 | Poems and Dramas by "Fiona MacLeod" (William Sharp) |  |
I
103
FOAM OF THE PAST
TO W. B. YEATS
110
LEAVES, SHADOWS, AND DREAMS
I have seen all things pass and all men go
Under the shadow of the drifting leaf:
Green leaf, red leaf, brown leaf,
Grey leaf blown to and fro.
Blown to and fro.
Under the shadow of the drifting leaf:
Green leaf, red leaf, brown leaf,
Grey leaf blown to and fro.
Blown to and fro.
I have seen happy dreams rise up and pass
Silent and swift as shadows on the grass:
Grey shadows of old dreams,
Grey beauty of old dreams,
Grey shadows in the grass.
Silent and swift as shadows on the grass:
Grey shadows of old dreams,
Grey beauty of old dreams,
Grey shadows in the grass.
111
THE LAMENT OF IAN THE PROUD
What is this crying that I hear in the wind?Is it the old sorrow and the old grief?
Or is it a new thing coming, a whirling leaf
About the grey hair of me who am weary and blind?
I know not what it is, but on the moor above the shore
There is a stone which the purple nets of the heather bind,
And thereon is writ: She will return no more.
O blown whirling leaf,
And the old grief,
And wind crying to me who am old and blind!
112
DEIRDRÊ IS DEAD ...
“Deirdrê the beautiful is dead ... is dead!”
(The House of Usna)
(The House of Usna)
The grey wind weeps, the grey wind weeps, the grey wind weeps:
Dust on her breast, dust on her eyes, the grey wind weeps!
Dust on her breast, dust on her eyes, the grey wind weeps!
Cold, cold it is under the brown sod, and cold under the grey grass;
Here only the wet wind and the flittermice and the plovers pass:
Here only the wet wind and the flittermice and the plovers pass:
I wonder if the wailing birds, and the soft hair-covered things
Of the air, and the grey wind hear what sighing song she sings
Of the air, and the grey wind hear what sighing song she sings
Down in the quiet hollow where the coiled twilights of hair
Are gathered into the darkness that broods on her bosom bare?
Are gathered into the darkness that broods on her bosom bare?
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It is said that the dead sing, though we have no ears to hear,
And that whoso lists is lickt up of the Shadow, too, because of fear—
And that whoso lists is lickt up of the Shadow, too, because of fear—
But this would give me no fear, that I heard a sighing song from her lips:
No, but as the green heart of an upthrust towering billow slips
No, but as the green heart of an upthrust towering billow slips
Down into the green hollow of the ingathering wave,
So would I slip, and sink, and drown, in her grassy grave.
So would I slip, and sink, and drown, in her grassy grave.
For is not my desire there, hidden away under the cloudy night
Of her long hair that was my valley of whispers and delight—
Of her long hair that was my valley of whispers and delight—
And in her two white hands, like still swans on a frozen lake,
Hath she not my heart that I have hidden there for dear love's sake?
Hath she not my heart that I have hidden there for dear love's sake?
Alas, there is no sighing song, no breath in the silence there:
Not even the white moth that loves death flits through her hair
Not even the white moth that loves death flits through her hair
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As the bird of Brigid, made of foam and the pale moonwhite wine
Of dreams, flits under the sombre windless plumes of the pine.
Of dreams, flits under the sombre windless plumes of the pine.
I hear a voice crying, crying, crying: is it the wind
I hear, crying its old weary cry time out of mind?
I hear, crying its old weary cry time out of mind?
The grey wind weeps, the grey wind weeps, the grey wind weeps:
Dust on her breast, dust on her eyes, the grey wind weeps!
Dust on her breast, dust on her eyes, the grey wind weeps!
115
HEART O' BEAUTY
O where are thy white hands, Heart o' Beauty?
Heart o' Beauty!
They are as white foam on the swept sands,
Heart o' Beauty!
They are as white swans i' the dusk, thy white hands,
Wild swans in flight over shadowy lands,
Heart o' Beauty!
Heart o' Beauty!
They are as white foam on the swept sands,
Heart o' Beauty!
They are as white swans i' the dusk, thy white hands,
Wild swans in flight over shadowy lands,
Heart o' Beauty!
O lift again thy white hands, Heart o' Beauty,
Heart o' Beauty!
Harp to the white waves on the yellow sands,
Heart o' Beauty!
They will hearken now to these waving wands,
To the magic wands of thy white hands,
Heart o' Beauty!
Heart o' Beauty!
Harp to the white waves on the yellow sands,
Heart o' Beauty!
They will hearken now to these waving wands,
To the magic wands of thy white hands,
Heart o' Beauty!
From the white dawn till the grey dusk,
Heart o' Beauty!
I hear the unseen waves of unseen strands,
Heart o' Beauty!
I see the sun rise and set over shadowy lands,
But never, never, never thy white hands, thy white hands,
Heart o' Beauty!
Heart o' Beauty!
I hear the unseen waves of unseen strands,
Heart o' Beauty!
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But never, never, never thy white hands, thy white hands,
Heart o' Beauty!
117
THE MONODY OF ISLA THE SINGER
“Like Bells on the wind ...”
Is it time to let the Hour rise and go forth as a hound loosed from the battle-cars?
Is it time to let the Hour go forth, as the White Hounds with the eyes of flame?
For if it be not time I would have this hour that is left to me under the stars
Wherein I may dream my dream again, and at the last whisper one name.
Is it time to let the Hour go forth, as the White Hounds with the eyes of flame?
For if it be not time I would have this hour that is left to me under the stars
Wherein I may dream my dream again, and at the last whisper one name.
It is the name of one who was more fair than youth to the old, than life to the young:
She was more fair than the first love of Angus the Beautiful, and though I were blind
And deaf for a hundred ages I would see her, more fair than any poet has sung,
And hear her voice like mournful bells crying on the wind.
