Poems with Fables in Prose | ||
DEIRDRE WEDDED
This narrative poem, published some years before the plays, “Deirdre” of Synge, or the “Deirdre” of W. B. Yeats, does not cover any of the ground touched by these poets. In fact the episode of thirty hours, narrated by the Three Voices, does not, with the exception of two incidents, occur in any of the versions of the famous “Tragical Tale of the Sons of Usnach.” The manner of Deirdre's wooing of Naois is, however, based on an occurrence in a Gaelic version of that tale, in which, on a day (although not, as in this narrative, her marriage day) Deirdre and her women companions “were out on the hillock behind the house enjoying the scene and drinking in the sun's heat. What did they see coming but three men a-journeying. Deirdre was looking at the men that were coming, and wondering at them. When the men neared them, Deirdre remembered the language of the huntsmen, and she said to herself that these were the three sons of Usnach, and that this was Naois, he having what was above the bend of his two shoulders above the men of Erin all.” The three brothers went past without taking any notice of them, and without even glancing at the young girls on the hillock. “What happened but that love for Naois struck the heart of Deirdre, so that she could not but follow after him. She trussed her raiment and went after the three men that went past the base of the knoll, leaving her women attendants there. Aillean and Ardan had heard of the woman that Connachar, King of Ulster, had with him, and they thought that if Naois their brother saw her he would have her himself, more especially as she was not married to the king.” They perceived the woman coming, and called on one another to hasten their steps as they had a long distance to travel and the dusk of night was coming on. They did so. She cried three times, “Naois, son of Usnach, wilt thou leave me?” “What cry is that which it is not well for me to answer, and not easy for me to refuse?” Twice the brothers put him off with excuses. “But the third time Naois and Deirdre met, and Deirdre kissed Naois three times, and a kiss to each of his brothers.” The other incidents in the episodic poem “Deirdre Wedded” are new. They are grounded on knowledge of the localities named.
These were old bards. A tomb like that of Cir, caverned through a hill-ridge, has been found and explored not far from Eman and Armagh, just as it is described in the poem. But the curious may rediscover it for themselves.
This king, or terrestrial divinity, is generally known as Conchobar, or Conor, King of Ulster (Uladh) and Arch-King of Ireland. He is chronicled as reigning about the time of the incarnation of Christ.
Eman, or Emain Macha, was the chief palace of Connachar. It is still seen and named in the “Navan Ring”—enormous earthworks on a hill about two miles west of Armagh. The people from the town and countryside still go up to dance there on holidays. Traces of the Lake of Pearls—into which jewels were cast on a sudden flight—lie in a marsh under Eman. The Callan, or “loud-sounding” river, runs not very far off.
A pre-historic stone fortress—singularly vast —on the edge of the cliffs of Arran Môr, one of the Aran Islands in the Atlantic, west of Galway. The walls are very massive, and were originally built half-cricle-wise, as though half of the ring had broken off and fallen into the sea.
I: THE CHANTERS
I
I stood on the Hill of Time when the sun was fled,And my vision sought where to rest, till it knew the plains
Of my country, the Night's harp, and the moonless bed
Of rivers and bristling forests and sea-board chains.
II
And from many a chanter's mound—none is nameless there—Could I hear, amid rumour eternal, the voice ascend.
With the bones of man endureth his floating hair,
And the song of his spirit on earth is slow to end.
III
Speak to me, speak to me, Fintan, dark in the south,From the west Urmael, and Cir, lying under the pole,
Some chant that ye made, who never spake mouth to mouth,
But over the ridge of ages from soul to soul!
IV
And a strain came out of Dun Tulcha, the yew's shores,From Fintan, the elder than yews, the too old for tears,
“Let us tell him of Deirdre wed, that his heart's doors
Resound, as when kings arrive, with the trees of spears.”
2: VOICE OF FINTAN
Out of the First Century
It was the night when Connachar, high king
Of the four kingdoms, took to wife at last
Deirdre, the wise one, the thrice-beautiful;
It was the night of marriage. Word had sped,
Tokens gone out to every rath and ring
And every pasture on the woody knolls
Green about Eman, of the slaughter blithe
Of sheep and boar, of badger and of stag,
Reddening the ways up to the kingly house—
Of sheep and goats and of the stintless food
That should be poured out to his beggary
By Connachar, that all time should remember
The night he wed the girl from the elf-mound.
Yonside of Assaroe his swineherd found her
Bred in a peaty hillock of the west
By one old crone. Though tribeless she and wild—
Barefoot, and in the red wool chasing cattle
Connachar saw and took, biding his time,
And let queens give her skill the winter long
In webs and brews and dyes and broideries
Up to this night of marriage.
