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Shamrocks

By Katherine Tynan

Tynan, Katharine (1861-1931)

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THE PURSUIT OF DIARMUID AND GRAINNE.

I. Part I. THE MARRIAGE FEAST.

Feasting and joy in Tara's royal palace.
King Cormac held his daughter's nuptial feast;
Fire on the hearth, and wine in golden chalice,
Laughter and love till day dawned in the east.

The bridal was at noontide of the morrow:—
Spring weds with Winter, June's red rose with snow,
The songs of May with Autumn's wind of sorrow,
Wild midnight with the young day's happy glow!

This was the bridegroom, Fionn, the King of Eire;
Gnarled like an oak, his face like lichened stone,
Sullen and fierce, his red eyes sunk and weary,
Towered o'er all men that giant frame alone.

Like an old tiger that hath lonely lasted
Years after all his kin be turned to clay;
Like a huge tree the thunderbolt hath blasted,
Black and accursed, it stains the face of day.

Yet a great hero—famed in many a story,
Victor on many a bloody field of fight,
But drunk with blood and war, and blind with glory,
And, as men deemed, too old for love's delight.

What of the bride? Oh, like that star in heaven
That cometh when the green west waxeth cold!
To whom would sing her praises should be given
A mouth of silver and a tongue of gold.

The ladies' daïs glittered like a garden—
A bird of Paradise was every one;
And never a dragon stood to keep as warden
Hesperides, this Garden of the Sun.

There in the midst was Grainne, the King's daughter.
Like a clear pearl her pure and pallid face;
Her dreaming eyes were deep as moonlit water;
The proud head poised itself with staglike grace.

Around her, lips were curled in happy laughter,
Young faces flushing like a summer dawn;
She smiled no whit, though cheers rang to the rafter
When her sweet name amid the toasts was drawn.

Around were robes of ruby and of amber,
Sewn with seed-pearls, encrust with many a gem;
Her soft silks shimmered on the floor o' the chamber—
No jewels marred the straight white flow of them,

Save at her girdle, where the diamonds lightened
Like the sea's floor when summer noons are white;
And in her hair's dusk shades the clear flames whitened,
Sparkling anon with rose and sapphire light.

Fair were her damsels, but the Princess fairer.
Now, have you seen some peerless night of June,
How stars be rare until one cometh rarer
Down the mid-heaven, the radiant Lady Moon?

So with my Grainne. Have you seen, moreover,
When the red rose breaks on the summer air?
Straightway she draws each heart to be her lover,
Though many another flower be lovely there.

Lovely is June—oh, lovely and too fleeting!
Birds in her bowers and in her golden eaves.
How passionate the full heart of earth is beating
In this enchanted moon when no bird grieves!

Skimmeth the swallow o'er the ripening meadow,
Soareth the lark to a heaven of blinding blue,
Pipeth the blackbird from the elm tree shadow,
Trilleth the thrush in eves of scent and dew!

But for my Grainne—all her dusk hair flowing
Framed the sweet face as night doth frame a star;
Proudly she heard the song and music going,
Her gaze as one who mused on things afar.

Her face on the long throat was like a lily:
She drooped, then straightened, with a sudden scorn
In the great stormy eyes; anon grown chilly,
She shivered, for the old night waned to morn,

And closer drew her broidered mantle ever—
'Twas gold, with purple iris worked thereon—
Her hands unclasped and clasped with sudden fever;
Around her eyes were languid lines and wan.

Down in the hall the feast was growing older,
And the grey bridegroom slew his slain again,
Toasting his myriads. Had the night turned colder?
Outside the wind wailed like a soul in pain;

The lights burned blue, the bravest there 'gan shiver,
The harpers let the song and music fall;
And still the tale of blood and guilt went ever,
And Fionn's hoarse laughter woke the echoes all.

Even as he pledged the wine bubbled ashen ruddy,
Blood streaked with foam; and many men did say
That Death sat by him like a fleshless body,
Wagging his skull with laughter grim and gay.

And on the threshold was a strange shape lying,
A thing of eld, a woman with grey hair
That veiled her, crouching, and she keened; the crying
Smote heavy on the hearts of listeners there.

I know not—but the hounds were shrilly wailing,
Dark shadows flitted through the gloomy hall,
Up in the hidden roof the bats were sailing,
Strange laughter stirred the banners on the wall.

And when the ill King ceased the lights grew steady,
The harps sang out of love and war once more,
Back to pale cheeks the blood came warm and ruddy,
The hounds slept in the rushes on the floor.

Still through that deadly fear and its cessation
My Grainne stirred not from her proud repose;
Wrapped in the gold and purple of her station,
No terror stole her fever flush of rose.

But her pale lips a scornful smile were keeping,
White lightning in her eyes began to burn,
And storm-wind o'er their passionate depths was sweeping
Till the white lids drooped down in angry scorn.

So leave her—to her bridegroom of to-morrow?
Who knows? Death's hand may beckon him tonight,
Or one be strong as Death to save from sorrow
This golden bird, this lily of living light.

II. Part II. THE MEETING OF DIARMUID AND GRAINNE.

When the dawn's rose was flushing in the east,
Paling the lights and dimming all the feast,
Came to my Grainne's side, and sat him down,
Who but the Druid, Daire, the high-priest.

He, as they gazed, 'gan tell the guests to her,
How this was brave, and that a soothsayer,
And yon a minstrel was of high renown,
And yet another, how his race was fair;

Who answered not, but gazed all hopelessly
Out where the dawn was painting sky and lea.
Far-off she knew blue mountains rent their veil;
She heard a myriad birds from every tree,

And paled. Oh, if the tall hills stood between
Her and this King, and miles of woodland green,
And spreading seas with never a snowy sail,
And pleasant plains, and rivers of sunny sheen!

Was Tir n'an Oge so far?—Oh, might she go
Like that white maid who died in last year's snow,
Whose feet had trodden the enchanted land,
And who, returning, pined to death for woe!

Would she return? Ah no! what mortal love
Could recompense for the great joy thereof?—
The crystal hills, the rivers with jewelled sand,
The golden meads and woods where one might rove

With a bright fairy lover, warm and bold,
Through years that age not, loves that turn not cold—
Beautiful, young for ever, for that sun
Sees an eternal Spring where naught grows old.

Then she woke up from dreams, and sighed full drear,
And heard the old voice crooning at her ear
Of this and that fair deed of many a one;
And so she turned her weary sense to hear.

“My Princess,” said the priest, continuing,
“Look yonder where the lights are in a ring,
And see the flower of all our chivalry,
The Three of whom even now the singers sing.

“Ossian, whose song might wake dead worlds again,
And Oscar, his tall son—a godlike twain,
Valiant and wise, and known from sea to sea
For all that makes white knighthood without stain!”

But she gazed out beyond them eagerly:
“I pray you, reverend priest, who that may be,
The stateliest man of all the world of men,
Yon with the great hound's head upon his knee,

“And the straight brows above a hero's eyes,
And dusky face, and lips where laughter lies,
And hair like midnight over the haunted glen,
Where never a star looks out from eerie skies?

“If one might hear him, how his words were sweet;
Bronzed is he, freckled with many a noon-sun's heat,
The kingliest king the world might ever see,
Clad in gold armour from proud head to feet.”

And Daire: “Diarmuid is the sweet knight's name.
Faithfullest, bravest known to knightly fame;
The truest lover of women on earth is he,
Pledged to his death to save from woe or shame

The meanest kitchen-wench, the poorest maid,
The greyest crone that seeks his great sword's aid;
Whoe'er would work a woman wrong must then
Answer to him, who hath not felt afraid.”

And she held both her hands to still the beat
Of her wild heart, lest any hearken it;
And “Oh, my lord!” she said, “my flower of men!
Long was the night-time, but this day is sweet.”

And still the old man murmured many a tale
Of the knight's prowess; how the widow's wail,
The orphan's cry, would make their cause his cause:
Like the new dawn her face that was so pale.

Oh! the warm flush rose up from chin to hair;
And down amid the great feast's song and glare,
All in a stillness and a sudden pause,
Diarmuid, the knight, looked up and found her fair.

Then did she call her chiefest maiden near,
And drew her down and whispered in her ear,
“Now bring me my gold goblet from my bower;
This night I will some lips shall pledge me here.”

And more none heard save this maid, skillèd well
In all strange lores, and many a magic spell;
Over the wine-cup, fit for a queen's dower,
She shook a phial, and a dark dust fell.

Then poured the wine therein. The cup might hold
Drink for a hundred in its heart of gold;
Its gems were lurid like a serpent's eyes:
'Twas a great wizard fashioned it of old.

My Grainne took the great cup daintily,
Adown the daïs and the hall went she:
There fell a sudden silence of surprise.
She paused before grey Fionn, and bent the knee,

And proffered him the cup; who left his place
And lifted her, and laid his withered face
To hers unshrinking; then, before them all,
He drank, and laughed, and gazed a minute's space

On her sweet eyes. But proudly is she gone
To King and Queen, who drink deep draughts. Anon
She is come down among the knights in hall;
Each drank, and to his neighbour she passed on

But it was said thereafter how the Three
She passed, nor asked to pledge her; verily,
When the deep sleep fell down on each one there,
These were unglamoured, from the witch-spell free.

But all who drank seemed made of carven stone,
So deep their slumbers. As she passed alone
Back, she bent down and kissed the Queen's white hair,
And “Mother,” she said: the word was like a moan.