She was more fair than the first love of Angus the Beautiful, and though I were blind
And deaf for a hundred ages I would see her, more fair than any poet has sung,
And hear her voice like mournful bells crying on the wind.
118
WHITE-HANDS
O where in the north, or where in the south, or where in the east or west
Is she who hath the flower-white hands and the swandown breast?
O, if she be west, or east she be, or in the north or south,
A sword will leap, a horse will prance, ere I win to Honey-Mouth.
Is she who hath the flower-white hands and the swandown breast?
O, if she be west, or east she be, or in the north or south,
A sword will leap, a horse will prance, ere I win to Honey-Mouth.
She has great eyes, like the doe on the hill, and warm and sweet she is,
O, come to me, Honey-Mouth, bend to me, Honey-Mouth, give me thy kiss!
O, come to me, Honey-Mouth, bend to me, Honey-Mouth, give me thy kiss!
White-Hands her name is, where she reigns amid the princes fair:
White hands she moves like swimming swans athrough her dusk-wave hair:
White hands she puts about my heart, white hands fan up my breath:
White hands take out the heart of me, and grant me life or death!
White hands she moves like swimming swans athrough her dusk-wave hair:
White hands she puts about my heart, white hands fan up my breath:
White hands take out the heart of me, and grant me life or death!
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White hands make better songs than hymns, white hands are young and sweet:
O, a sword for me, O Honey-Mouth, and a war-horse fleet!
O, a sword for me, O Honey-Mouth, and a war-horse fleet!
O wild sweet eyes! O glad wild eyes! O mouth, how sweet it is!
O, come to me, Honey-Mouth! bend to me, Honey-Mouth! give me thy kiss!
O, come to me, Honey-Mouth! bend to me, Honey-Mouth! give me thy kiss!
120
THE DESIRE AND THE LAMENTATION OF COEL
(The noise of harps and tympans. From the wood comes the loud chanting voice of Coel):
O, 'tis a good house, and a palace fair, the Dûn of Macha,
And happy with a great household is Macha there:
Druids she has, and bards, minstrels, harpers, knights;
Hosts of servants she has, and wonders beautiful and rare,
But nought so wonderful and sweet as her face queenly fair,
O Macha of the Ruddy Hair!
(Choric Voices in a loud, swelling chant)And happy with a great household is Macha there:
Druids she has, and bards, minstrels, harpers, knights;
Hosts of servants she has, and wonders beautiful and rare,
But nought so wonderful and sweet as her face queenly fair,
O Macha of the Ruddy Hair!
O Macha of the Ruddy Hair!
(Coel chants):
The colour of her great Dûn is the shining whiteness of lime,
And within it are floors strewn with green rushes and couches white;
Soft wondrous silks and blue gold-claspt mantles and furs
Are there, and jewelled golden cups for revelry by night:
Thy grianân of gold and glass is filled with sunshine-light,
O Macha, queen by day, queen by night!
(Choric Voices)And within it are floors strewn with green rushes and couches white;
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Are there, and jewelled golden cups for revelry by night:
Thy grianân of gold and glass is filled with sunshine-light,
O Macha, queen by day, queen by night!
O Macha, queen by day, queen by night!
Beyond the green portals, and the brown and red thatch of wings
Striped orderly, the wings of innumerous stricken birds,
A wide shining floor reaches from wall to wall, wondrously carven
Out of a sheet of silver, whereon are graven swords
Intricately ablaze: mistress of many hoards Art thou, Macha of few words!
(Choric Voices):Striped orderly, the wings of innumerous stricken birds,
A wide shining floor reaches from wall to wall, wondrously carven
Out of a sheet of silver, whereon are graven swords
Intricately ablaze: mistress of many hoards Art thou, Macha of few words!
O Macha of few words!
Fair indeed is thy couch, but fairer still is thy throne,
A chair it is, all of a blaze of wonderful yellow gold:
There thou sittest, and watchest the women going to and fro,
Each in garments fair and with long locks twisted fold in fold:
With the joy that is in thy house men would not grow old,
O Macha, proud, austere, cold.
(Choric Voices):122
There thou sittest, and watchest the women going to and fro,
Each in garments fair and with long locks twisted fold in fold:
With the joy that is in thy house men would not grow old,
O Macha, proud, austere, cold.
O Macha, proud, austere, cold!
Of a surety there is much joy to be had of thee and thine,
There in the song-sweet sunlit bowers in that place;
Wounded men might sink in sleep and be well content
So to sleep, and to dream perchance, and know no other grace
Then to wake and look betimes on thy proud queenly face,
O Macha of the Proud Face!
(Choric Voices):There in the song-sweet sunlit bowers in that place;
Wounded men might sink in sleep and be well content
So to sleep, and to dream perchance, and know no other grace
Then to wake and look betimes on thy proud queenly face,
O Macha of the Proud Face!
O Macha of the Proud Face!
123
And if there be any here who wish to know more of this wonder,
Go, you will find all as I have shown, as I have said:
From beneath its portico, thatched with wings of birds blue and yellow
Reaches a green lawn, where a fount is fed
From crystal and gems: of crystal and gold each bed
In the house of Macha of the Ruddy Head!
(Choric Voices):Go, you will find all as I have shown, as I have said:
From beneath its portico, thatched with wings of birds blue and yellow
Reaches a green lawn, where a fount is fed
From crystal and gems: of crystal and gold each bed
In the house of Macha of the Ruddy Head!
In the house of Macha of the Ruddy Head!
In that great house where Macha the queen has her pleasaunce
There is everything in the whole world that a man might desire.
God is my witness that if I say little it is for this,
That I am grown faint with wonder, and can no more admire,
But say this only, that I live and die in the fire
Of thine eyes, O Macha, my desire,
With thine eyes of fire!
There is everything in the whole world that a man might desire.