The beam-work in its dome of forest trunks—
They that had been the chantries of the dawn
To blacken songless through a thousand years:—
But never since they sway'd buds in the glens
Or spun the silken-floating violet gleam
Had those spars groan'd above so fierce a breath
Rich with the vapour of the boar! For now
Hundreds with ruddy-glistening faces ran
Jostling round the nine shadows of the blaze
And spread with skins the lengthy beds of men
And soused warm spice of herbs in ale. Here—thither—
Was rousing of age-slumber'd horns, arranging
Smooth banks throughout the house, strawing of rushes,
And cauldrons humm'd before the empty throne
Set high in the shadow of the wall, and bubbled
Inaudible, impatient for the king.
Wide-wafted sank the sun's divinity
On swooning wings, the Lake of Pearls far down
Curdled beneath the unseen seed of rain.
Ramparts run there that by-gone prisoners
Bore once in bags of slime up from the lake
For barriers of the house they most abhorr'd.
Dips lowest to the lakeward, Deirdre stood,
Hearing from distant ridges the faint bleat
Of lambs perturb the dusk—bleats shivering out
Like wool from thorns—there the young Deirdre stood,
Like the moon whose climbing beauty pales the world,
Looking far off on hills whence she was come.
Mountains that lift the holiness of Fire!
Fortitudes, ye that take the brunt of fate!
Send her across the bog a little cloud
Full of the ancient savours, full of peace,
And for its drops she will hold up her heart,
O ye that stand in heaven, far removed!
She ask'd aloud, Wherefore were greens so bare
That but an hour ago shook with the thud
Of racers and of hurlers? Was it late?
The wrinkled nurse replied, Had the child eyes?
Back from a hosting and a desperate prey
For corn and mares and rustless brass and beeves
Naois, with the rest of Usnach's sons,
Had come. She had seen him weary go but now
Heavily up the steep through the king's hedge.
Now on the hill-top, while the woman spoke,
The hosts sway'd round him, and above the press
Connachar, glittering all in torques of gold
And writhen armlets, listen'd from the mound
Of judgment, by the doom-oak at his door.
His beak'd helm took the sunset, but he held
His flint-red eyes in shadow and averse.
And when before him, dark as a young pine,
Unmoved the son of Usnach had told all;
How half his folk had perish'd in the task
By plague or battle, and how poor a spoil
Was driven home, the king cried: “Paragon!
We must go griddle cakes in honey for him!
Bring lavers of pale gold to wash off blood
So precious to us!” Since for many moons
This champion had forsworn the face of softness
And stretched his hungers to the sleety rock,
Call in the smile of women to unlatch
From his grim ribs the iron:—Faugh! Away!
Let Usnach's sons take out again that night
Their broken clans, their piteous cattle thence;
Defeated men should see his gates no more.
Down hill and to the loch to wash his wounds
Chanting—his dark curls waver'd in the wind—
Lest we should think him humbled. Halfway down
The shapes of women loiter'd in the dusk
And one held backward out her arms to take
The latchets of her cloak. But as Naois
Pass'd by them, closely as is heard a sigh—
His vehement flood of soul fierce for the mere—
Glancing not right nor left, O then I saw
The foot of Deirdre stricken motionless—
I saw the stiff cloak many-colour'd sink
Slow to the grass, wrinkling its blazon'd skins
Behind her.
And from the warmth of drinking at his feast
Connachar sent forth to the women's house;
And heralds bade bring also the grey seer,
Cathva, though Cathva had not will'd to come.
But hardly had those erranders gone out
When rose the door-hide: the grey seer came in
Noiseless. He was of fog the night hath spun,
Earth in his hair and on his meagre cheek,
Consumed and shaking, ragged as seaweed,
And to the throne he cried: “Why hast thou called
Me to carousal? Is this bed my work?
Nay—too great clearness underneath the thunder
Shew'd insupportably the things to be.
Shook round her cabin low my skirts of storm,
Far hence, round her peaty hillock in the west,
To shield thee from that devastating face.
My fault is only that I slew her not.
Know! it was I that, seeing those cradled limbs
Bright with disaster for the realm and thee,
When she no more was than a litling babe
Flung her away among sea-warding Mountains.
But Muilréa to Ben Gorm said:What is this?
What glee is this disturbs our desolation?
I hear another than the wild duck sheering
Sidelong the wind. Tall as a rush is she,
Sweet as the glitter of the netted lakes!
And Ben Gorm answer'd:We are sick alone:
Let us distil the heavens into a child!