She was so pale—oh, paler than the dead!—
With her wide, desolate eyes all shadowèd.
She gave the cup to her wise handmaiden,
And through the sleepers came, with drooping head,

Down to the Three, and would have gone to him,
Diarmuid, but tremors seized her, frame and limb;
She saw the lights turn round and sleeping men,
For sight and sense alike were sick and dim.

But a true arm upheld her, and she knew
'Twas Diarmuid's, yet she turned and spake unto
Ossian, “Wilt take and wed me, gentle bard?”
“Nay,” he said; “thou art Fionn's to wed and woo;

And I, his son, who cross not his emprise.”
Then turned she, and to Diarmuid raised her eyes
Love-lit, and held him with that still regard;
Then knelt, and with a storm of sudden cries

She wept: “And thou; one golden summer hour,
Through the blue windows of my maiden bower,
At the great games I saw thee victor crowned,
And my heart gave to thee its rose-red flower,

“Who knew thee not, nor how they named thy name
Until this night. Now, by thy knightly fame,
Take me.” Her heavy hair was on the ground
And o'er his hands and feet. His eyes 'gan flame,

And flamed and lightened all his dusky face,
Who leaned to her and for a minute's space
Looked on her, thinking how all loss were gain
To kiss the lovely eyelids in their place;

Yet forced his gaze from her, and loyally
Urged his allegiance to the King. But she,
“Your bonds—your bonds, my knight!” Like silver rain
Rang through her tears her laughter suddenly.

Yet loyal would he plead, but Oscar spake:
“Now, by thy vows no knight may take and break—
This woman's words can bend thee to her will—
Away, away, before the sleepers wake.”

Then he bent down and swung her from her knee,
And kissed her long, and kissed her passionately,
Held to his heart her face so still and chill;
“Sweet, thou and I together till death!” said he.

III. Part III. THE FLIGHT.

Last night was heavy with many a sign and omen,
The blue corpse-lights were dancing out on the heath,
And the banshee wringing her hands with the wail of a woman,
The voices of air were singing a song of death;
There were fighting men in the midmost sky, when the levin
Tore the wild wrack asunder and sprung on the world;
The brightest star of all slid out of the heaven;
The golden eagle fell dead with his bright wings furled.

Ah woe! and the spreading oak in the palace meadow,
Green and beloved, by lightning was riven and slain;
The spirits that dwelt in its heart of the leafy shadow,
Shrieked o'er the wind as they fled through the night and rain.
The sheeted dead through the palace chambers were straying;
The moon looked through them, the torches flickered and died;
Outside the phantom steeds were champing and neighing,
The phantom hounds were crying the keen outside.

But now was never a cloud in the merry morning:
The dawn's rose-leaves were shed on a yellow sea,
The cock was shrilling blithely his note of warning,
The gossamers were spun on the dewy lea;
There was pleasant lowing of kine, and the sheep were restful;
The young lambs cropped the grass and found it was good;
And the lark was telling a tale of a happy nestful—
His love lay low on earth with her speckled brood.

And who is this that cometh softly and stilly
Out through the postern gate of sweet Grainne's bower?
Is this the white maid of last night with the face of a lily,
This bride like a rose when the sun shines clear after shower?
And, seeing her lover awaits, she is gone to him straightway.
He hath swung himself down by his spears from the battlement's height,
For a warrior may not pass through the women's gate-way,
Silken-foot as a thief that flieth by night.

“Oh, my beloved, dost fear? There is time for returning.
The ruthless King will hunt us down to the death.
Dost thou remember at midnight the banshee's mourning?”
“More than his hatred I fear his loving,” she saith.
“Nay, my beloved, the world hath no faithfuller lover,
And fear and danger are all too heavy to bear.

Kiss me and go, our love and our loving be over:”
She was clasping his hands in a sudden anguish of prayer.

“Rather, dear knight, with thy kind steel save me in slaying:
Dead I return to the King, and in no other wise.”
What could he do but raise her up from her praying?
What could he do but kiss the tears from her eyes?
And Oscar and Ossian are come to speed him at leaving;
And some in the palace are stirring, already awake;
And they say farewell with a passion of loving and grieving,
With hands that are clinging, and hearts most sad for his sake.

And Diarmuid sayeth, “O friends far dearer than brothers,
What could exceed the faithful love we have had,
Since Oscar and I played blithe by the knees of our mothers,
Till we chased the red deer in our manhood, and waxèd glad

With the full fierce joy of the fight, or the eyes of women?
Remember me, O dear friends, in the days that shall be,
When ye play at the games, or stand in the face of foemen,
Or laugh at the feast—then, brothers, remember me.”

Their steeds, so fiery not Fionn or his Fenians might ride them,
Wore golden collars, the loving gifts of a King.
Their eyes were wistful as Grainne tarried beside them,
Stroking their night-black necks like the raven's wing:
They knew the hands that every day to the manger
Brought them the ruddy apples so crisp and sweet;
In their true hearts they guessed at her need and danger,
And whinnied low, and stamped with their eager feet.

They journeyed away and away till the sunset's glowing
Hung o'er Athlone where the Shannon is forded dry;
And they left the steeds, lest the mark of their slight hooves showing
Tell the King's trackers the road they had travelled by.
One passed to east and one to west of the river,
By north and south they fared a different way,
But came together, all grey with foam and a-quiver,
To Tara meadows at dawn of the following day.

At Clonmacnoise he built her a fort of wattles,
Gathered and welded fast by his strong right hand,
That oft had carried the Sacred Standard in battles;
He made her a bed of the soft green moss of the land.
The darkness was round them, the voice of the night-wind sighing;
The wood's brown children softly stirred in their sleep,
And overhead was an eagle wheeling and crying;
The wakeful stars were guarding their slumber deep.

About the time when the yellow moonlight was fading,
And over the east the flush of the dawning crept,
A mighty beast came up through the undergrowth wading,
And thrust his head in Diarmuid's breast as he slept.
'Twas Bran, the hound of the King, ever tireless and ready,
Sent by Oscar to tell of the coming of Fionn;
For he loved my knight with a love enduring and steady:
A dog's true love is good for a man to win.

He was nine feet long from his waving tail to his shoulder;
He stood five feet from his bright brown head to the ground;
No dog at the chase was warier ever or bolder,
By land or sea was never his equal found:
He could bound like a bird in the air, bear the cold and the hunger;
Could swim in the broad blue lakes as the fishes do;
Was soft and tender to creatures weaker and younger,
Old in wisdom, and honest, gentle, and true.

Then Diarmuid woke, and kissed his love in her sleeping.
“Waken, heart of my heart, for the King is here,
And his wrath is only for me; thou art safe in his keeping.”
“With thee I live or I die,” was her answer clear.
She bathed her face in a brooklet, singing and sunny;
She plaited her wealth of hair to a crown for her head;
She cheered the gloom from his heart with her words like honey,
And fed his lips with the wine and the good white bread.

And ate and drank herself, and the hound, moreover,
Who licked her hand, and laid his head on her knee
And gazed at her with the gaze of a faithful lover.
As Diarmuid watched them his eyes were pleasant to see;
For once again he said in his heart that sorrow,
Yea, death itself, were light to bear for her sake;
Though the meshes of doom drew closer now, and to-morrow
Would see him dreaming in night where no day should break.

The army draweth around with a noise like thunder,
The eagle flieth away to quieter skies,
The birds and rabbits and squirrels are frozen with wonder,
The hound gazing up with a questioning look of surprise.
He kissed her lips three times with a wistful sighing—
The King looked on from afar with a face of gloom—
“Sweet was our loving,” he said, “though it led to our dying.”
“Sweet was our loving,” she said, “though our love was our doom.”

They are silent now, with her hidden face in his bosom;
He strokes her hair in a sweetness bitter as death.
They are young, and the trees are heavy with bud and blossom;
They feel the scent of the flowers and the new Spring's breath.
The birds in the laden boughs are songless and sorry,
The faithful hound is bristling with fury and hate,
And lo! the hunters face to face with their quarry,
And lo! the grey King, cold and silent as Fate.

IV. Part IV. DIARMUID'S HEROISM.

As Diarmuid kissed his love three times, the King turned white and red;
And “For those honeyed kisses, my knight, I claim your head,”
He cried from out his army. But even as he spoke,
A mist was creeping up the wooded hollow—
A mist all grey and ghostly, you could not see a span;
The horses loomed like mountains, a giant every man.
It reached the doomèd lovers, and wrapped them like a cloak,
In darkness where no human eye might follow.

And they but drew the closer to meet each other's gaze.
Now, who is this that stands by them, a man of ancient days?
The mist flows from his fingers—he waves them soft and slow;
Above his brows a leaping flame burns redly.

'Tis Angus the Magician—no son of mortal man;
He travels on the pure cold wind, and on the waters wan.
In his palace by the banks of Boyne he knew an hour ago
That his foster son was set in danger deadly.

“Now come ye underneath my cloak, and we will travel far;
Unto my fairy palace I'll steer this magic car.”
But spake my Diarmuid bravely, “Oh, be he King or churl,
No man shall say his fury set me flying;
But take my dear upon your cloak, and tarry for a while
By the banks of lower Shannon, till the early morning smile,
And if I join ye not by then, farewell, my shining pearl;
You shall know your lover stiff and stark is lying.

“Then take her to her father's home, and to her mother dear;
And grieve not for me, sweet heart, if they should slay me here.”

