University of Virginia Library

SCENE V.

A Druidical Grove. Caffa, Fergus, and Cuchullan discovered in conversation.
CAFFA.
He is of royal blood; silent of tongue;
Yet, speaking, clamorous for the Truth;
Given to much inquiry; loving to hear,
Where hearing profits him for the time gone.
Steady of understanding; firm in his
Resolves, either to grant or to deny.
Industrious in his business, little given
To pleasure, except when spent with the one
He loves—then it becomes connubial bliss.
He is temperate in all things, save in
His daily charities—being frugal in
The management of his fortune—except
On great occasions—then he is bountiful
Of his revenue. Of so great a soul—
His heart being always on the side of Truth—
That he longs for glory as he does for Heaven—
His ambition to grow great being the fire
That kindles all his actions—walking so
High, at the same time, in his lofty pride,
That he would not stoop to enter any door
Less high, though it should lead him into Heaven.
A man, who, through his virtues, void of vice,
Would rather serve his Country than to ride
To Glory on the back of her servitude.

FERGUS.
Then he is just the man we want, to steer
Our ship safe through the raging Sea of Storm.

CUCHULLAN.
Just such a man—no other—we will have—
Although Conor would rather have his Court
A little farther off.

CAFFA.
Then let us make
Him King, for all we want is our own will.

FERGUS.
Then we shall want no longer—for we will.

CAFFA.
A mere King by accident of birth—
Not by the free suffrage of the People;
By bloody hands of feudal Lords set up:
Covered with purple robes at our expense,
To blaze like Comets till they burst with their
Own fires—the brightest bursting first—when Night,
Through all her solitudes, rings with the shouts
Of the exultant stars, clapping their hands
In triumph at its downfall from the sky,
Molesting their Seraphic reign. So dies
Out of the memories of the good, the thought
Of ostentatious greatness; disappear
The ambitious Tyrants of the world;
When the down-trodden Millions lift their hands
And voices up to Heaven in hallelujah-shouts
For his damned death! Pageants then disappear.
Royal Hosannahs then are silenced by
Rebellious curses, which fill highest Heaven
With acclamations! Nations then grow strong—
Feeling great earthquakes crawl beneath their feet,
Ready to tumble Mountains in the Sea!

CUCHULLAN.
So may this faithful Nathan of our love,
Rebuke that guilty David on his throne,
Breaking God's iron lash deep in his soul!

CAFFA.
For He who rides triumphant on the wings
Of Cherubim—holding, within his hands,
Orion's band,—holding the Pleiades—
Walking amidst his treasures of great snows,
And hoary frosts of Heaven—swears, in His wrath,
That Vengeance, iron-winged, with sword of fire,
Shall sweep down Conor's harvest-field of men,
To be garnered in the hungry grave of Death!

CUCHULLAN.
Thou art, indeed, a good Historian.

CAFFA.
Not only is he our ablest Warrior,
But the Champion of our religion too.
These rare qualities, springs of his royal heart,
Do make his manly brow the noblest one
That ever wore a Crown; for while the Crown
Doth tower upon his brow, his soul doth crown
His Crown—his glorious deeds crowning them both.

CUCHULLAN.
The trumpet that should speak his praise should be
Of virgin gold.

FERGUS.
A nobler theme was never sung.

CAFFA.
The morning that shall dawn upon his reign,
Will find the happiest evening that the Sun
Ever left behind him after his most
Glorious setting.

FERGUS.
Truly spoken truth.

CAFFA.
After the first fair Morning of his reign,
What a most glorious plenitude of Stars
Will people Heaven to glorify the Night—
Making an image in the Heavens above
Of our dear joys on earth.

CUCHULLAN.
Then let him shine.
Such a bright Sun as Usna's noble Son,
Would chase the clouds of centuries away.

CAFFA.
God send the hour that makes him Ulster's King.

FERGUS.
Amen to that, I pray.

CUCHULLAN.
I say so too.

CAFFA.
Such is the earnest prayer of this whole land,
That Ulster's diadem shall wave upon
The brow of none but Usna's noble Son—
Weighing too heavily now upon the brow
Of old man Conor!

CUCHULLAN.
Truly said; no man
Could wear it with more Apollian grace—
Walking beneath it on the Emerald Hills
Of Erin, like young Mercury, fresh-winged
For Godsent business to the Olympian Mount.

CAFFA.
This would, indeed, give universal joy
To all the Nation, groaning now beneath
The oppressive Serpent's deadly venomous coil!
But then he needs no trumpet such as mine
To speak his praise—but one whose fiery blast
Should emulate the Clarion of the Skies—
Mustering the Nations of the whole great Earth
To do melodious homage!

CUCHULLAN.
Sounding now.

CAFFA.
How irrepressible will be the joy
Of that bright day when he is crowned our King—
Adding new triumphs to that glorious hour—
A never-dying Trophy to his name,
Whose blazing record, written here, shall make
His memory fragrant to the end of time.

FERGUS.
He talks like a God.

CAFFA.
Did not Plato call
The Elean stranger a God? All men
Are gods who do aspire to be like God,
Or like-partakers of the heavenly bliss.

Enter Ainli.
CUCHULLAN.
I love to drink the white wine of your speech.

CAFFA.
So Jacob, after wrestling all the night
With Angels, was made strong to talk with God.

[Exit.
AINLI.
So will I drink till I am drowned in love;
For nothing now can satiate my soul,
But wrestling with that heavenly Angel's love—
More beautiful than Jacob ever saw.

CUCHULLAN.
He means the Angel of Connaught. He is
The Queen's St. Peter—holds the only key
That can unlock the Cabinet of her rare charms.

AINLI.
And find therein a Pearl of richest price.

CUCHULLAN.
A perfect gem—valuing all precious stones
Worthless compared with yours.

AINLI.
A perfect charm—
Whose Talismanic beauty lures my soul
As Sirens did the Seamen.

CUCHULLAN.
Not to death?

AINLI.
No, but to life eternal in the skies.
As once Prometheus brought down fire from Heaven,
So did she every perfect grace from God—
Clothing herself therewith, till Angels even
Did envy her.

CUCHULLAN.
The tire becomes her well.

AINLI.
Nay, she becomes the tire—as thou shalt see—
As some queen's brow the fairest Diadem—
Making more beautiful the Beautiful.

CUCHULLAN.
The Paradise your Adam wants to live in.

AINLI.
As sweet perfume lies hidden in some flower,
So does Divinity in her fair form.
Not all the richest fretwork ever woven
By the fair Nereids of the Sea, though laced
With richest jewels shipwrecked there, could match
The Cestus that adorns her form—which shows,
The more she tries to hide, of that rich store
Of heavenly grace, which there lies hidden—there
Revealed.

CUCHULLAN.
Indeed, you speak her praises well.

AINLI.
Not all those blessed souls, by the inspired souls
Of noblest Poets sainted, could compare
With her—she being, on earth, more than the best
In Heaven.

CUCHULLAN.
The Siren charms him well.

AINLI.
She is more modest than the meek-eyed Moon—
As if some Vestal Virgin should remain
A Nun after her marriage, yet, fulfil
All her rich nuptial rites with wantonness.

CUCHULLAN.
Cynthia has Hyperion by the curls.
The Siren sings so sweetly, if you do
Not stop your ears, the first place you will find
Yourself will be in the bottom of the Sea.

[Exeunt omnes.