Yea, let our bones appear, the black goat starve
Upon our heads, yet shall this wafted seed
Superabound with ripeness we forgo.
Dark space shall come to heart—silvers of mists— And thou, blue depth of gorges! Connachar,
I heard the plotters, but I let her live!”
And the king ask'd, “Hath any seen her there?”
And Cathva answer'd, “Till thy herdsman found her
Commanded yet again, “Bring us in Deirdre!”
Straightway a woman like the claw of birds,
Decrepit, bright of eye, and innocent,
Stood up beyond the fire. Her fingers play'd—
Play'd with a red stone at her breast. He ask'd,
“Who gave thee, hag, the jewel on thy bosom?”
Now every drinker from the darkest stalls
Perceived the brooch was Deirdre's, and a gift
To her from Connachar. Aghast, the woman
Fumbled at her sere breast, and wept and said,
“It was a gift to me, O Connachar,
This night.” And he, consummate lord of fear,
Our never-counsell'd lord, the Forest-odour'd,
That kept about his heart a zone of chill,
Smiled, though within the gateway of his fort
A surmise crept, as 'neath a load of rushes
Creeps in the stabber. “Fix the pin, Levarcham,
For she that loses such a brooch will grieve.
Why comes not Deirdre?” “Sir, she is not yet
Duly array'd, and so is loth to come.”
O, then, believe me, all the floor was hush,
But a mad discordancy like fifes, drums, brasses,—
Bondmen of old was on the winds released—
Shook every beam and pillar of the house;
And the king said—“Thou hear'st out of the marsh
And she said, “Yea.” “Thou knowest round these walls
How many chariots now are tilted up?”
And she said, “Yea.” “Then, woman, bring with haste
Deirdre, thy charge, into this presence now,
Or limb from limb upon the pleasant grass
Those wheels shall parcel thee at dawn!” And she,
Levarcham that was nurse to Deirdre's childhood,
Lifted her hands and closed her eyes and sang:
“She will come back, but I, I shall not bring her!
O rainbow breathed into the dreadful pine,
Why art thou gone from me? Dearer to me
Than the sobbing of the cuckoo to the shore,
Why art thou gone from me?” She bow'd and wept.
And Connachar came from the throne, and grasping,
As if he felt no heat, the cauldron's brims,
Lean'd through its steams, watching the nurse and said,
“Will these afflicting tears bring Deirdre in?”
But she look'd up and said: “How shall I bring her?
Look now outside thy door, O Connachar!
The black oak with the vision-dripping boughs
Stagger'd as I came up in the night-blast.
In vain it stretches angers to the sky:
It cannot keep the white moon from escape
To sail the tempest; nor, O king, canst thou!”
The cheek of him that listened grew thrice-pale
And his thick nostrils swell'd, his half-shut eyes
Fang'd sheen, and slow dilated; stubbornly
He clutch'd to steady his convulsive frame
The sea-full cauldron; quick, with efforts vast,
Upheaved and swung and pillar'd it on high—
And hoarsely bade, “Take torches!” Every man
Kindled in silence at the hearth divine.
Then Connachar pour'd out upon the blaze
The flood within the vat. The roofs were fill'd
With darkness foul, with hissings and with smoke. . . .
3: VOICE OF CIR
Out of a Century more remote, but unknown
Where tide is at ebb, and out on the airy brim
Glass'd upon cloud and azure stand multitudes
Of the flame-white people of gulls—to the sky-line dim
Into fevers of snows and ocean-wandering cries:
Even so, chanters divine, in some woman's fate
At coming of him to be loved do her dreams arise.
Took the flame of love in her heart at the time of dew,
And clad her in ragged wool from a coffer of bronze,
And walked in the chill of night, for her soul was new.
I could drink up this tempest cold as a burning wine.
Why laugh, my grief, for art thou not bride of a king,
And the drinkers drink to a couch array'd to be thine?”
The house Bron Bhearg—she laid her cheek to the wall
And bless'd them by stealth, with no pang at the sound of groans,
Having that in her rich heart which could heal them all.
She fled, and spied, not a sling-cast off, the flare
Of a torch, and the skull fixed over the gate. And lo,
To the right hand watchmen paced by the water there.
Athwart; for who was this phantom over the grass
And cried, “I am Deirdre!” And sullen they gave her the pass.
To blindness. She pluck'd her steps on that miry road
Through copses alive with storm, till at length a spark
Shew'd the forge where the smith on the heroes' way abode.
With the soft roar of his hide-wing'd fire as it soar'd:
“Has the son of Usnach pass'd?” “Yea, gone back!” With the word
He smote on a ribbon of iron to make him a sword.