The magic cloak 'gan rise in air, a moment—they are gone,
And he stands alone within his fort of wattles.
There were seven doors set round about, and they were thick and strong.
He heard the blackbird singing his golden matin song;
And he stood up like a pillar, and put his armour on,
Its gold plates dinted with the blows of battles.

He hied him to the first strong door—the army stood around—
Through that thick mist his voice rang out with no uncertain sound:
“Who waits without to capture me?” And Oscar answered clear,
“I am here, and Ossian with me, dear heart's brother;
Come out and pass a free man.” But Diarmuid shook his head:
“And if I should which man of ye for my sake should lie dead?
Oh, better far a thousand deaths, my brothers true and dear;
I shall ope to Fionn himself, not any other.”

And then drew nigh another door; 'twas Cailte answered free,
“Come out to us, O bravest, and we will die for thee.”
“But Fionn would slay each man of ye, your wives and children fair,
And fire and sword would leave your valleys sterile.”
At yet another door he spake, and Conan, brave and true—
“We give the King our hatred, our love we give to you;
Not he, for all his thousand fights, shall hurt a single hair.”
He answered thus: “For me alone the peril.”

The tears were large within his eyes to think how true they were.
He drew anigh another door; McMorrogh's son stood there:
“O Diarmuid, of one clan are we, and by our kith and kin,
Each man of us is yours in heart and body.”
He thanked them well-nigh weeping, and would not open yet.
Without the fifth door Glor's tall son with his Fenian host was set:

“O hero, with the skene and sword we swear to keep thy skin
From pin-prick as from death-wound stark and bloody.”

He only answered, “Noble heart, true friend thy father was;
Is death the kindly token that I should bring, alas?”
He came unto another door; the two Hughs answered him,
“We'll welcome thee with spear-thrust and sharp arrow.”
“Oh, not for fear I turn from ye, dark men that spy and lie,
But Diarmuid of the Love-Spot by more noble hands must die.”
He reached at last the seventh door, and Fionn spake fierce and grim,
“I will cleave thy bones asunder to the marrow.”

Who answered blithely, “By the door at which thou keepest watch
I win my way to freedom;” his hand was on the latch.

Said Fionn to his battalions: “If he go safe and well,
To-morrow shall your headless trunks be bleeding.”
Then Diarmuid, with an airy bound exceeding light and high,
Swung by his javelins and his spears a bird's flight to the sky,
And passed out o'er that door and host, whose eyes, sealed by a spell,
Watched the eyrie while the eagle far was speeding.

He found his love before the night, where in a cavern rude
A great wild boar hung roasting before a fire of wood;
And Grainne's life had nigh fled out with joy to see him there,
Her knight and true love safe and glad and living.
That night they slumbered sweetly, but ere the dawn of day
Good Angus rose up warily to speed him on his way.
The cock crew, and the east was grey, the old moon waned in air,
While yet this cunning counsel he was giving:

“Before I go, my lovers, this warning take from me—
Seek refuge not nor shelter in a single-trunkèd tree
With but a single opening, or a cave with but one door,
Or an island of the sea with single channel:
Wherever you shall cook your meal you shall not stay to eat,
Nor sleep where you have eaten, but still with tireless feet
Lie down afar and wake afar from the place you slept before.”
They writ it down within their memory's annal.

As they went on by Shannon, a giant youth there came
From westward o'er the wild moor, and Muadhan was his name,
And proffered them true service. He was so strong and tall,
He bare them both across the swollen river.
He watched while they were sleeping; and, fishing in the weir,
He caught the rose-red salmon to make them royal cheer;

Brought down the wild bird flying, and the greatest stag of all,
With the keen unerring arrows from his quiver.

Then came the dread Green Fenians, with twice a thousand men,
And ships, and skenes, and horses, and chieftains eight times ten,
And three great chiefs above them; and three great hounds had they
Whose throats belched fire—the ban-dogs of the devil:
No fire would burn, or water drown, or deadly weapon wound;
Red skins like molten iron encased each hideous hound.
Their reeking jaws were bloody; most fearful was their bay;
Black slime was pendulous from their lips of evil.

And of that gallant army, by skene or strategy,
My Diarmuid slew three-quarters, or drowned them in the sea.
Like a hawk among the sparrows, a wolf amid the fold,
He hewed their beautiful glittering mail asunder;

He bound the great Green chieftains, so none could give relief,
And left the three in torture, and left the three in grief,
And passed away uninjured, for links and chains of gold
Held to the rock the furious hounds of wonder.

V. Part V. THEIR FURTHER ADVENTURES.

Then, while the clansmen stood all helpless by,
And the bound chieftains writhed in despair,
Thither came Deirdre, the King's messenger,
Flying o'er hilltops and the mountains high,
Like the swift blast of a pure wind at play,
Or like a swallow on an April day.

Who wrung her hands, beholding, for she knew
That in all Erin from green sea to sea,
None could release them save the glorious Three
Unto themselves and to each other true;
Whose love, exceeding great through good and ill,
Held them as one man with a single will.

Then she bade set the hounds free, and they sped,
Coursing with jaws still wet with young fawn's blood,
On like a torrent, till in that green wood,
In a cave's heart, they found the hero's bed,
And rent it, and next morn at break of day,
Lo! the tired quarry, faint but fierce at bay.

And Diarmuid slew the great beasts, and despair
Fell on the King's men, and those chiefs he bound
Died of their bonds, and in green-sodded ground
Fionn buried them, and writ the Ogham there;
And went henceforth most heavy in heart and sore,
And thirsted for the knight's death more and more.

There was a quicken-tree that had strange power:
He who should eat three berries of that tree
Henceforth from pain and sickness should go free;
Eating thereof, the old regained youth's flower;
Like the red wine it gladdened, or rich mead.
'Twas a great race of wizards sowed that seed.

Terrible was the giant who kept guard
Over that tree—a son of wicked Cam,
Crooked-tusked, red-eyed, horned like a ram,

Holding all evil magic in his ward,
So he was proof 'gainst water, sword, or brand;
Round his swart body was an iron band.

Right in the midst of his black face was set
One wicked eye: a club hung by his side;
And it was said three blows upon his hide
From that same club would overthrow him yet.
In the top branches all night would he stay,
And pace around the tall tree all the day.

Miles of the land he had made desolate;
Fionn and his Fenians dare not hunting go
Into the wardship of this evil foe.
But Diarmuid's hunting-booth stood by his gate;
And Diarmuid chased the tall red deer a-foot,
With never a wish to taste that magic fruit.

There was a clan owed eric unto Fionn,
And he would have of them my hero's head,
Or else a handful of the berries red;

And the two chiefs who sought his peace to win,
Following my Diarmuid, combated with him,
Who overthrew and bound them limb by limb.

But when his lady took a sick desire
To taste the tree, he would not say her “Nay:”
So he came walking where the giant lay,
And touched him with his foot and woke his ire.
Lo! the great bulk rose up a mountain high,
And the great roar of anger shook the sky

So that the birds fell. Then the giant's stroke
Struck down the knight, who staggered to his knee,
Though the shield sheltered him; but speedily
He sprung, and clasped that body like an oak,
And twisted round the strong band's iron girth;
And he and that fierce warrior rolled to earth.

But Diarmuid clutched the club with a dead man's hold—
He was above—their struggles shook the ground;
Locked like young bulls, the mountains miles around
Echoed the roars that turned the land's heart cold;
The dust they raised hung three days in the air;
The giant's heels scooped out a valley there.

But with a swing that club did Diarmuid take,
And beat upon his brains and scattered them:
In a great grave beside the tree's slight stem
He laid that bulk with speed for Grainne's sake,
Lest she should see it lying so, and quail
In all her woman's heart, and ail and fail.

And brought her then, and gathered the red fruit
To please her; and those knights he had o'erthrown
He brought likewise, and drew the branches down,
And bade them take what now might win their suit.
“Take them to Fionn,” he said, “and spare my head,
And for my foes be henceforth friends instead.”

But those two warriors, coming then to Fionn,
Deceived him not, for well he knew whose deed
Had rid him of that monster and his breed,
And he forgave not them their tribal sin;
But gathered round his army speedily,
And marched in haste to find that quicken-tree.

And, coming, saw not Diarmuid and his love;
High in the tree-top, in the giant's lair,
They were in hiding, and the day was fair,

And hot and strong the noon-day sun above;
So he encamped, and round the army lay,
While with his knights at chess the King would play.

And Diarmuid, leaning, watched the game he loved,
And saw that Ossian paused with puzzled frown;
Then from his height he flung a berry down
To mark which way the chessmen should be moved;
And Fionn looked up, and mocked and called his name,
Crying, “Come down and judge for us the game.”

And so three times, and grew the great King's wrath,
His restless fingers trifled with his sword;
For every time the berry struck the board
He lost that game. “What skill our Ossian hath,
When Oscar this and that way guides,” said he,
“And Diarmuid prompts him from the quickentree!”

Then Diarmuid grew defiant, being at bay,
And rose and took his lady, sweet and tall,
And kissed her lips three times before them all.

But the King, seeing, mocked no more that day.
“Twice have my seven battalions seen,” he said,
“Now and before, but thou shalt lose thy head.”

He set four hundred in a standing ring
About the tree, that none should pass their hands,
And offered with reward of men and lands
To whoso should ascend, and slay, and bring
That slain head down, his armour and his sword,
And a chief's place by field and council-board.

