From the Land of Dreams By John Todhunter. With an introduction by T. W. Rolleston |
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CUCHULLAIN'S LAMENTATION |
 | From the Land of Dreams |  |
92
CUCHULLAIN'S LAMENTATION
I
Ochone, bad are the daysWithout my son, without my son!
Ochone for the days before me,
And the love slain in my heart!
II
My curse on thy Mother, my curseI lay, because in her fury
The Kings of my race she slew
When she drank the blood of thy body.
III
My lap sad rest for the head,My arms round the body's beauty,
My hands red with the blood
Of him I slew in my madness!
IV
The father that slew his son,I lay my curse on that father,
May every spear from his hand
Come back, my torture and wounding!
V
In a bad field I plantedThis valiant slip of my body,
In a bitter field it was nourished,
To bring this curse upon me!
93
VI
A man's wrath is a flameThat burns and is quenched in sorrow;
But like venom never cured
Is the jealousy of a woman!
VII
If thou and I, O my son,Were playing war-feats together
O Conlaoch, boy of my heart,
We would ride on the waves of battle!
VIII
But now death-pale are thy cheeks,Death-cold is thy fair white body,
And the agony of my love
Devours my heart like death!
IX
My grief will go from me neverTill my bones in the cairn shall crumble;
It feeds upon my heartstrings
Like fire in the hoar hill-grasses!
X
Ochone, bad are my daysWithout my son, without my son!
Ochone for the days before me
And the love slain in my heart!
94
He rose, and his red eyes were shot with blood,
Ghastly his working face; and dreadful thoughts
Raged in his brain. And now he might have turned
His sword against himself; save that he found
The fatal spear clotted with Conlaoch's gore,
And fury seized him. But Cathvah's druid spells
Against him sent a cloud of magic smoke,
And rushing o'er the sandhills to the Strand
Of Bala, there he fought against the waves
All the night long, till far into the sea
He cast the baleful spear, and the sane mind
Came to him once more. Then slow, back o'er the hills
He paced in the cool dawn.
Ghastly his working face; and dreadful thoughts
Raged in his brain. And now he might have turned
His sword against himself; save that he found
The fatal spear clotted with Conlaoch's gore,
And fury seized him. But Cathvah's druid spells
Against him sent a cloud of magic smoke,
And rushing o'er the sandhills to the Strand
Of Bala, there he fought against the waves
All the night long, till far into the sea
He cast the baleful spear, and the sane mind
Came to him once more. Then slow, back o'er the hills
He paced in the cool dawn.
Three days they kept
Young Conlaoch's funeral feast, and where he fell
They raised his cairn. Not long Cuchullain lived;
But on Murthemny heath, wanting that spear,
With spear and sword was basely slain, unarmed,
By Lugaid's hand; and Aifé died avenged.
Young Conlaoch's funeral feast, and where he fell
They raised his cairn. Not long Cuchullain lived;
But on Murthemny heath, wanting that spear,
With spear and sword was basely slain, unarmed,
By Lugaid's hand; and Aifé died avenged.
| From the Land of Dreams | |