The woman fled to the wastes, till she came to a Thorn
Black, by the well of a God, with stars therein kindling
And over it rags fluttering from boughs forlorn.
And leash'd the black-shuddering branch with that tress, and pray'd:
“Sloe-tree, thou snow of the darkness, O hear my prayer,
And thou, black Depth, bubble-breather, vouchsafe thine aid;
Sons of the Earth's profound, that no weeper spurn!
I have look'd on a face, and its kindness ravish't my soul,
But deliverance pass'd; unto you for escape I turn.”
Came the banish'd of Usnach nigh, thrice fifty strong,
As they drove from Eman away on that night of storm;
And Naois spoke with his brothers behind the throng:
Rang on my soul's shield; hark! hear ye it now?”
“It was fate, 'twas the curs't hag that is crouch'd on a bough!”
Rain-dripping mantled the wind. One ran like a roe,
And call'd on that great name from the night-bound wood:
“Stay, long-awaited, stay! for with thee I go!”
Or a gang of the wild geese, going back to the lake!”
But Naois rear'd up the deep-ribb'd Srōn: “Good Srōn,
Thou and I needs must turn for our fame's sake.”
He bent from the withers, the blaze of her, trembling, drew
The breath from his lips and the beat from his heart's life;
And he said, “Who art thou, Queen?” But himself knew.
Him least of all I rob, least of all that live!”
But she cried: “Am I then a colt, that ye snare from a foe
With a bridle's shaking? I am mine own to give!”
And famine rake out thine embers, the lean paw
Of jeopardy find thee. He is not rich in delights
Whose harp is the grey fell in the winter's flaw!”
Horse swollen-vein'd from battle, insulter of death—
Whose back is only a perch for the desert bird—
Whose fore-hooves fight—whose passage is torn with teeth:
To the grief of the weak?” And the lad, deeply-moved, rejoins,
“Mount, then, O woman, behind me!”—and light as a leaf
Drawing her up from his foot to the smoking loins
From Muilréa's moon-glittering peak when the sky is bare,
Scraped naked by nine days' wind, and sweepingly drives
Over night-blurred gulfs and the long glens of the air,
Spouted from isleless ocean to aid his flight—
So fiercely, so steadily gallop'd the sinewy Srōn,
Braced by that double burden to more delight.
As giddy foam-weltering waters dash'd by the hoof
Flee away from the weirs of Callan, even so pass'd
Dark plains away to the world's edge, behind and aloof.
Such sweetness of praise to his horse in the swirl of the flood,
Strain'd forth like a hare's, as his haunches up to the wood
And talon'd things of the forest would waft and sway;
But Naois raised unforgotten that battle-shout
That scatters the thrilling wreath of all fears away.
Till the Crag of the Dances before them did shape and loom,
And the Meads of the Faery Hurlers in silver swam;
Then up to the Gap of the Winds, and the far-seen tomb
And cairn of princes—yea, to mine own bedside—
They adventured! Think ye, sweet bards, that I could lie cold
When my chamber of rock fore-knew that impassion'd stride?
And torn from its wave of chords an imperishable love
To sleep on this breast? For here through the mountain sharp
My grave-chamber tunnell'd is, and one door from above
But forth from the eastern face of the ridge is unquell'd
Wilderness, besown with boulders and grass of harm.
Even in my trance could I feel those riders approach, and beheld
Expectant, unconscious, as one whom his foes arouse;
His heart was a forge, his onset enkindled space,
He shook off the gusty leagues like locks from his brows.
Stolen round him, as dreamy water steals round a shore,
That terror of main kings should unlock no more?
Upward, and wing'd like the kiss of Aengus, strove
For utterance to greet them—encircling their heads that flew—
But who lops the whirlwind's foot or outdreameth love?
And spoke: “Dost thou know the truth? Look where night is low!
Soon the ants of that mound shall shake the ledge where we stand;
Now the tribes are summon'd, the Night prepares his blow;
Now tackle the arrogant chariots-dogs in their glee
Hang on the leash-slaves, numb in the cockcrow airs.
Why, out of all that host, hast thou singled me?”
Aptest art thou in feats, held in honour more
Than any save bright Cuchullain!” He turn'd as one lost:
“Is this time a time to mock? Are there not four-score
The attemper'd knights of the Red Branch every one?
Nay, though I knead up the whole earth in my dreams,
Nought to such men am I, who have nothing done!”
Thee—wherefore? Ah, how interpret? Today on the slope
Where first by the wall I saw thee at gloam of dews
I knew it was fated. It was not some leaf of hope
That a chief beleaguer'd cons in his desperate camp
And fits to the other half by his wasted lamp.
