left him there with his dead son alone,
And sought the booths; while he with many a moan
Closed the dim eyes, straightened the cramp-wrung limbs;
And from afar they heard him raise the keene.