God is my witness that if I say little it is for this,
That I am grown faint with wonder, and can no more admire,
But say this only, that I live and die in the fire
Of thine eyes, O Macha, my desire,
With thine eyes of fire!
124
But say this only, that we live and die in the fire
Of thine eyes, O Macha, Dream, Desire,
With thine eyes of fire! (Choric Voices repeat their refrains, but fainter, and becoming more faint. Last vanishing sound of the harps and tympans.)
(The Voice of Coel):
And where now is Macha of the proud face and the ruddy hair,
Macha of few words, proud, austere, cold, with the eyes of fire?
Is she calling to the singers down there under the grass,
Is she saying to the bard, sing: and to the minstrel, where is thy lyre?
Or is that her voice that I hear, lonelier and further and higher
Than the wild wailing wind on the moor that echoes my desire,
O Macha of the proud face
And the eyes of fire!
Macha of few words, proud, austere, cold, with the eyes of fire?
Is she calling to the singers down there under the grass,
Is she saying to the bard, sing: and to the minstrel, where is thy lyre?
Or is that her voice that I hear, lonelier and further and higher
Than the wild wailing wind on the moor that echoes my desire,
O Macha of the proud face
And the eyes of fire!
125
DALUA
I have heard you calling, Dalua
Dalua!
I have heard you on the hill,
By the pool-side still,
Where the lapwings shrill
Dalua ... dalua ... dalua!
Dalua!
I have heard you on the hill,
By the pool-side still,
Where the lapwings shrill
Dalua ... dalua ... dalua!
What is it you call, Dalua,
Dalua!
When the rains fall,
When the mists crawl
And the curlews call
Dalua ... dalua ... dalua!
Dalua!
When the rains fall,
When the mists crawl
And the curlews call
Dalua ... dalua ... dalua!
I am the Fool, Dalua,
Dalua!
When men hear me, their eyes
Darken: the shadow in the skies
Droops: and the keening-woman cries
Dalua ... Dalua ... Dalua
Dalua!
When men hear me, their eyes
Darken: the shadow in the skies
Droops: and the keening-woman cries
Dalua ... Dalua ... Dalua
126
THE SONG OF FIONULA
Sleep, sleep, brothers dear, sleep and dream,
Nothing so sweet lies hid in all your years.
Life is a storm-swept gleam
In a rain of tears:
Why wake to a bitter hour, to sigh, to weep?
How better far to sleep—
To sleep and dream.
Nothing so sweet lies hid in all your years.
Life is a storm-swept gleam
In a rain of tears:
Why wake to a bitter hour, to sigh, to weep?
How better far to sleep—
To sleep and dream.
To sleep and dream, ah, that were well indeed:
Better than sighs, better than tears,
Ye can have nothing better for your meed
In all the years.
Why wake to a bitter hour, to sigh, to weep?
How better far to sleep—
To sleep and dream, ah, that is well indeed!
Better than sighs, better than tears,
Ye can have nothing better for your meed
In all the years.
Why wake to a bitter hour, to sigh, to weep?
How better far to sleep—
To sleep and dream, ah, that is well indeed!
127
THE SONG OF AEIFA
Speed hence, speed hence, O lone white swans,
Across the wind-sprent foam;
The wave shall be your father now,
And the wind alone shall kiss your brow,
And the waste be your home.
Across the wind-sprent foam;
The wave shall be your father now,
And the wind alone shall kiss your brow,
And the waste be your home.
Speed hence, speed hence, O lone white swans,
Your age-long quest to make;
Three hundred years on Moyle's wild breast,
Three hundred years on the wilder west,
Three hundred years on this lake.
Your age-long quest to make;
Three hundred years on Moyle's wild breast,
Three hundred years on the wilder west,
Three hundred years on this lake.
Speed hence, speed hence, O lone white swans,
And Lir shall call in vain
For all his aching heart and tears,
For all the weariness of his years,
Ye shall not come again.
And Lir shall call in vain
For all his aching heart and tears,
For all the weariness of his years,
Ye shall not come again.
Speed hence, speed hence, O lone white swans,
Till the ringing of Christ's bell;
Then at the last ye shall have rest,
And Death shall take ye to his breast
At the ringing of Christ's bell.
Till the ringing of Christ's bell;
Then at the last ye shall have rest,
And Death shall take ye to his breast
At the ringing of Christ's bell.
128
THE SORROW OF THE HOUSE OF LIR
Happy our father Lir afar,
With mead, and songs of love and war:
The salt brine, and the white foam,
With these his children have their home.
With mead, and songs of love and war:
The salt brine, and the white foam,
With these his children have their home.
In the sweet days of long ago
Soft-clad we wandered to and fro:
But now cold winds of dawn and night
Pierce deep our feathers thin and light.
Soft-clad we wandered to and fro:
But now cold winds of dawn and night
Pierce deep our feathers thin and light.
The hazel mead in cups of gold
We feasted from in days of old:
The sea-weed now our food, our wine
The salt, keen, bitter, barren brine.
We feasted from in days of old:
The sea-weed now our food, our wine
The salt, keen, bitter, barren brine.
On soft warm couches once we pressed:
White harpers lulled us to our rest:
Our beds are now where the sea raves,
Our lullaby the clash of waves.
White harpers lulled us to our rest:
Our beds are now where the sea raves,
Our lullaby the clash of waves.
Alas! the fair sweet days are gone
When love was ours from dawn to dawn:
Our sole companion now is pain,
Through frost and snow, through storm and rain.
When love was ours from dawn to dawn:
Our sole companion now is pain,
Through frost and snow, through storm and rain.
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Beneath my wings my brothers lie
When the fierce ice-winds hurtle by:
On either side and 'neath my breast
Lir's sons have known no other rest.
When the fierce ice-winds hurtle by:
On either side and 'neath my breast
Lir's sons have known no other rest.