Half of the symbol—but broken, mayhap to serve
As language to them of the night from powers of the day!”
By the path of the throbbing curlew no step may swerve
And he said: “Glorious is it to me that behind us pursuit
Shall be wide as the red of the morning; for thou art my will!
To the beach of the world of the dead, and beyond it to boot,
But crossing the mires and the torrents I saw strange ease
Afloat, like a spark, on the woman's eyes as she lean'd
Forth, and a shadow betwixt her lips like peace!
4: VOICE OF URMAEL
Out of the Sixth Century
Beside the river-green of Lisnacaun:
“Who is this woman beautiful as light
Sitting in dolour on thy branchèd lawn,
With sun-red hair, entangled as with flight,
Sheening the knees up to her bosom drawn?
What horses mud-besprent so thirstily
Bellying the hush pools with their nostrils wide?”
And the Yew, old as the long mountain-side,
Answer'd, “I saw her hither with Clan Usnach ride!”
Alone!” Naois pray'd. Through broom and bent
Strewn with swift-travelling shadows like their moods,
Leaving below the camp's thin cries, they went;
And never a tress, escaping from her snoods,
Made the brown river with a kiss content,
So safe he raised up Deirdre through the ford.
He should so bear her after to the grave,
Breasting the druid ice, breasting the phantom wave!
And light as notes the Achill shepherd plays
On his twin pipes, they wanton'd light and slow
Up the broad valley. Birds sail'd from the haze
Far up, where darkling copses over-grow
Scarps of the grey cliff from his river'd base.
Diaphaneity, the spirit's beauty,
Along the dimmèd combes did float and reign,
And many a mountain's scarry flank was plain
Through nets of youngling gold betrimm'd with rain.
So endless—beckon'd to the realms of wind
Deirdre broke from his side, and airily
Fled up the slopes, flinging disdains behind,
And paused, and round a little vivid tree
The wolf-skins from her neck began to bind.
Naois watch'd below this incantation;
Then upward on his javelin's length he swung
To catch some old crone's ditty freshly sung,
Bidding that shoot be wise, for yet 'twas young.
Roved they, unwitting of the world outroll'd,
Their ears dinn'd by the breeze's clarion
That quicks the blood while yet the cheek is cold;
Great whitenesses rose past them, brooks ran down,
And step by step Findruim bare and bold
Uplifted. So a swimmer is uplifted,
Horsed on a streaming shoulder of the Sea,
Our hasty master, who to such as we
Tosses some glittering hour of mastery.
Feathery voices, keen and soft and light:
“Mate ye as eagles mate, that on the wing
Grapple—heaven-high—hell-deep—for yours is flight!
Souls like the granite candles of a king,
Flaming unshook amid the noise of night.
What of pursuit, that you to-day should fear it?”
Pursuit they reck'd not, save of wind that pours
Surging and urging on to other shores
Over the restless forest of a thousand doors.
Uncoil the clouds that everlasting stream
Forth from the castles of those islands rare,
Black in the ragged-misted ocean's gleam,
Northward!” But in her bosom's open seam
She set the powder'd yew-spring silently;
“Speak not of me nor give my beauty praise,
Whose beauty is to follow in thy ways,
So that my days be number'd with thy days!”
Their feet wist not if they should soar or run;
They turned, at earth astonish'd, face to face,
Deeming unearthly blessedness begun.
And slow, 'mid nests of running larks, they pace
Drinking from the recesses of the sun
Tremble of those wings that beat light into music.
There the world's ends lay open; open wide
The body's windows. What shall them divide
Who have walk'd once that country side by side?
Fountains of blood and spirit seem to fill?
The woods, over-flowing, cannot bear that such
An hour should be so sweet and yet be still.
Even the low-tangled bushes at a touch
Break into wars of gleemen, thrill on thrill.
O, son of Usnach, bring me not thy glories!
That where no brother goeth I may go,
And kneel to wash thy wounds in caverns bleak and low!”
(He sang) “once after hunting, by the fire
I knelt, and kindling brushwood raised up thee,
Deirdre, nor wist the star of my desire
Should ever walk Findruim's head with me,
Far from a king's loud house and soft attire.
Fain would I thatch us here a booth of hazels,
Thatch it with drift and snow of sea-gulls' wings;
And thy horn'd harp should wonder to its strings,
What spoil is it to-night Naois brings?”
(A neck of the bare down it was, a ledge
Of wind-sleek turf, the lovers roam'd upon,
And sent young rabbits scuttling to the edge
Of underwoods beneath), “I think that you
Some beast—haply a stag—takes harbourage.”