Then there were nine tall brothers standing by,
Whose father Diarmuid's slew, and they would go
And seek to take his head, avenging so
That ancient wrong. The first clomb speedily.
But Angus in his fairy home had heard
The tidings from a small white singing bird.

And on the east wind he came sailing fast,
And lighted by the twain in the tree-top,
And looked and saw that daring knight come up,
And gave him Diarmuid's shape, and him down cast;
Then as he fell Fionn's hirelings ran full fleet
And beat his brains out at their master's feet.

But, being dead, his own shape came again,
And there was grief to see what they had done.
Then with more fury went the second one
On his ill quest, and in like wise was slain;
So the King's men slew all the noble nine,
And ended mournfully that ancient line.

Then Angus carried Grainne by his art
Far from that place; and Diarmuid, wild to see
All that were slain for him, wept bitterly,
With death and desolation in his heart.
“I will come down to thee, O King,” he said;
“Slay me to-morrow or to-day instead;

“I care not, seeing I stand so much alone;
A man has need of comrade men, and friends
Foes have I many since to serve thine ends
And guard thee I have slain full many a one:
And my love's heart is soft and slight to bear
My manhood up; I shall grow soft like her.”

Then Oscar stood before the King's dark frown:
“Let him go free—he well hath won his wife;
Thou hast no knight his equal, and this life

Will go for his if he comes bravely down.”
And he called softly up the quicken-tree,
“Come, then, dear brother, Oscar stands with thee.”

And more reproaches cast he to the King,
Whose knights caught up their shining skenes to hear,
And gathered dark-browed. Flew through air his spear,
Its sharp cry like the night-wind's flying wing,
Or like the roaring waters rushing on
Over the black brows of a wall of stone.

But Fionn was sad and silent, and the swords
Fell from fierce hands, and meanwhile Diarmuid passed
Out by his spears perhaps an arrow's cast
Beyond that host, and heard there Oscar's words,
And watched him coming sad and sorrowfully
Out from those knights he never more might see.

Who came where Diarmuid was, and kissed his cheek
And hand-in-hand they went with drooping head,
For each true manly heart was heavy as lead,
And only once that hour did Oscar speak:
“Mighty is Fionn, and wise, invincible;”
And Diarmuid, “Brother, thou hast spoken well.”

The mountain ash.

Compensation, under the Brehon laws, for crime or injury done.

VI. Part VI. THEIR HAPPY WEDDED LIFE.

But when the troubled years were done,
Forgotten like a dream that's over,
There came a time of summer sun
For lady and for lover.

A rose of dawn for midnight's dark,
And tears and sighs made way for smiling;
And over all the singing lark,
And the blackbird's song beguiling.

Beside a tranquil summer lake
They built themselves a stately palace;
There quivering reeds and rushes shake,
And floats the lily's chalice.

The water was an earth-bound sky,
The sailing swans were queens enchanted,
And by her sister butterfly
The yellow iris flaunted.

The kine were lowing on the sward,
The sheep were browsing in the shadow;
The summer breathings scarcely stirred
The grey-brown ripening meadow.

The blue hills loomed through silver veils,
The green woods dreamed beside a river;
And hither came the nightingales
That now are fled for ever.

And as the tranquil years went on,
To this bright palace by the water,
There came four times a sturdy son,
And once a little daughter.

And Oscar dwelt in quiet here,
Though many a maid afar was pining,
Thinking her skies were strange and drear
Without that bright star's shining.

The King had taken another wife,
And lulled to sleep his ancient madness;
No echoes of the far world's strife
Disturbed this vale of gladness.

And thither Ossian often came—
His place set high above the table—
When halls were thronged with knight and dame,
And steeds were in the stable.

And also flocked the honey-throats,
The bards whom all men honoured greatly;
They rowed the lake in swift-winged boats
With purple awnings stately;

And paced beneath the drooping trees,
Rehearsing songs of love and battle
That troubled sore the labouring bees,
And frighted drowsy cattle.

And there were contests of the bards,
And splendid games at ball and hurly,
And chasing the red forest herds
All in the morning early.

When winter brought the firelit nights
Who sorrowed for the summer glories,
Hearing the senachies recite
Their ancient marvellous stories?

And lovely was the wedded life,
For sixteen years unclouded over,
Of noble husband, tender wife,
Each still the constant lover.

They loved as in that hour's surprise,
When, with a sudden flush and quiver,
Each looked to meet the other's eyes
And knew they loved for ever.

They loved as in those days of old,
When Death was with them night and morning—
Upon their eyes his breathings cold,
Within their ears his warning.

For trust gave love his perfect part;
And Grainne's matron-brows were noble;
And each was greater, soul and heart,
For all the bygone trouble.

Story-tellers.

VII. Part VII. THE DEATH OF DIARMUID.

It came on the last night of the old year.
As Diarmuid in Rath Grainne lay a-sleeping
He heard the distant baying of a hound,
And rose and took his armour and his spear,
Dazed in his mind, and all his pulses leaping,
And would have sallied forth to find that sound.

For the voice drew him with resistless might,
Tugged at his heart-strings, so his feet must follow,
Although the evil demons walked abroad,
And in the stormy wilderness of night
Leaped the blue lightning from her caverns hollow
Into the quivering lake;—the world was awed.

But Grainne woke, and seeing him paled and said,
“Love, go thou safely,” and broke down in weeping,
Knowing the wizards of the quicken-tree
Hated him, and long since had struck him dead,
Only great Angus held him in safe keeping;
And now she knew their arts and sorcery.

So she imprisoned him with tender arms;
And as he slept, again the hound's voice crying
Fainter and farther, and at last the dawn,
Windy and red, and rain-clouds fled in swarms;
And he arose, and kissed her calmly lying,
And went, for still with might his heart was drawn.

He took his armour, and his fierce small spear,
And led his favourite hound that followed after—
Down in the west there hung a tarrying star—
And reached at last a mountain, stark and drear,
And on its peak, lo! Fionn with mocking laughter,
And the fierce gibes one well had slain him for.

And Diarmuid held his peace nor answered back,
Though, seeing the snare, with rage his heart was burning;
But asked whose hunting dog it was that bayed.
And Fionn, “Ben Gulban's boar we chase and track,
And thirty Fenians he hath tusked since morning;
Wilt thou not slay him, or art thou afraid?”

Now, fearful was the wild boar of the hill—
No honest beast, but so transformed from human;
Whom Diarmuid's father slew long years ago.

And 'twas foretold that Diarmuid he should kill;
They were the two sons of the selfsame woman,
And the same hour should give them their death-blow.

But Diarmuid sware to Angus in his youth
Never to fight the boar in all his fighting,
And kept that oath; but now he must forget
And face the beast for glory or for ruth,
Or go henceforth with coward in fiery writing
Bit in his name that was so stainless yet.

And Fionn still mocking, “It is time to go.
See the boar comes, and all the Fenians flying;
Let us leave him the mountain-top, my knight.”
And Diarmuid, “Nay, since thou hast trapped me so,
I bide the end for living or for dying;
But give me Bran to help me in the fight.”

And the King would not, for he said the hound
Had fought the boar too often, unavailing
His skill and strength to match that savage wrath.
Saying, he went his ways, and all around
Was nought to see except the curlew sailing,
And lonely, lonely was the mountain path.

Then came the boar, his foes dispersed and slain,
Snorting and rushing blindly here and thither.
And Diarmuid loosed his hound that was so brave;
But the dog shrieked as one in mortal pain,
And fled in terror so he knew not whither,
And stumbling fell—the torrent was his grave.

Then Diarmuid cast his javelin, strong and true,
That struck the boar, but, from his forehead glancing,
Left him unscathed, and he raised his head
And saw who fought with him; and fury flew
From his small fiery eyes, and swift advancing
He would have rent him with his tusks stained red.

But the knight sprang on him and clasped him round;
And up and down the mountain, the boar dashing
Sought to relieve him of that hated girth;
And cast him in the end on rocky ground,
And tore him, trampling with his feet, and gashing
The fairest body ever born on earth.

And would have fled, but Diarmuid cast his spear
Cleaving the forehead, so were slain together
Sons of one mother, as the warning told.

Then Diarmuid turned to dying without fear,
And saw his life-blood staining the sweet heather,
And agonized, his lower limbs grown cold.

Thither came Fionn then with his chivalry,
And felt no ruth, but evil gladness showing,
Wagged with his head—“It likes me well thy plight:
Would that the women of Erin now might see
The beauty that set hearts afire and glowing
Turned into loathing. Thou art done, my knight.”

“Nevertheless, O Fionn,” said Diarmuid then,
“Thyself couldst heal me if it were thy pleasure.”
“Heal thee!” said Fionn; “as soon might heal the dead.”
“Canst thou not bring new life to dying men,”
Said Diarmuid, “if they drink thy two palms' measure
Of crystal water from the full well-head?”

“Hast thou deserved life-giving drink of me?”
Said Fionn. And Diarmuid, “Yea; dost thou remember
When thy foes sought to burn thee in thy house,

And the flames rose and would have roasted thee,
But I dashed through and quenched both fire and ember,
And slew my fifty whilst thou didst carouse?