Ah, kisses we shall no more know,
Ah, love so dear exchanged for woe,
All that is sweet for us is o'er,
Homeless we are from shore to shore.
Ah, love so dear exchanged for woe,
All that is sweet for us is o'er,
Homeless we are from shore to shore.
130
THE CHANT OF ARDAN THE PICT
O Colum and monks of Christ
It is peace we are having this night:
Sure, peace is a good thing,
And I am glad with the gladness.
It is peace we are having this night:
Sure, peace is a good thing,
And I am glad with the gladness.
We worship one God,
Though ye call him Dè—
And I say not, O Dia!
But cry Bea'uil!
Though ye call him Dè—
And I say not, O Dia!
But cry Bea'uil!
For it is one faith for man,
And one for the living world,
And no man is wiser than another—
And none knoweth much.
And one for the living world,
And no man is wiser than another—
And none knoweth much.
None knoweth a better thing than this:
The Sword, Love, Song, Honour, Sleep.
None knoweth a surer thing than this:
Birth, Sorrow, Pain, Weariness, Death.
The Sword, Love, Song, Honour, Sleep.
None knoweth a surer thing than this:
Birth, Sorrow, Pain, Weariness, Death.
131
THE LAMENTATION OF BALVA THE MONK
Balva the old monk I am called: when I was young, Balva Honeymouth.
That was before Colum the White came to Iona in the West.
She whom I loved was a woman whom I won out of the South,
And I had a good heaven with my lips on hers and with breast to breast.
That was before Colum the White came to Iona in the West.
She whom I loved was a woman whom I won out of the South,
And I had a good heaven with my lips on hers and with breast to breast.
Balva the old monk I am called: were it not for the fear
That the soul of Colum the White would meet my soul in the Narrows
That sever the living and dead, I would rise up from here
And go back to where men pray with spears and arrows.
That the soul of Colum the White would meet my soul in the Narrows
That sever the living and dead, I would rise up from here
And go back to where men pray with spears and arrows.
Balva the old monk I am called: ugh! ugh! the cold bell of the matins—'tis dawn!
Sure it's a dream I have had that I was in a warm wood with the sun ashine,
And that against me in the pleasant greenness was a soft fawn,
And a voice that whispered “Balva Honeymouth, drink, I am thy wine!”
Sure it's a dream I have had that I was in a warm wood with the sun ashine,
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And a voice that whispered “Balva Honeymouth, drink, I am thy wine!”
133
THE LAST NIGHT OF ARTÂN THE CULDEE
It is but a little thing to sit here in the silence and the dark:
For I remember the blazing noon when I saw Oona the White:
I remember the day when we sailed the Moyle in our skin-built barque;
And I remember when Oona's lips were on mine in the heart of the night.
For I remember the blazing noon when I saw Oona the White:
I remember the day when we sailed the Moyle in our skin-built barque;
And I remember when Oona's lips were on mine in the heart of the night.
So it is a little thing to sit here, hearing nought, seeing nought:
When the dawn breaks they will hurry me hence to the new-dug grave:
It will be quiet there, if it be true what the good Colum has taught,
And I shall hear Oona's voice as a sleeping seal hears the moving wave.
When the dawn breaks they will hurry me hence to the new-dug grave:
It will be quiet there, if it be true what the good Colum has taught,
And I shall hear Oona's voice as a sleeping seal hears the moving wave.
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OONA OF THE DARK EYES AND THE CRYING OF WIND
I have fared far in the dim woods:
And I have known sorrow and grief,
And the incalculable years
That haunt the solitudes.
Where now are the multitudes
Of the Field of Spears?
Old tears
Fall upon them as rain,
Their eyes are quiet under the brown leaf.
And I have known sorrow and grief,
And the incalculable years
That haunt the solitudes.
Where now are the multitudes
Of the Field of Spears?
Old tears
Fall upon them as rain,
Their eyes are quiet under the brown leaf.
I have seen the dead, innumerous:
I too shall lie thus,
And thou, Congal, thou too shalt lie
Still and white
Under the starry sky,
And rise no more to any Field of Spears,
But, under the brown leaf,
Remember grief
And the old, salt, bitter tears.
I too shall lie thus,
And thou, Congal, thou too shalt lie
Still and white
Under the starry sky,
And rise no more to any Field of Spears,
But, under the brown leaf,
Remember grief
And the old, salt, bitter tears.
And I have heard the crying of wind.
It is the crying that is in my heart:
Oona of the Dark Eyes, Oona of the Dark Eyes,
Oona, Oona, Oona, Heart of my Heart!
But there is only crying of wind
Through the silences of the sky,
Dews that fall and rise,
The faring of long years,
And the coverlet of the brown leaf
For the old familiar grief
And the old tears.
It is the crying that is in my heart:
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Oona, Oona, Oona, Heart of my Heart!
But there is only crying of wind
Through the silences of the sky,
Dews that fall and rise,
The faring of long years,
And the coverlet of the brown leaf
For the old familiar grief
And the old tears.
136
THE LOVE-SONG OF DROSTAN
Drostan:You have drunken of the cup of wisdom. Let me also drink. [Suddenly snatches a small clarsach from the woman's hand, and to its wild and rude music chants—
In the days of the Great Fires when the hills were aflame,
Aed the Shining God lay by a foamwhite mountain,
The white thigh of moon-crown'd Dana, Beautiful Mother.
And the wind fretted the blue with the tossed curling clouds
Of her tangled hair, and like two flaming stars were her eyes
Torches of sunfire and moonfire: and her vast breasts
Heaved as the sea heaves in the white calms, and the wind of her sighs
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Dana, Mother of the Gods, moon-crown'd, sea-shod, wonderful!
“Fire of my love,” she cried.... Aed of the Sunlight and Shadow
Laughed: and he rose till he grew more vast than Dana:
The sun was his trampling foot, and he wore the moon as a feather:
And he lay by Dana: and the world swayed, and the stars swung.
