University of Virginia Library

SCENE IV.

An Apartment in the Palace of Eman of Macha. Enter Barach to Conor.
BARACH.
I have come most sorrowful news to tell!

CONOR.
What news is that? More traitors in the camp?

BARACH.
Ulster is dead!

CONOR.
What! Ulster dead?

BARACH.
Dead—dead,
Great King!

CONOR.
Then we have cause to weep indeed;
For he was truly great—great in all things,
Except the full fruition of his hopes.
He was a mighty builder of great thoughts,
Whose monumental majesty did loom
Like mountains of pure Beauty up to Heaven—
Valhalla-halls piled up by God's great hands
For Heroes' souls—not mortal men like us!
But they lived ideal only in his soul—
Not having realized them in rich works.
He had all that could make a man a Man,
Except this one—he was no King—no King.
A Prince he was of Princes; but no King.
He wanted action—action was his want—
A life of use proportioned to his thoughts!
A living, acting, working day of works—
Moving majestic like some mighty stream;
Then would his goings forth have been like songs
Of thunder from the Sun, whose tones are fire—
Thrilling the high-uplifted stars with storms of joy.
But for this want, he would have been to me
The mightiest man that ever lived on earth.
So, having realized no Ideals here,
He now is gone to realize in Heaven—
Where he can build proportioned to his thoughts.

BARACH.
He was too mighty for this world; there was
Not ground enough for him to build upon.

CONOR.
No; for his Ideal covered all the world—
Continents, Kingdoms, everything in space.

BARACH.
Eternity was in his eyes. I saw them,
Like two living wells of heavenly truth,
Unfathomable as night, but full of day—
When Usna's Sons Daidra bore away—
Weep pearls that might have purchased suns—
Springs from the peerless Amber of his soul—
In which there were no grains but purest gold.

CONOR.
Yet, he is gone! Then let us mourn for him!
But this were worthless work for such great souls—
An argument that we believe him dead,
When he does live—a God among the Gods.
It were impossible for him to die.

BARACH.
Then let us sorrow not, nor weep, nor pine,
For who would sorrow for the blest in Heaven?
I do not think, myself, that he could die,
But was translated out of time to Heaven,
Like Enoch or Elijah was.

CONOR.
He lives!
There are some men were never born to die,
But are projected out of time to Heaven—
Exalted (as they first came down on earth)
In the rapt trance-swoons of ecstatic bliss—
Sublimed to glory through victorious love—
As though a man should grow into a God,
And there stand Apotheosized, God-crowned—
Another Sun—blotting the first from Heaven.

Enter Servitor.
SERVITOR.
Great King! I have most sorrowful news to tell!
Your royal beast is dead!

CONOR.
My Lion dead?

SERVITOR.
He is, great King! He died last night. They say
An Eagle, flying over Eman's plain,
Was, yesterday, brought down to earth, by some
One hunting on your grounds; its wings, when stretched,
Wanting three inches, spread three yards in length.

CONOR.
Go—bury, then, the royal beast. Dig deep
His Grave—an Emblem of great Ulster's soul.
[Exit Servitor.
A royal beast should have a royal grave.
For Royalty to die, methinks the Sun
In Heaven should put on sackcloth—feel as we do now—
A royal sorrow, far too deep for tears!
Therefore we will not weep for him; for tears
Are woman's weeds; but smile, that our great loss
Is his eternal gain. So do the Heavens
When some new Star is born; filling the sky
With thunders of melodious joy, as we
Should at his Apotheosis in Heaven.

BARACH.
Ay, as he died, so let us live—in smiles.

CONOR.
Did he die smiling?

BARACH.
So they say, great King.

CONOR.
A presage that our life is to be sad.
For we are told the Grecian Painter drew
The mourning Agamemnon veiled, because
The royal face of Grief disdained his Art—
Being above the mightiest Pencil's reach.

BARACH.
Let us not venture, then, to mourn for him,
Lest we abuse our sorrow, as he did
His Art, aspiring to be what we were
Not made to be,—the Painters of our Loss.

CONOR.
The theme is far above our reach; as well
Attempt to add new glory to the Sun,
Now bursting with the plenitudes of Heaven.
Although we speak the universal voice,
Yet we should smile, not weep; for it were wise
To leave that unattempted which it were
Impossible to do.

BARACH.
Most true, great King.

CONOR.
But, as by losing one of our two eyes,
The other is enriched with greater power,
So let us, by this loss, more strongly grow.

BARACH.
The poorest mourners shed the richest tears.
Then, from this bounty of our love, will we
Enrich Eternity with endless smiles—
That New Baptism, unknown to baser souls,
Consecrating him to immortal life.

CONOR.
His life was seven whole Heavens above the lives
Of other men, by which we measure our
Great loss, above the reach of mortal words;
For, as the Eagle over other birds,
So did his Angel-soul transcend, in thought,
The Buzzard-flight of meaner men.

BARACH.
He did.
But let us on. Come, go with me.

CONOR.
I will.

[Exeunt.