“Thou wouldst have halved for me thy kingdom fair
If I had asked that night. And think, moreover,
When by his magic Colgan's son made fast
Thy feet to earth, and the sword touched thy hair
And pricked thy neck, but I thy knight and lover
Coming o'erthrew thy foes ere night was past:

“And brought their heads to thee, and their gold cup,
And touched thy feet with King's blood, so defeating
The magic's power, and set thy body free.
If I had asked that night when we did sup
Pearls in my drink and rubies for my eating,
Thy crown had gone ungemmed to pleasure me.”

And then he wandered, being near to die,
And his dry lips foam-flaked began to mutter
Strange soothsaying of what the years would bring.

“Death and defeat; the Fenians fly, they fly
In the lost battle, and their white lips utter
Thy name with wrath and cursing, ruthless king.

“Oscar and Ossian—'tis for you my grief,
And Erin's widowed wives and childless mothers.
Ossian shall live to see it, and much more;
But Oscar shall be slain with many a chief;
And sons hate sires, and brothers war with brothers;
And thou, O Fionn, that day, shalt miss me sore!”

Then Oscar raised his sword and threatened Fionn:
“Bring him the draught, or I will slay thee surely.”
And the knights groaned, their faces dark with gloom.
There was a small well, crystal-clear and thin;
A mile o'erhead the lark was singing purely;
The trodden heather yielded rich perfume.

Fionn came with lagging feet and loathing will,
And his thin lips drawn down in rage and cunning;
Took the white water in his joined palms bare,

And turned, but thought on Grainne, and let spill;
And at the sight of that sweet draught downrunning,
With a loud roar his knights had slain him there.

But Diarmuid cried aloud in pangs of death,
And the King went again, and took the water
That bubbled now rose-red between his hands,
And came half-way, and stopped, and caught his breath,
And thought once more upon King Cormac's daughter;
Fell the clear draught again on arid sands.

Which Diarmuid seeing heaved a terrible sigh,
And Oscar sware, “Now, by my sword and dagger,
Spill it again and I shall strike thee dead.”
Then went the King and raised the water high—
'Twas cold and grey—and came, and seemed to stagger,
And Diarmuid longing lifted his dear head,

And thrust his lips out, but fell back again
Lifeless and stark—the great soul fled for ever.
Then Oscar raised his voice in bitterness,

And the whole company of Fenian men,
Crying three times, made all the mountains shiver,
And the bare sky to echo their distress.

But Fionn, “Peace, peace! the man is dead being dead;
A true knight and a brave one;” and went speedy
Lest Angus come with vengeance in his heart.
And Oscar knelt and raised the dusky head,
And kissed the bearded lips with lips unsteady,
And Ossian too, and neither would depart,

Till they had laid their yellow cloaks beneath
And over him, and left him in Bran's keeping.
All day the faithful hound lay by his side,
Nose set on paws, and mourned that woeful death;
And overhead the hungry vultures sweeping
Knew him, and fled, and flapped their wings, and cried.

But Grainne, hearing, gathered round her knees
His sons and hers, and the one little daughter,
And wept with them in grieving heavy and sore,

Recounting his brave deeds by lands and seas,
And all the full deliverance he had brought her,
And bade them nurse their vengeance evermore

Till the time came. And to his eldest son
She gave his sword, and girt it round his body;
And to the next, Ga Dearg, his faithful spear;
And to the third, his armour to put on;
And to the fourth, his shield all stained and bloody;
But only kissed his little daughter dear.

And Angus knew that hour, and hither sped
On the cold wind, and wrung his hands with wailing:
“O bright-faced one, O son, art thou laid low?
Last night I watched thee not, and thou art dead;
And all my lifelong guard was unavailing
To keep thee from thy treacherous, evil foe.”

And shrieked three times, so that the shriek did fill
The waste world of the clouds, and the wild heaven,
And the sea islands, and the greenwood seas;

And valley, and forest, and the highest hill
Reeled at that sound that rung from morn to even,
Blown on all airs and borne on every breeze.

“I cannot give thee life, son,” whispered he,
“But I will heal thy gaping wounds, and bear thee
To my bright house, and on a golden bed
Thou'lt lie, and every day I'll breathe on thee
Life for an hour; thou'lt speak, and I shall hear thee—
We two together till the world is dead.”

Through the dusk gloaming came a golden bier,
Borne by four eagles whose wide wings were golden,
And hovering lit the startled evening grey;
And took the good knight with crossed sword and spear,
And sailed away; and never of man beholden
Was Angus or my Diarmuid from that day.

Now Benbulbin, a mountain in Sligo.

A CHILD'S DAY.

When I was a little child
It was always golden weather.
My days stretched out so long
From rise to set of sun;
I sang and danced and smiled—
My light heart like a feather—
From morn to even-song;
But the child's days are done.

I used to wake with the birds—
The little birds wake early,
For the sunshine leaps and plays
On the mother's head and wing—
And the clouds were white as curds;
The apple-trees stood pearly:
I always think of the child's days
As one unending Spring.

I knew where all flowers grew.
I used to lie in the meadow
Ere reaping-time and mowing-time
And carting home the hay.
And oh, the skies were blue!
Oh, drifting light and shadow!
It was another time and clime—
The little child's sweet day.

And in the long day's waning
The skies grew rose and amber
And palest green and gold,
With a moon's white flame:
And if came wind and raining,
Grey hours I don't remember;
Nor how the warm year waxèd cold,
And deathly Autumn came.

Only of that young time
The bright things I remember;
How orchard boughs were laden red,
And blackberries so brave
Came ere the frost and rime—
Ere the dreary dark November,

With dripping black boughs overhead,
And dead leaves on a grave.

The years have come and gone,
And brought me many a pleasure,
And many a gift and gain
From near and from afar;
And dear work gladly done,
And dear love without measure,
And sunshine after rain,
And in the night a star.

The years have come and gone,
And brought me share of sorrow;
Yet I shall sing to ease my pain
For the hours I must stay:
They are passing one by one,
And I wait with hope the morrow;
But indeed I am not fain
Of a long, long day.

It is well for a little child
Whose heart is blithe and merry
To find too short its golden day—
Long morn and afternoon:

So many flowers grow wild,
And many a fruit and berry:
Long day, too short for work and play,—
The night comes too soon.

It was well for that little child.
But its day is gone for ever,
And a wounded heart will ache
In the sunlight gold and gay.
And the night is cool and mild
To all things that smart with fever!
The older heart had time to break
In the little child's long day.

THE ANGEL OF THE ANNUNCIATION.

Down through the village street,
Where the slanting sunlight was sweet,
Swiftly the angel came;
His face like the star of even,
When night is grey in the heaven;
His hair was a blown gold flame.

His wings were purple of bloom,
And eyed as the peacock's plume;
They trailed and flamed in the air:
Clear brows with an aureole rimmed,
The gold ring brightened and dimmed,
Now rose, now fell on his hair.

Oh, the marvellous eyes!
All strange with a rapt surprise,
They mused and dreamed as he went;

The great lids, drooping and white,
Screenèd the glory from sight;
His lips were most innocent.

His clear hands shining withal,
Bore lilies, silver and tall,
That had grown in the pleasaunce of God;
His robe was fashioned and spun
Of threads from the heart of the sun;
His feet with white fire were shod.

O friend, with the grave, white brow,
No dust of travel hast thou,
Yet thou hast come from afar,
Beyond the sun and the moon,
Beyond the night and the noon,
And thy brother the evening star!

He entered in at the gate,
Where the law-givers sit in their state,
Where the law-breakers shiver and quake;
The rustling of his long wings,
Like music from gold harp-strings,
Or songs that the dear birds make.

None saw as he passed their way;
But the children paused in their play,
And smiled as his feet went by:
A bird sang clear from the nest,
And a babe on its mother's breast
Stretched hands with an eager cry.

The women stood by the well,
Most grave, and the laughter fell,
The chatter and gossip grew mute;
They raised their hands to their eyes—
Had the gold sun waxed in the skies;
Was that the voice of a lute?

All in the stillness and heat,
The Angel passed through the street,
Nor pausing nor looking behind
God's finger-touch on his lips;
His great wings fire at the tips;
His gold hair flame in the wind.

SPRING SICKNESS.

It was the Autumn when you went,
The blessed Summer went with you,
Her golden largesse waste and spent,
Her rosy dawns and days of blue.
The wind was here—the wind and the rain,
The singing birds were too sad to sing;
But after the parting and the pain,
You would return in Spring.

Oh, long, long was the grey Winter,
With rotting, dead leaves underfoot,
Before warm winds began to stir,
And green grass-blades to spring and shoot
The daffodils were gold at last,
And rosy the apple's blossoming;
Sweet May drew nigh—sweet May went past:
You came not home in Spring.

By Newfoundland where fishers go,
The mermaid's hands made smooth your bed.
My young gold hair is white with woe;
My rose-red cheeks have the snow instead.
O young for ever, while I grow old:
The outward swallow is on the wing,
A ruined world, a sun turned cold:
And far from you and Spring.

THE HEART OF A MOTHER.

You were so far away,
Beyond all help from me;
And so when skies were grey,
Or clouds lowered threateningly,
And the wailing storm-wind blew,
My heart went out to you.

I always felt afraid
You were out in the stormy weather,
The rain on your bonny head,
The wind and the rain together.
Ah me! I never knew
What harm might come to you.

So many pains there are,
And perils by land and sea;
And each his cross must bear,
And each his weird must dree;
And it might be even then
You lived your hour of pain.