And Deirdre at a word come back from regions
Of bliss too nigh to pain, snatch'd with no fear
Out of his hand the battle-haunted spear
And, questing swiftly down the pasture sheer,
Green-litten air, and there, as seeking fresh
Enemies, one haunch crush'd against the ground
The grey boar slew'd, tusking the tender flesh
Of shoots, his ravage-whetted bulk around:
But, when his ear across the straggling mesh
Of feather'd sticks report of Deirdre found,
He quiver'd, snorted; from his jaws like wine
Foam dripped; the brawny horror of his spine
Bristled with keen spikes like a ridge of pine.
Believed that in the beast sate to ensnare
He of the red eye—little need to ask
The druid-wrinkled hide, the sluttish hair:
This was to escape—how vain poor passion's task!—
Connachar of the illimitable lair!
He crash'd at her! she heaved the point embrown'd
In blood of dragons. Heavily the boar
Grazed by the iron, reel'd, leapt, charged once more
And thrice in passage her frail vesture tore.
(Who pipes to flocks below him on the steep
Cool as the running water, soft as sleep)
Hurls out a flint from peril to debar
And from the boulder'd chasm recall his sheep—
So with a knife Naois leapt and struck.
Strange! in the very fury of a stride
The grey beast like a phantom from his side
Plunged without scathe to thickets undescried.
And laugh'd, “This shall be praised in revels mad
Around Lug's peak, when women scatter grain
Upon the warriors! Why shouldst thou be sad
Pale victory?” But she, “Ah, thus again
Ere night do I imperil thee, and add
Burden to burden!” And he strove to lead her
From grief, and said, “What, bride! thy raiment torn?”
“Content thee, O content thee, man of scorn,
I'll brooch it with no jewel but a thorn!”
Findruim, like the throng about his grave,
Dusk with the swarth locks of ten thousand stems
In naked poise. These make no rustle save
Murmur; bedumb'd with moss that giant nave.
But let Findruim shake out overhead
His old sea-sigh, and when it doth arrive
At once their tawny boles become alive
With gleams that come and go, and they revive
He said, “as by the blueness of a ray
That, dropping through this presence sombre-wall'd,
Burns low about the image of a spray
Of some poor beech-spray witch'd to emerald.
Wilt thou not dance, daughter of heaven, to-day
Free, at last free? For here no moody raindrop
Can reach thee, nor betrayer overpeer;
And none the self-delightful measure hear
That thy soul moves to, quit of mortal ear!”
And on the enmossèd lights begins to dance.
Away, away, far floating like a mist
To fade into some leafy brilliance;
Then, smiling to the inward melodist,
Over the printless turf with slow advance
That crowded glen. But quick, possess'd by strange
Rapture, wider than dreams her motions range,
Till to a span the forests shrink and change.
Hither all promise, all the unlook'd-for boon
Of rainbow'd life, all rare and speechless things
That shine and swell under the brimming Moon.
Who shall pluck tympans? For what need of strings
To waft her blood who is herself the tune—
Herself the warm and breathing melody?
Art come from the Land of the Ever-Young? O stay!
For his heart, after thee rising away,
Falls dark and spirit-faint back to the clay.
Rise after her—long-buried pangs arouse—
About that bosom the grey forests whirl'd,
And tempests with her beauty might espouse;
She rose with the green waters of the world
And the winds heaved with her their depth of boughs.
Then vague again as blows the beanfield's odour
As, winnowing with plumes, to the river-brink
The pigeons from the cliff come down to drink.
Listening, like bride whom cunning faery strain
Forth from the trumpet-bruited spousal feast
Steals. But she beckon'd soon, and quick with pain
He ran, he craved at those white feet the least
Pardon; nor, till he felt her hand again
Descend flake-soft, durst spy that she was weeping,
Or kneel with burning murmurs to atone.
For sleep she wept. Long fasting had they gone
And ridden from the breaking of the dawn.
From Sleep's own lake as from a cauldron pass;
He led towards their sound his weary love
And lay before her in the fresh of grass
Resting—the white cirque of the cliffs above—
Against a sun-abandon'd stem there was.
Spray from the strings of water spilling over
The weir of rock, their fever'd cheeks bewet;
And to its sound a voiceless bread they ate,
And drank the troth that is unbroken yet.
By finest skimming of the elfin breeze,
An isle was moor'd, with rushes at its prow
And fraught with haze of deeply-mirror'd trees;
And knowing Deirdre still was mindful how
The boar yet lived, that she might sleep at ease
Naois swore to harbour on that islet.