Thus was Oengus born, Lord of Love, Son of Wisdom and Death.
Laughed: and he rose till he grew more vast than Dana:
The sun was his trampling foot, and he wore the moon as a feather:
And he lay by Dana: and the world swayed, and the stars swung.
Thus was Oengus born, Lord of Love, Son of Wisdom and Death.
Hear us, Oengus, Beautiful, Terrible, Sun-Lord and Death-Lord!
Give us the white flame of love born of Aed and of Dana—
Hearken, thou Pulse of hearts, and let the white doves from your lips
Cover with passionate wings the silence between us,
Where a white fawn leaps and only Yseul and I behold it.
Give us the white flame of love born of Aed and of Dana—
Hearken, thou Pulse of hearts, and let the white doves from your lips
Cover with passionate wings the silence between us,
Where a white fawn leaps and only Yseul and I behold it.
138
THE CUP
Chuir Muiril mirr ann,
Chuir Uiril mil ann,
Chuir Muirinn fion ann,
'S chuir Michal ann buadh.
Chuir Uiril mil ann,
Chuir Muirinn fion ann,
'S chuir Michal ann buadh.
“Muriel placed myrrh in it:
Uriel placed honey in it:
Murien placed wine in it:
And Michael strength.”
Uriel placed honey in it:
Murien placed wine in it:
And Michael strength.”
The Cup of bitter-sweet I know
That with old wine of love doth glow:
The dew of tears to it doth go,
And wisdom is its hidden woe.
That with old wine of love doth glow:
The dew of tears to it doth go,
And wisdom is its hidden woe.
Were I but young again to throw
This cup where the wild thistles grow,
Or where, oblivious, ceaseless, slow,
The grey tumultuous waters flow!
This cup where the wild thistles grow,
Or where, oblivious, ceaseless, slow,
The grey tumultuous waters flow!
139
THE LOVE-CHANT OF CORMAC CONLINGAS
Oimé, Oimé, woman of the white breasts, Eilidh!
Woman of the golden hair, and lips of the red, red rowan!
Oimé, O-rì, Oimé!
Woman of the golden hair, and lips of the red, red rowan!
Oimé, O-rì, Oimé!
Where is the swan that is whiter, with breast more smooth,
Or the wave on the sea that moves as thou movest, Eilidh—
Oimé, a-rò; Oimé, a-rò!
Or the wave on the sea that moves as thou movest, Eilidh—
Oimé, a-rò; Oimé, a-rò!
It is the marrow in my bones that is aching, aching, Eilidh:
It is the blood in my body that is a bitter wild tide, Oimé!
O-rì, Ohion, O-rì, aròne!
It is the blood in my body that is a bitter wild tide, Oimé!
O-rì, Ohion, O-rì, aròne!
Is it the heart of thee calling that I am hearing, Eilidh,
Or the wind in the wood, or the beating of the sea, Eilidh,
Or the beating of the sea?
Or the wind in the wood, or the beating of the sea, Eilidh,
Or the beating of the sea?
140
Shule, shule agràh, shule agràh, shule agràh, Shule!
Heart of me, move to me! move to me, heart of me, Eilidh, Eilidh,
Move to me!
Heart of me, move to me! move to me, heart of me, Eilidh, Eilidh,
Move to me!
Ah! let the wild hawk take it, the name of me, Cormac Conlingas,
Take it and tear at thy heart with it, heart that of old was so hot with it,
Eilidh, Eilidh, O-rì, Eilidh, Eilidh!
Take it and tear at thy heart with it, heart that of old was so hot with it,
Eilidh, Eilidh, O-rì, Eilidh, Eilidh!
141
THE DEATH-DIRGE FOR CATHAL
Out of the wild hills I am hearing a voice, O Cathal!
And I am thinking it is the voice of a bleeding sword.
Whose is that sword? I know it well: it is the sword of the Slayer—
Him that is called Death, and the song that it sings I know:—
O where is Cathal mac Art, the white cup for the thirst of my lips?
And I am thinking it is the voice of a bleeding sword.
Whose is that sword? I know it well: it is the sword of the Slayer—
Him that is called Death, and the song that it sings I know:—
O where is Cathal mac Art, the white cup for the thirst of my lips?
Out of the cold greyness of the sea I am hearing, O Cathal,
I am hearing a wave-muffled voice, as of one who drowns in the depths:
Whose is that voice? I know it well: it is the voice of the Shadow—
Her that is called the Grave, and the song that she sings I know:—
O where is Cathal mac Art, that has warmth for the chill that I have?
I am hearing a wave-muffled voice, as of one who drowns in the depths:
Whose is that voice? I know it well: it is the voice of the Shadow—
Her that is called the Grave, and the song that she sings I know:—
O where is Cathal mac Art, that has warmth for the chill that I have?
142
Out of the hot greenness of the wood I am hearing, O Cathal,
I am hearing a rustling step, as of one stumbling blind.
Whose is that rustling step? I know it well: the rustling walk of the Blind One—
Her that is called Silence, and the song that she sings I know:—
O where is Cathal mac Art, that has tears to water my stillness?
I am hearing a rustling step, as of one stumbling blind.
Whose is that rustling step? I know it well: the rustling walk of the Blind One—
Her that is called Silence, and the song that she sings I know:—
O where is Cathal mac Art, that has tears to water my stillness?
143
THE DEATH DANCE
O arone a-ree, eily arone, arone!
'Tis a good thing to be sailing across the seas!
How the women smile and the children are laughing glad
When the galleys go out into the blue sea—arone!
O eily arone, arone!
'Tis a good thing to be sailing across the seas!
How the women smile and the children are laughing glad
When the galleys go out into the blue sea—arone!
O eily arone, arone!
But the children may laugh less when the wolves come,
And the women may smile less in the winter-cold—
For the Summer-sailors will not come again, arone!