My fears were unavailing,
You are so safe for aye—
My dear who went a-sailing
On Death's wide sea one day;
You answer not my call
Across the grey sea-wall.

I follow, with wet eyes,
Your boat's long lonely track;
But vex you not with sighs,
Nor long that you were back:
Your boat with sails of snow
Came safe to port, I know.

Oh, is the new land fair
That you have journeyed to,
With floods of amber air,
And hills of marvellous hue,
And a city's shining spires
Fashioned of day-dawn's fires?

Oh, is it a pleasant country
That you are come unto,
With leaves on the greenwood tree,
And birds above in the blue,

And shades below the trees
Where the weary dream at ease,

And little children playing
On a green and golden mead,
And One o'er the green sward straying
Whose face I know indeed,—
The dead face on the rood,
The dear face, kind and good?

Oh, safe for evermore,
With never a weird to dree;
Is any burden sore
When one's beloved goes free?
Come pain, come woe to me,
My well-beloved goes free!

You are so far away,
And yet are come so near;
On many a heavy day
I think of you, my dear,
Safe in your shelter there,
Christ's hand upon your hair.

IN A MEADOW.

At the mid-heaven the July sun is burning,
Pouring his white heat on the throbbing world,
With all its green-gold wheat to yellow turning,
And all its polished grass-blades crisped and curled.

I know, a stone's throw off, are quaint old gardens—
The thrush's home, the blackbird's long desire—
In whose green gloom red lilies stand for wardens,
Keeping their Paradise with swords of fire.

But here—oh, sweet!—the lark's above in heaven,
On the sun's heart, whose bird of love he is;
With the warm wind is all the wide mead waven,
Tossed to grey breakers like the hoary seas.

Brave's my dark hedge with rose and pearl festooning
The hyacinth-coloured woodbine's honey-sweet;
Hark! in the neighbouring wheat some wood-sprite crooning,
Talking and walking with unresting feet.

Here's honeysuckle, and the bee her lover,
And great dog-daisies softly swayed and moved;
All the field's floor doth scattered gold-dust cover,
The yellow cuckoo-buds that Shakspere loved.

On such a day, on such a day, by Avon,
Prone in the meadows, screened from human sight,
Only the lark to watch him from high heaven,
He drank like me the Summer's full delight.

In such a mead—oh, sweet!—I see him lying,
With his deep eyes all warm with happy dreams—
Warm with his youth, and swallows o'er him flying,
Lighting his brown hair with their wings' swift gleams.

In Charlecote it might be, beside the river,
Where trees and ferns make alcoves cool and dim,
And the white stars of lilies lightly quiver,
And water-fowl come forth to look at him.

Afar beyond the woods from his lush meadow,
He sees red roof and chimney-stack arise,
And o'er his dreaming flits like sun through shadow
The love-light of Anne Hathaway's blue eyes.

Yon is Sir Thomas Lucy's orchard shady,
With the small apples brightening on the boughs,
And round the red rose garden of my Lady
The hollyhocks stand up in stately rows.

But sweeter far Anne Hathaway's small garden,
With a sun-dial at the heart thereof,
Where the birds sing as ne'er they sang in Arden,
And the air's rich with musk, and thyme, and clove.

But sweetest flower amid the rare old flowers,
Gold-crested Anne with her sweet eyes of youth;
And her shy smile comes through the dusky bowers,
Most meet for whispering lover's tales in sooth.

Nay, I but dream—three hundred years are over
Since the true lovers lived through love's delights;
They sleep below the dew and the white clover,
And hear the nightingale o' moon-white nights.

See, here are Shakspere's flowers that set me dreaming,
In this grey Irish meadow at my feet;
The gold-heart lady-smocks all whitely gleaming,
The cuckoo-buds the brown bee finds so sweet.

THE STORY OF AIBHRIC.

“And at last it happened to them (the swans) that they met a young man whose name was Aibhric, and his attention was attracted to them, and their singing was sweet to him, so that he loved them greatly, and they loved him.”—The Fate of the Children of Lir.

Five and twenty years of my life were fair,
Five and twenty years;
The red gold-dust lay thick on my beard and hair,
Mine eyes were keener than spears,
And blue as the skies, and I was comely and tall,
The son of a king,
First in battle, in hunting, in bower and hall
(Hark! how the wild swans sing!)

Five and twenty years, and my day was at morn,
My life at its June;
Oh, the desolate gloaming, dark and forlorn,
Wet skies and a waning moon!

When I rode down through the reeds by the riverbed,
Weary and faint were we—
The good steed stumbling and hanging the noble head,
The hounds going heavily.

We had been hunting since out in the eastern skies
The dawn fires began;
The stag was king of the herd—he was fearless and wise,
Thrice the age of a man.
We followed by hill, and we followed by forest and brake,
With many a bugle-blast;
And twice he swam through a river and breasted a lake,
While we followed fast.

But now, at the eve, none answered my bugle's call;
Lord and lady were gone
Back to the lighted board in the palace hall—
I was riding alone:

The stag had vanished;—a long, gold gleam in the west
The grey pools mirrored all chill,
And the shrieking water-fowl flew up from the nest,
The wind in the reeds sobbed shrill.

Dreary, dreary seemed the place and strange,
The moon was barred with the drifts,
And great cloud-mountains rose stormily, range after range,
And broke into rifts;
An eagle sailed overhead with a flapping wing
And a wild, long cry.
I stayed my horse, and I mused with much questioning,
In what strange country was I.

The hounds looked up in my face and shivered with dread,
Then cowered and were still;
Only the moon's wild face, like the face of the dead,
Looked up from each marsh-pool chill;

And the reeds and rushes shook and the wind wailed by,
The flat land stretched on each side,
Down to the grey, sad line of the boding sky,
The gold gleam flickered and died.

I said in my heart that the place was a place of bale,
The stag a spirit accursed—
But never my cheek did pale or my courage quail;
What any man dared, I durst.
I patted my trembling horse and spoke to each hound,
And turned me to go;
Hark to the song!—did it rise from the mere or the ground?—
The strange song, subtle and slow.

The voice was a woman's voice, all passionate fair,
Full of pleading and pain—
Singing, soaring, thrilling the earth and the air,
Falling like golden rain;
Drawing the heart from the breast, and an anguish of tears
From eyes that never had wept.

I stood as one of the dead, and, unknowing of fears,
My pulses a stillness kept.

I have heard, when the year and the bonny trees are in bud,
The thrush and the blackbird sing,
With a riotous passion of joy for the youth in their blood,
For the lovely promise of spring;
And the golden voices of radiant ladies I've heard,
And the harps at the board of the king;—
But never sang lady, or harp-string, or singing bird,
As this strange spirit did sing.

The voice fell down, and ceased, and the moon outshone;
Nothing to see or hear—
Only four grey swans drifting and drifting on
Over the windy mere.
Swans!—they were swans, yet I swear as I watched them there
Something I seemed to see:
A woman's snowy breast and the glint of gold hair.
Was it but wizardry?

And the winding-sheet of the mist covered moon and star,
As I rode from the evil place
Knowing not whither—as one who in dreams fareth far,
Heedless of time or space;—
Through the dead forest where fairies danced in a ring,
Dreaming still of the song,
Till the horse drew rein in the great courtyard of the king,
In the midst of the throng.

That night I was silent and strange at the feast and the dance,
My blood ran a-cold,
Nor warmed for the touch of soft hands, or the lovelitten glance
Of radiant eyes, or the gold
Of shadowing hair, or sweet lips troubled with pain,
Or cheeks like the dawn:
The wild voice sang and rang in my heart and brain;
I saw but the swans drift on.

And a fevered night and day went by like a snake
That is wounded sore.
At eve I stole by the forest and haunted brake,
Where lost winds wail evermore;
And something led me on by an unknown path
To the lonely mere.
No ripple stirred the water sluggish as death;
The sky was empty and drear.

Nor a breath in the reeds, nor the shriek of a startled bird—
Grey death hung over all;
And I would have lifted my voice, but some strange thing stirred
In the gaunt reeds, pallid and tall—
A strange thing, slimy and dark, and it plunged with a cry
To the water below.
The wan stream circled and widened; a night-bird whirred by;
My heart beat heavy and slow.

Oh! the passionate voice with its burden of pain;
There is death in the song;

She singeth of battle, of parting, of fair lovers slain,
Of years that are long;
And the wailing of winds o' wild nights in the song I can hear,
And the thunder of waves!—
Nay, I am old, I forget; it is many a year:
My feet are stumbling through graves.

The snows of a hundred winters are on my hair;
I was but a boy
When she sang my manhood away—Oh, its dawn was fair!—
And its strength and joy;
And crown, and kingdom, and all that maketh delight,
Were nothing to me,
Who only cared to follow the grey swans' flight
By mere, and river, and sea.

I am old and weary—the lost years vanished apace
While I wandered alone,
Forgotten of men, and another reigned in my place
On my father's throne.
My brows grew lined and withered, my blue eyes dim,
And the fair spun gold

Of hair and beard grew greyer; I stiffened in limb;
My life-blood ran cold.

Then came the Saint—ah! you know it, the rest of the tale!—
How at the sweet bell's song,
Far to the seaward something glimmered all pale,
Surf and breaker among;
And lo! the swans came drifting with broken wings,
The pinions dragging all slow,
And she was singing, singing—hark! how she sings
With a passion of woe!