Nine strides he waded in, on footings nine
Deep, deeper yet, until his basnet's shine
Sank to the cold lips of the lake divine.
Approach'd the pool-god; and the outermost
Had been the black slab whereon druids slay
With stoop and mutter to the water's ghost,
Though since, to glut some whim malign, the fay
Had swell'd over the flags. Of all the host
Few save Naois, and at sore adventure,
Had ta'en this pass. But who would not have press'd
Through straits by the chill-finger'd fiend possess'd
To bear unto that isle Deirdre to rest?
Unhook; cast in this shatter'd helm for spoil!”
He swam and bore her out with happy toil,
Secret and fierce as the flat otter swims
Out of the whistling reeds, as if through oil.
And Deirdre, whiter than the wave-swan floating,
Smiled that he suffer'd her no stroke to urge.
At length they reach the gnarl'd and ivied verge
And from the shallows to the sun emerge.
And sun-tears wrings out of the heavy strands
Of corded hair. He, watching to the close,
Sees not the white silk tissue as she stands
Clinging bedull'd to the clear limbs of rose.
She turn'd and to him stretched misdoubting hands:
“Tell me, ere thou dissolve, O wordless watcher,
Am I that Deirdre that would sit and spin
Beside Keshcorran? Dost thou love me? Then
I touch thee. For I, too, have love within.”
Love-cry! How the steep woods thirst for thy voice,
And gush of a young spring's delicious noise
Driven from the ancient heights whereon 'twas nursed!
Yet, as death's heart is silent, so is joy's.
His mouth spake not; for, as in dusk Glen Treithim
Smelters of bubbling gold brook not to breathe
Reek of the coloured fumes whose hissings wreathe
The brim, he choked at his own spirit's seethe.
“What touch is thine? It hath unearthly powers.
I think thou art the woman Cairbre made
Out of the dazzle and the wind of flowers.
Behold, the flame-like children of the shade,
The buds, about thee rise like servitors!
It seems I had not lipp'd the cup of living
Till thou didst stretch it out. Vaguely I felt
Irreparable waste. Why hast thou dwell'd
Near me on earth so long, yet unbeheld?”
But Twilight shows the distance of the near;
Mixes the soul of suns that disappear;
To make man's eyes approach the eyes of love
In simpleness, in mystery and fear.
All blooms both bright and pale are in her gardens,
All chords both shrill and deep under her hand
Who, sounding forth the richness of the land,
Estrangeth all, that we may understand.
Creak as of eagles' wing-feathers afar
Coasting the grey cliffs. On him slowly rise,
As to Cuchullain came his signal star,
Out of the sheeted rivers, Deirdre's eyes.
And who look'd in them well was girt for war,
Seeing in that gaze all who for love had perish'd:
The queens calamitous unbow'd at last—
The supreme fighters that alone stood fast—
Fealties obscure, unwitness'd, and long past;
By love,—in very essence, force, heat, breath,
Now, now arose in Deirdre's eyes and deign'd
Summons to him—“Canst follow us?” it saith—
Till from that great contagion he hath gain'd
An outlook like to conquest over death.
By this frail brazier's glowings, wherein blend
Coals that no man hath kindled, without end
Born and re-born, from ashes to ascend.
Woman no more—scarce breathing—infinite,
Grave as the fair-brow'd priestess Earth receives
In all her lochs and plains and invers bright
And shores wide-trembling, where one image heaves,
Him that is lord of silence and of light.
Slow the God sigh'd himself from rocks and waters,
But in his soft withdrawals from the air
No creature in the weightless world was there
Uttered its being's secret round the pair.
Taken, as a green fury of ocean takes,
Through the dense thickets smitten with alarm
To the islet's trancèd core. And Deirdre wakes,
Lifting hot lids that shut against the storm,
Lying on a hillock, amid slender brakes
Of grey trees, to the babble of enchantments
From mouths of chill-born flowers. The place was new
To rapture. Branchèd sunbursts plashing through
After, had laid the mound with fire and dew.
A narrow grass-plot shorn as if with scythe
And over two great boulders' wrinkled cheeks
Draws down and knots a hull of saplings lithe,
Well-staunch'd with earthy-odour'd moss and sticks
Known to the feet of birds. This darkness blithe
He frames against the stars for forest sleepers.
The living tide of stars aloft that crept
Compassion'd far below. No wavelet leapt;
And deep rest fell upon them there. They slept.
Aware; mute-rippling shades that isle enwound.