O arone a-ree, eily arone, arone!
And the women may smile less in the winter-cold—
For the Summer-sailors will not come again, arone!
O arone a-ree, eily arone, arone!
I am thinking they will not sail back again, O no!
The yellow-haired men that came sailing across the sea:
For 'tis wild apples they would be, and swing on green branches,
And sway in the wind for the corbies to preen their eyne,
O eily arone, eily a-ree!
The yellow-haired men that came sailing across the sea:
For 'tis wild apples they would be, and swing on green branches,
And sway in the wind for the corbies to preen their eyne,
O eily arone, eily a-ree!
144
And it is pleasure for Scathach the Queen to see this:
To see the good fruit that grows on the Tree of the Stones:
Long black fruit it is, wind-swayed by its yellow roots,
And like men they are with their feet dancing in the void air!
O, O, arone, a-ree, eily arone!
To see the good fruit that grows on the Tree of the Stones:
Long black fruit it is, wind-swayed by its yellow roots,
And like men they are with their feet dancing in the void air!
O, O, arone, a-ree, eily arone!
O arone a-ree, eily arone, arone,
O, O, arone, a-ree, eily arone!
O, O, arone, a-ree, eily arone!
145
THE END OF AODH-OF-THE-SONGS
The swift years slip and slide adown the steep;
The slow years pass; neither will come again.
Yon huddled years have weary eyes that weep,
These laugh, these moan, these silent frown, these plain,
These have their lips curl'd up with proud disdain.
The slow years pass; neither will come again.
Yon huddled years have weary eyes that weep,
These laugh, these moan, these silent frown, these plain,
These have their lips curl'd up with proud disdain.
O years with tears, and tears through weary years,
How weary I who in your arms have lain:
Now, I am tired: the sound of slipping spears
Moves soft, and tears fall in a bloody rain,
And the chill footless years go over me who am slain.
How weary I who in your arms have lain:
Now, I am tired: the sound of slipping spears
Moves soft, and tears fall in a bloody rain,
And the chill footless years go over me who am slain.
I hear, as in a wood, dim with old light, the rain,
Slow falling; old, old, weary, human tears:
And in the deepening dark my comfort is my Pain,
Sole comfort left of all my hopes and fears,
Pain that alone survives, gaunt hound of the shadowy years.
Slow falling; old, old, weary, human tears:
And in the deepening dark my comfort is my Pain,
Sole comfort left of all my hopes and fears,
Pain that alone survives, gaunt hound of the shadowy years.
146
THE LAMENT OF DARTHOOL
Ionmhuin tir, an tir ud shoir—
Alba go na h'-iongantaibh;
Nocha ttiocfainn aiste ale,
Muna ttagainn le Naoise.
Alba go na h'-iongantaibh;
Nocha ttiocfainn aiste ale,
Muna ttagainn le Naoise.
O woods of Oona, I can hear the singing
Of the west wind among the branches green
And the leaping and laughing of cool waters springing,
And my heart aches for all that has been,
For all that has been, my Home, all that has been!
Of the west wind among the branches green
And the leaping and laughing of cool waters springing,
And my heart aches for all that has been,
For all that has been, my Home, all that has been!
Glenmassan! O Glenmassan!
High the sorrel there, and the sweet fragrant grasses:
It would be well if I were listening now to where
In Glenmassan the sun shines and the cool west wind passes,
Glenmassan of the grasses!
High the sorrel there, and the sweet fragrant grasses:
It would be well if I were listening now to where
In Glenmassan the sun shines and the cool west wind passes,
Glenmassan of the grasses!
147
Lock Etive, O fair Loch Etive, that was my first home,
I think of thee now when on the grey-green sea—
And beneath the mist in my eyes and the flying foam
I look back wearily,
I look back wearily to thee!
I think of thee now when on the grey-green sea—
And beneath the mist in my eyes and the flying foam
I look back wearily,
I look back wearily to thee!
Glen Orchy, O Glen Orchy, fair sweet glen,
Was ever I more happy than in thy shade?
Was not Nathos there the happiest of men?
O may thy beauty never fade,
Most fair and sweet and beautiful glade.
Was ever I more happy than in thy shade?
Was not Nathos there the happiest of men?
O may thy beauty never fade,
Most fair and sweet and beautiful glade.
Glen of the Roes, Glen of the Roes,
In thee I have dreamed to the full my happy dream:
O that where the shallow bickering Ruel flows,
I might hear again, o'er its flashing gleam,
The cuckoos calling by the murmuring stream.
In thee I have dreamed to the full my happy dream:
O that where the shallow bickering Ruel flows,
I might hear again, o'er its flashing gleam,
The cuckoos calling by the murmuring stream.
148
THE LOVE-KISS OF DERMID AND GRAINNE
When by the twilit sea these twain were come
Dermid spake no one word, Grainne was dumb,
And in the hearts of both deep silence was.
“Sorrow upon me, love,” whispered the grass;
“Sorrow upon me, love,” the sea-bird cried;
“Sorrow upon me, love,” the lapsed wave sighed.
Dermid spake no one word, Grainne was dumb,
And in the hearts of both deep silence was.
“Sorrow upon me, love,” whispered the grass;
“Sorrow upon me, love,” the sea-bird cried;
“Sorrow upon me, love,” the lapsed wave sighed.
“For what the King has willed, that thing must be,
O Dermid! As two waves upon this sea
Wind-swept we are,—the wind of his dark mind,
With fierce inevitable tides behind.”
“What would you have, O Grainne: he is King.”
“I would we were the birds that come with Spring,
The purple-feathered birds that have no home,
The birds that love, then fly across the foam.”
O Dermid! As two waves upon this sea
Wind-swept we are,—the wind of his dark mind,
With fierce inevitable tides behind.”
“What would you have, O Grainne: he is King.”