'Twas her own death-song that she sang, as she drifted anear,
The stately throat of her bent;
There was blood on her snowy breast—I could see it clear—
She drifted weary and spent;
And the fierce waves caught them and broke on them, head and limb,
And flung them, dying and faint,
Under the gentle eyes that had waxèd dim,
At the feet of the Saint.

Then he to whom God had spoken bent in his place,
And laid on each brow
The life-giving waters;—to him be glory and grace
And heaven now!
At the water's touch, the power that the demon hath
Thralled Christ's children no more,
And lo! four human creatures, wounded to death,
Lay on the wild sea-shore.

And she, all broken, lay 'mid her golden hair,
The blood flowing free
From a terrible wound in her breast; but the face was fair—
The great eyes turned on me
Just for an instant. The good Saint knelt by her side,
His lips with pity made sweet,
And laid the long hair like the golden robe of a bride
Shrouding from head to feet.

Oh! sweet is her sleep in the earth that the Saint hath blest,
Where she shall not hear

The cruel waves; but the birds will sing her to rest,
And the voices of children dear;
And the wind will chant overhead and the grasses wave
All for her sake
When I die—I am old—I shall sleep by her side in the grave,
And shall not desire to wake.

SANCTUARY!

“Sanctuary! Sanctuary!
Good Lord Jesus, ope to see
Two tired travellers at Thy gate,
Wan and worn and desolate,
Who all night have wanderèd
On Death's weary waste,” she said.

“Sanctuary! Sanctuary!
Fair Thy lighted casements be:
Streams the rose-light through Thy door,
And the song rings evermore;
But outside the night is black,
And a foe is on our track.

“Sanctuary! Sanctuary!
I am weak, and weak is he;
Icy dews are on his head—
On his hair's young gold,” she said;
“And our eyes are blind with tears,
And our hearts are cold with fears.

“Sanctuary! Sanctuary!
Many a long mile travelled we—
I in life, and he in death,
Fared by many a lonely heath,
Seeking still this palace hall
Where Thou holdest festival.

“Sanctuary! Sanctuary!
Stirs the tender heart in Thee?
Lo! two weary souls that stand,
Heart in heart, and hand in hand,
Where the shadow thickeneth—
One in life, and one in death!

“Sanctuary! Sanctuary!
Still unweary pleaded she.

“Lo! Thine own lamb, at Thy gate,
Whom didst early seek and late,
Whom didst ransom with Thy Blood;—
Ope, Lord Jesus, dear and good!”

Sanctuary! Sanctuary!
Was the Bridegroom fair to see,
Sitting at the table-head
Where His shining Supper spread;
Fair the guests, all clad in white,
Each clear brow enaureoled bright.

Sanctuary! Sanctuary!
And the gold cup lifted He,
With His lovely eyes ashine,
Brake the bread, and poured the wine.
Sudden through the banquet-hall
Rang the sweet insistent call.

Sanctuary! Sanctuary!
“Lo! is one that calleth Me!”
Oh, the Bridegroom goeth fast
With a sudden tender haste,
Flings the gold door open wide—
Midnight, and the storm outside!

Sanctuary! Sanctuary!
“Thou hast tarried long,” saith He;
And His lamb He gathereth,
Weak and drenched with dews of death.
One hath turned her round and gone
Back to earth—alone, alone.

A NESTED BIRD.

All in the sweet, sweet April weather,
With flute, and trill, and glint of feather,
The russet bird doth build its nest;
The innocent heart beats wild and high
For thought of wee heads soon to lie
Below the mother's silken breast.

All through the lovely shine and shower
She dreameth in her leafy bower,
She broodeth while the others sing;
And lo! some happy dawn or even,
The baby things, as sweet as heaven,
Are nestled underneath her wing.

But May will wax and wane to June
Who lieth dead some lustrous noon:
Ah, birdie mine! one weary hour

Your little children rise and fly
On tender wings to the morning sky,
And leave you lonely evermore!

All in the sweet, sweet April rain,
With mother-love and mother-pain,
A brown bird nests within my heart;
And when the summer shows come on
Our nestlings fly to meet the dawn,
To some strange wondrous world apart.

These be my songs that rise and flee
Across the land, across the sea—
To what far unfamiliar shore?
My dim eyes watch their trembling flight,
Till each wild wing is lost to sight:
The distance holds them evermore.

And sometimes one will fail and fall;
“O little one, come back!” I call,
“My heart and I have room for thee.”
I gather up the trembling thing,
My wee bird with its broken wing—
My home-bird evermore to be.

And sometimes I shall hear of one,
When many a day hath come and gone,
That hath found rest and shelter sure;
That shall make music fair and fine
For some more lonely heart than mine,
While sunless winter days endure.

And in my heart through many a Spring
The happy mother-bird doth sing,
Through many a winter wan and grey:
In Summer fulness, Autumn pain,
My golden-throat with silver strain
Doth charm pale sorrow's tears away.

O little flowers! that blow and bud,
That dance and play, by croft and wood,
Your breath makes sweet a world of pain;
Arising from the sad earth's face,
Makes incense that shall find more grace
Than this bird's tiny loving strain.

O happy birds! that sing and sing
Down all the windy ways of Spring,
How pure and clear your voices be!

But this bird's love-song, thin and small,
Like violet's breath, or blackbird's call,
Makes glad my wintry heart and me.

Alas! and if, some day of woe,
My heart and I should wake to know
That we were silent, left forlorn,
Our house unswept, ungarnished—
Our bonny song-bird being dead,
Or flown to never more return;

My heart and I would never rise
To look the new life in the eyes—
The pale life with the dear soul fled;
We would lie very still and mute,
Most like an ancient shattered lute
Whereon the grey years' dusts are shed.

And through the silence and the gloom,
One day sweet Death would surely come,
His grey wings sweeping with no sound;
He hath a clear face like a star;
His lips and eyes most tender are;
His kind hand healeth many a wound.

And he, perchance, with pity fair,
Would makr where this sad heart lay bare,
Would reach and lift it with no word:
Would spread his wings and sail away,
And, in a strange new April day,
Would give the nest its singing-bird.

THE DEAD MOTHER.

I had been buried a month and a year,
The clods on my coffin were heavy and brown,
The wreaths at my headstone were withered sere,
No feet came now from the little town;
I was forgotten, six months or more,
And a new bride walked on my husband's floor.

Below the dew and the grass-blades lying,
On All Souls' Night, when the moon is cold,
I heard the sound of my children crying,
And my hands relaxed from their quiet fold;
Through mould and death-damp it pierced my heart,
And I woke in the dark with a sudden start.

I cast the coffin-lid off my face,
From mouth and eyelids I thrust the clay,

And I stood upright from the sleeper's place,
And down through the graveyard I took my way.
The frost on the rank grass shimmered like snow,
And the ghostly graves stood white in a row.

As I went down through the little town
The kindly neighbours seemed sore afeard,
For Lenchen plucked at the cross in her gown,
And Hans said, “Jesu,” under his beard,
And many a lonely wayfarer
Crossed himself, with a muttered prayer.

I signed the holy sign on my brows,
And kissed the crucifix hid in my shroud,
As I reached the door of my husband's house
The children's clamour rose wild and loud;
And swiftly I came to the upper floor,
And oped, in the moonlight, the nursery door.

No lamp or fire in the icy room;
'Twas cold, as cold as my bed in the sod.
My two boys fought in that ghostly gloom
For a mildewed crust that a mouse had gnawed;
“Oh, mother, mother!” my Gretchen said,
“We have been hungry since you were dead.”

But what had come to my tender one,
My babe of little more than a year?
Her limbs were cold as my breast of stone,
But I hushed her weeping with—“Mother is here.”
My children gathered about my knees,
And stroked with soft fingers my draperies.

They did not fear me, my babies sweet.
I lit the fire in the cheerless stove,
And washed their faces, and hands, and feet,
And combed the golden fleeces I love,
And brought them food, and drink, and a light,
And tucked them in with a last “Good night.”

Then softly, softly I took my way,
Noiselessly over the creaking stair,
Till I came to the room where their father lay,
And dreamed of his new love's yellow hair;
And I bent and whispered low in his ear,
“Our children were cold and hungry, dear.”

Then he awoke with a sob at his heart,
For he thought of me in the churchyard mould,
And we went together—we, far apart—
Where our children lay in the moonlight cold;

And he kissed their faces, and wept and said—
“Oh, dead love, rest in your quiet bed.

“To-morrow shall these be warm and glad,
With food and clothing, and light and wine,
And brave toy-soldiers for each little lad,
And Gretchen shall nurse a dolly so fine;
But, baby, baby, what shall we do?
For only the mother can comfort you.”

I heard the break in his voice, and went—
'Twould soon be cock-crow; the dawn was near—
And I laid me down with a full content
That all was well with my children dear;
And my baby came in a month or less—
She was far too young to be motherless.

THE SECOND SIGHT.

In Belgard Orchard, old and grey,
You said the fairies danced at their play
When all the world is lovely with May,
And the apple-boughs are in rose and pearl:
The borned moon hangs in the willow tree,
And the owl is hooting so eerily,
But fairy revels were blithe to see,
With shimmer of satin and glint of curl.

There are no fairies, sister dear;
Only the white moon shining here
On last year's mosses, yellow and sere,
And a donkey sleeps by the lichened wall.
But now with your lour-leafed shamrock's might,
And your velvety fingers, cold and white,
Touch mine eyes that I see aright
The fairies holding their fairy ball.