Naois fell through dreams, like the snapt spray
That drops from branch to branch—that stillest sound!—
And while from headlands scarce a league away
The din of the sea-breakers come aground
Roll'd up the valley, he in vision govern'd
His ribbèd skiff under Dun Aengus sweeping,
Triumphing with his love, and leaping, leaping,
Drew past the ocean-shelves of seals a-sleeping.
Rustles, and listens for the scud of teal;
Over coast, forest, and bethunder'd crag
Night—mother of despairs, who proves the steel
In men, to see if they be dross and slag
Or fit with trusts and enemies to deal
Uneyed, alone—diffusing her wide veils
Bow'd from the heavens to his exultant ear:
A questioner awaits thee: rouse! The mere
Slept on, save for the twilight-footed deer.
Nigh to the shore must be assembled thick,”
He thought, “and bringing necks round to the hoof;
Or being aslaked and crouching, seek to lick
The fawns. Some heady bucks engage aloof,
So sharp across the water comes the click
Of sparring horns!” But was it a vain terror,
Son of the sword, or one for courage staunch,
That the herd, dismay'd, at a bound, with a quivering haunch
Murmur'd away into night at the crack of a branch?
Amongst the sullen hills, distinct there fell
A mournful keen, like to the broken cry
From the House of Hostage in some citadel
After the land they must remember well,
“Deirdre is gone! Gone is my young one, Deirdre!”
And she knowing not the voice as voice of man
Stood up. “Lie still, lest thee the spirit ban;
O vein of life, lie still!” But Deirdre ran
On the vague shore a weather'd stone that stood;
Faceless, rough-hewn, it forward seem'd to lean
Like the worn pillar of Cenn Cruaich, the God.
She cried across, “If thou with things terrene
Be number'd, tell me why thy sorrowful blood
Mourneth, O Cathva, father!” But the stone
Shiver'd, and broke the staff it lean'd upon,
Shouting, “What! livst thou yet? Begone, begone!”
5: VOICE OF FINTAN
Again, out of the First Century
Then to the two amidst the island's boughs
The third, across the water, cried: “Confess!
Though the earth shake beneath you like a sieve
With wheels of Connachar, answer me this:
Naois, could she understand his hate
Whose servant and whose iron flail I am—
Whose arm requiteth—far as runs the wind—
By me, that blow away the gaze and smile
From women's faces; O could Deirdre have guess'd—
Mourning all night the losing of her kingdoms
Fled like a song—what means, a banished man:
That he and I must hound thee to the death;
That thou shalt never see the deep-set eaves,
The lofty thatch familiar with the doves,
On thy sad mother Usnach's house again,
But drift out like some sea-bird, far, far, hence,
Far from the red isle of the roes and berries,
Far from sun-galleries and pleasant dúns
And swards of lovers,—branded, nationless;
That none of all thy famous friends, with thee
Wrestlers on Eman in the summer evenings,
I must upheave thy heart's tough plank to crack it—
Knowing all this, would this fool follow thee?”
“Strange is it one so old should threat with Death!
Are not both thou and I, are not we all,
By Death drawn from the wickets of the womb—
Seal'd with the thumb of Death when we are born?
As for friends lost (though I believe it not),
A man is nourish'd by his enemies
No less than by his friends. But as for her,
Because no man shall deem me noble still,—
Because I like a sea-gull of the isles
May be driven forth—branded and nationless,—
Because I shall no more, perhaps, behold
The deep-set eaves on that all-sacred house,—
Because the gather'd battle of the powers
Controlling fortune, breaks upon my head,—
Yea! for that very cause, lack'd other cause,
In love the closer, quenchless, absolute,
Would Deirdre choose to follow me. Such pains,
Seër, the kingdoms are of souls like hers!”
He spoke; he felt her life-blood at his side
Sprung of the West, the last of human shores
Throbbing, “Look forth on everlastingness!
I'll be thy sail!”
No sound; the echo-trembling tarn grew mute.
But when through matted forest with uproar
The levy of pursuers, brazen, vast,
The thick pursuing host of Connachar,
Gush'd like a river, and torch'd chariots drew
With thunder-footed horses on, and lash'd
Up to the sedge, and at the Druid's shape
Their steamy bellies rose over the brink
Pawing the mist, and when a terrible voice
Ask'd of that shape if druid ken saw now
The twain,—advanced out of the shade of leaves
Nor Deirdre nor Naois heard reply;
For Cathva waved his lean arm toward the north
And mounted with the host, and signed them, “On!”
Pity had seized him for that hidden pair;
And like a burning dream the host, dissolving,
Pass'd. On the pale bank not a torch remain'd.
They look'd on one another, left alone.
Poems with Fables in Prose | ||