“I would we were the birds that come with Spring,
The purple-feathered birds that have no home,
The birds that love, then fly across the foam.”
149
“Give me thy mouth, O Dermid,” Grainne said
Thereafter, and whispering thus she leaned her head—
Ah, supple, subtle snake she glided there
Till, on his breast, a kiss-deep was her hair
That twisted serpent-wise in gold red pain
From where his lips held high their proud disdain.
“Here, here,” she whispered low, “here on my mouth
The swallow, Love, hath found his haunted South.”
Thereafter, and whispering thus she leaned her head—
Ah, supple, subtle snake she glided there
Till, on his breast, a kiss-deep was her hair
That twisted serpent-wise in gold red pain
From where his lips held high their proud disdain.
“Here, here,” she whispered low, “here on my mouth
The swallow, Love, hath found his haunted South.”
Then Dermid stooped and passionlessly kissed.
But therewith Grainne won what she had missed,
And that night was to her, and all sweet nights
Thereafter, as Love's flaming swallow-flights
Of passionate passion beyond speech to tell.
But Dermid knew how vain was any spell
But therewith Grainne won what she had missed,
And that night was to her, and all sweet nights
Thereafter, as Love's flaming swallow-flights
Of passionate passion beyond speech to tell.
But Dermid knew how vain was any spell
Against the wrath of Finn: and Grainne's breath
To him was ever chill with Grainne's death;
Full well he knew that in a soundless place
His own wraith stood and with a moon-white face
Watched its own shadow laugh and shake its spear
Far in a phantom dell against a phantom deer.
To him was ever chill with Grainne's death;
Full well he knew that in a soundless place
150
Watched its own shadow laugh and shake its spear
Far in a phantom dell against a phantom deer.
151
THE TRYST OF QUEEN HYNDE
Queen Hynde was in the rowan-wood with scarlet fruit aflame,
Her face was as the berries were, one sun-hot wave of shame.
Her face was as the berries were, one sun-hot wave of shame.
With scythes of fire the August sun mowed down vast swathes of shade:
With blazing eyes the waiting queen stared on her steel-blue blade.
With blazing eyes the waiting queen stared on her steel-blue blade.
“What, thirsty hound,” she muttered low, “with thirst you flash and gleam:
Bide, bide a wee, my bonnie hound, I'll show ye soon a stream!”
Bide, bide a wee, my bonnie hound, I'll show ye soon a stream!”
The sun had tossed against the West his broken scythes of fire
When Lord Gillanders bowed before his Queen and Sweet Desire.
When Lord Gillanders bowed before his Queen and Sweet Desire.
She did not give him smile or kiss; her hand she did not give:
“But are ye come for death,” she said, “or are ye come to live?”
“But are ye come for death,” she said, “or are ye come to live?”
152
Gillanders reined and looked at her: “Hynde, Queen and Love,” he said,
“I wooed in love, I come in love, to this the tryst we made:
“I wooed in love, I come in love, to this the tryst we made:
“Why are your eyes so fierce and wild? why is your face so white?
I love you with all my love,” he said, “by day and by night.”
I love you with all my love,” he said, “by day and by night.”
“What o' the word that's come to me, of how my lord's to wed
The lilywhite maid o' one that has a gold crown on his head?
The lilywhite maid o' one that has a gold crown on his head?
“What o' the word that yesternight ye wantoned with my name,
And on a windy scorn let loose the blown leaf o' my shame?”
And on a windy scorn let loose the blown leaf o' my shame?”
The Lord Gillanders looked at her, and never a word said he,
But sprang from off his great black horse and sank upon his knee.
But sprang from off his great black horse and sank upon his knee.
“This is my love,” said white Queen Hynde, “and this, and this, and this”—
Four times she stabbed him to the heart while she his lips did kiss.
Four times she stabbed him to the heart while she his lips did kiss.
153
She left him in the darkling wood: and as she rode she sang
(The little notes swirled in and out amid the horsehoof clang)
(The little notes swirled in and out amid the horsehoof clang)
My love was sweet, was sweet, was sweet, but not so sweet as now!
A deep long sleep my sweet love has beneath the rowan-bough.
A deep long sleep my sweet love has beneath the rowan-bough.
They let her in, they lifted swords, his head each one did bare:
Slowly she bowed, slowly she passed, slowly she clomb the stair:
Slowly she bowed, slowly she passed, slowly she clomb the stair:
Her little son she lifted up, and whispered 'neath his cries—
“The old king's son, they say; mayhap; he has Gillander's eyes.”
“The old king's son, they say; mayhap; he has Gillander's eyes.”
154
THE SONG OF AHÈZ THE PALE
But this was in the old, old, far-off days,
But this was in the old, old, far-off days.
But this was in the old, old, far-off days.
They rode beneath the ancient boughs, and as they rode she sang,
But at the last both silent were: only the horse-hoofs rang.
But at the last both silent were: only the horse-hoofs rang.
Guenn took up his sword, and she felt its shining blade,
And she laughed and vowed it fitted ill for the handling of a maid.
And she laughed and vowed it fitted ill for the handling of a maid.
He looked at her, and darkly smiled, and said she was a queen:
For she could swing the white sword high and love its dazzling sheen.
For she could swing the white sword high and love its dazzling sheen.
She lifted up the great white sword and swung it o'er his head—
“Ah, you may smile, my lord, now you may smile,” she said.
“Ah, you may smile, my lord, now you may smile,” she said.
For this was in the old, old, far-off days,
For this was in the old, old, far-off days.
For this was in the old, old, far-off days.
155
THE WAR-SONG OF THE VIKINGS
Let loose the hounds of war,
The whirling swords!
Send them leaping afar,
Red in their thirst for war;
Odin laughs in his car
At the screaming of the swords!
The whirling swords!
Send them leaping afar,
Red in their thirst for war;
Odin laughs in his car
At the screaming of the swords!
Far let the white-ones fly,
The whirling swords!
Afar off the ravens spy
Death-shadows cloud the sky.
Let the wolves of the Gael die
'Neath the screaming swords!
The whirling swords!
Afar off the ravens spy
Death-shadows cloud the sky.
Let the wolves of the Gael die
'Neath the screaming swords!
The Shining Ones yonder
High in Valhalla
Shout now, with thunder:
Drive the Gaels under,
Cleave them asunder—
Swords of Valhalla!
High in Valhalla
Shout now, with thunder:
Drive the Gaels under,
Cleave them asunder—
Swords of Valhalla!
156
THE CRIMSON MOON
Behind the Legions of the Sun, the Star Battalions of the night,
The reddening of the West I see, from morn till dusk, from dusk till light.
A day must surely come at last, and that day soon,
When the Hidden People shall march out beneath the Crimson Moon.
The reddening of the West I see, from morn till dusk, from dusk till light.
A day must surely come at last, and that day soon,
When the Hidden People shall march out beneath the Crimson Moon.
Our palaces shall crumble then, our towers shall fall away,
And on the plains our burning towns shall flaunt a desolate day:
The cities of our pride shall wear tiaras of red flame,
And all our phantom glory be an idle windblown name.
And on the plains our burning towns shall flaunt a desolate day:
The cities of our pride shall wear tiaras of red flame,
And all our phantom glory be an idle windblown name.
What shall our vaunt be on that day, or who thereon shall hear
The laughter of our laughing lips become the wail of fear?
Our vaunt shall be the windy dust in eddies far and wide,
The hearing, theirs who follow us with swift and dreadful stride.
The laughter of our laughing lips become the wail of fear?
Our vaunt shall be the windy dust in eddies far and wide,
157
A cry of lamentation, then, shall sweep from land to land:
A myriad waving hands shall shake above a myriad strand:
The Day shall swoon before a Shade of vast ancestral Night,
Till a more dreadful Morn awake to flood and spume of light.
A myriad waving hands shall shake above a myriad strand:
The Day shall swoon before a Shade of vast ancestral Night,
Till a more dreadful Morn awake to flood and spume of light.
This is the prophecy of old, before the roaming tribes of Man
Spread Multitude athwart the heirdom of an earlier Clan—
Before the gods drank Silence, and hid their way with cloud,
And Man uprose and claimed the Earth and all the starry crowd.
Spread Multitude athwart the heirdom of an earlier Clan—
Before the gods drank Silence, and hid their way with cloud,
And Man uprose and claimed the Earth and all the starry crowd.
So Man conceived and made his dream, till at the last he smiled to see
Its radiant skirts brush back the stars from Immortality:
He crowned himself with the Infinite, and gave his Soul a Home,
And then the quiet gods awoke and blew his life to foam.
Its radiant skirts brush back the stars from Immortality:
He crowned himself with the Infinite, and gave his Soul a Home,
And then the quiet gods awoke and blew his life to foam.
158
This is the Dream I see anew, when all the West is red with light,
Behind the Legions of the Sun, the Star Battalions of the night.
Verily the day may come at last, and that day soon,
When the Hidden People shall march out beneath the Crimson Moon.
Behind the Legions of the Sun, the Star Battalions of the night.
Verily the day may come at last, and that day soon,
When the Hidden People shall march out beneath the Crimson Moon.
159
THE WASHER OF THE FORD
There is a lonely stream afar in a lone dim land;
It hath white dust for shore it has, white bones bestrew the strand:
The only thing that liveth there is a naked leaping sword;
But I, who a seer am, have seen the whirling hand
Of the Washer of the Ford.
It hath white dust for shore it has, white bones bestrew the strand:
The only thing that liveth there is a naked leaping sword;
But I, who a seer am, have seen the whirling hand
Of the Washer of the Ford.
A shadowy shape of cloud and mist, of gloom and dusk, she stands,
The Washer of the Ford:
She laughs, at times, and strews the dust through the hollow of her hands.
She counts the sins of all men there, and slays the red-stained horde—
The ghosts of all the sins of men must know the whirling sword
Of the Washer of the Ford.
The Washer of the Ford:
She laughs, at times, and strews the dust through the hollow of her hands.
She counts the sins of all men there, and slays the red-stained horde—
The ghosts of all the sins of men must know the whirling sword
Of the Washer of the Ford.
She stoops and laughs when in the dust she sees a writhing limb:
“Go back into the ford,” she says, “and hither and thither swim;
Then I shall wash you white as snow, and shall take you by the hand,
And slay you there in silence with this my whirling brand,
And trample you into the dust of this white, windless sand”—
This is the laughing word
Of the Washer of the Ford
Along that silent strand.
“Go back into the ford,” she says, “and hither and thither swim;
160
And slay you there in silence with this my whirling brand,
And trample you into the dust of this white, windless sand”—
This is the laughing word
Of the Washer of the Ford
Along that silent strand.
161
THE MOURNERS
When they had made the cradle
Of ivory and of gold,
Their hearts were heavy still
With the sorrow of old.
Of ivory and of gold,
Their hearts were heavy still
With the sorrow of old.
And ever as they rocked, the tears
Ran down, sad tears:
Who is it lieth dead therein,
Dead all these weary years?
Ran down, sad tears:
Who is it lieth dead therein,
Dead all these weary years?
And still they rock that cradle there
Of ivory and of gold:
For in their minds the shadow is
The Shadow of Old.
Of ivory and of gold:
For in their minds the shadow is
The Shadow of Old.
They weep, and know not what they weep;
They wait a vain re-birth:
Vanity of vanities, alas,
For there is but one birth
On the wide green earth.
They wait a vain re-birth:
Vanity of vanities, alas,
For there is but one birth
On the wide green earth.
| Poems and Dramas by "Fiona MacLeod" (William Sharp) | |