Oh, there's a lady tall as a span,
With the fairest face since the world began,
And she smiles on the daintiest gentleman
With a velvet coat and a sword by his side;
His ruffles are all of jewels and lace,
And he kisses her hand with the courtliest grace,
And even he looks to her winsome face:
I think the pair be bridegroom and bride.

On a purple toadstool she's thronèd high,
With a beetle's back for her footstool nigh,
O'erhead is a scarlet butterfly
With wings spread wide for her canopy;
Her bridal robe of the diamond dew,
Where opal and amber and rose look through,
Shimmers down to her sapphire shoe;
Her hair is lighted by fireflies three.

On greater toadstools, yellow and red,
I ween is a dainty banquet spread,
With wine of cowslips and beechen bread
And honey-dew from the honey-bee;
And fairies clad in the gold and rose,
With light wings hued like the silver snows,

And long-lashed eyes where the violet blows,
Dance out in a ring from the apple tree.

Sister learned in the fairy lore,
Tell me the story you told before,
Of the fairy Queen and Prince Miraflore,
Whose loves went wrong as a mortal's will.
Over your cradle so long ago
A fairy sang in the white moon's flow,
And kissed your eyes and your brows that know,
And touched your lips with their elfin skill.

Sister dear, is the pain set right;
And is this the feast of their wedding-night?
Your face is pale, and your eyes burn bright:
Oh, leave not us for your fairy kin!
The dancers dance, and the violins soar;
But hear you not from our cottage door
Our father calling your name, Asthore,
And our mother sing as her fingers spin?

THREE VIRTUES.

If one had only Faith,
Eyes to see, ears to hear,
All things were light and sweet to bear,
Even death:
All dark things were made bright and clear,
Ah me, even death!
If one had only Faith,
And not an empty breath!

If one had only Hope,
To lift one's eyes, and see
Beyond the murk and misery,
The dawn's gates ope,
The hills stand everlastingly;
If one had only Hope,
To look beyond, and see
The meetings there shall be!

If one had only Love,
To turn in tears and pain,
And trust Him with His own again,
Ungrudging thereof—
His own for whose sake He was slain
On yon grey hill above;
If one had only Love,
And not a show thereof!

100

THE FATE OF KING FEARGUS.

There was a King in Eire where the silver rivers flow,
Two thousand years ago;
Oh, young was he, and tall was he, right comely to see,
And strong as giants be!
With grey eyes like the eagle, cheeks mellowed like the South,
And the love-locks on his shoulders, the frank smile on his mouth;
All clad in rose and saffron, most like the sun shone he,
This King in golden Eire long ago.

And the Queen who sat beside him at the council and the board,
Meet lady for her lord,
With her gold hair falling free from her shoulder to her knee,
And her brown eyes velvety,

101

Where love-fancies lay a-dream in the shadow of her hair:
Oh, mystic, lovely were those eyes like starry waters fair;
Her cheeks were warm June roses, her red lips, curved tenderly,
Uttered never a cruel word.

She was like a swaying lily, tall and slender on a mere;
Her voice was low and clear;
She stood up among her ladies like the moon that stands alone,
With no rival near her throne:
In her robes of paly-green, where the white-flamed gems did meet,
And her mantle's shimmering silver floating softly to her feet,
She was like the Queen of Fairyland, who many a year agone
Stole the King's son to be her lover dear.

But my fair King went to battle—Oh, bitter woe and pain!—
And with many a knight was slain;

102

And my Queen, when told the tidings, her face was like the dead,
But never a tear she shed.
She rose up like a Queen, and shook her golden hair adown,
And donned her royal robes of state, and wore her royal crown;
She must hold the land together for the baby prince, she said,
Who would come when the year was on the wane.

Now, none might wear the high King's crown who was not strong and tall,
And shapely fair withal;
For this people worshipped beauty, and had willed its royal race
To be lovely in the face:
So all that glowing summer-tide, amid the gold-brown corn,
The reapers hailed the beauty of the young Prince, still unborn,
The warriors at their jousts, and the damsels in the hall,
And the hunters riding down the forest ways.

103

Were the evil powers offended—some lean witch cowled with grey?
Mavrone! and who shall say?
When the land's hope came with winter, a strange, disfigured face
Marred the shapely body's grace.
A hideous elf-faced babe he was, with grey mouth scarred and drawn,
And the furrowed skin as loathly as red brands had been thereon;
But the eyes, beneath the blanched lids, beamed with mild and gentle ray,
As though a sweet soul from their depths did gaze.

The Queen, grown blind with dying, to her white breast gatherèd
The small, misshapen head;
And so drifting to Death's harbour, she was smiling wearily
For the babe she might not see:
But he was warm upon her arm, and safe in heart and limb:
Now, mother, take your babe with you, for life will torture him—

104

Will break him on her fiery wheel; you look so glad being dead.
Alone the Queen went drifting out to sea.

Then spake the Druid high priest, and he raised his withered hand
With a gesture of command,
“In the watches of the midnight, as I mused all wakefully,
A strange voice spake to me.
What it said brooks no revealing; this only may I tell—
The boy is dowered with wisdom great, and grace unspeakable—
The gift he is of the high Gods to this most favoured land,
Which, he being King, will smile from sea to sea.”

As he ceased his face grew shadowed; for some pain he groaned aloud,
Unheard of all the crowd;
And thrice he touched the piteous babe, and shook his hoary head,
To his own heart whisperèd—

105

“Alas, the mystic warning voice, it brake off with a wail,
And the pictures on the dark that made my spirit faint and quail,
What did they mean, the wailing cries, the shadow, and the shroud?
I cannot read the signs aright,” he said.

Then he turned him from his musing. In the great courtyard without,
The beggars' rabble rout
Took the cry for the new King, and the people cried again,
Beacon-fires sprang up amain;
And he sent the royal heralds through the country, riding hard,
Proclaiming of the kingly babe, and how his grace was marred,
Of the vision and its message. “Amen!” the people shout;
“May the Gods be praised, and long their gift may reign!”

106

Twenty years and more had waned and waxen since the day was here
When the Queen lay on her bier,
And my Prince was King of all the land, in lusty manhood's prime,
Glad in youth's most golden time;
The bravest King, the gentlest King the land had ever known,
His rule built up on blessings, love guarding safe his throne,
A brother to his knights-in-arms, his people's father dear—
The bards sang out his praise in many a rhyme.

They praised him with gold harpings, they praised him with love-words,
Singing clearly like the birds;
And they crowded thickly to his Court—he loved all minstrelsy,
And all learned men loved he.
The land, beneath his kindly sway, grew prosperous and great;
Did a beggar seek for justice?—my King sat in the gate;

107

Till oppression ceased, and strife was dead, and none drew out their swords,
Save in battle with the whole land's enemy.

And well the people loved him—on the sea-shore or the street
Would fall to kiss his feet;
And the women sang his praises to the children at their knees,
For their babies' lullabies.
His heart was like a lion's heart for deeds of chivalry,
And steadfast as his own great hound that loved so loyally;
Ah, woe, and as a woman's might, was sensitive and sweet,
And strong to dare as any man's heart is.

Ah, woe, the tenderest heart alive, my King he never knew
The thing I tell to you,
Of how his face was loathly; so long the secret slept,
No lightest whisper crept

108

Anear him in his boyhood; of the high priest 'twas ordained,
Who loved the boy, and taught him all wherein a King is trained:
If he knew it, he had ne'er been King—the generoussouled and true,—
And so many a year his life its gladness kept.

Would a damsel busk her bravely then, for feasting in the hall,
For the dearest knight of all,
She might out unto the lakeside, and where no ripples are,
See her own face, like a star.
These were no days of mirrors, and the King was guarded well
From the knowledge of the secret no mortal tongue dare tell;
So he took his youth's day brightly, chased the deer, and cast the ball,
And all pain, and woe, and trouble seemèd far.

But sometimes he saddened vaguely, when a bright brown babe in arms
Shrank with weeping and alarms,

109

As he rode a-down the woodland path, with words of kindly cheer
To a peasant mother near:
And on such a day his sad heart heard the birds sing mournfully,
A chant of pain and boding the wind's voice seemed to be;
Where others saw but wind-flecked skies, he watched black clouds in swarms,
And the crying of the storm-fiend came all drear.

Ah, wirrasthrue! Love wounded him; he languished for a maid,
But she shrank as sore afraid
When he would urge his wooing, and she fled him with a cry
Whenever he came nigh.
My true heart marvelled sadly—till, one dark day of fate,
He saw within his dear love's eyes a look of shrinking hate.
The fierce shock shook his heart like death; he turned away his head,
And went out from the place all silently.

110

(Hark! the moaning of the wind draws near, the weeping of the rain),
Now I think his heart was slain.
He took his gallant steed from stall, and rode most furiously,
Where was never an eye to see—
By dead forest-paths unknown to men, by many a tangled brake,
And haunted mound, and fairy rath, and eerie pool and lake,
Where the water-spirit called to him, and the wood-sprite cried again,
Till in the west the sun sank luridly.

And he was fevered with his pain—no friendly aid might come
To save him from his doom.
While yet the west was red, he saw a little mere, all lone,
And lucently it shone;
He would slake his thirst, and by its side rest weary brain and limb.
He bent him o'er the accursèd pool—the still depths mirrored him;

111

With a stricken cry he looked but once to the dreary skies a-gloom,
And fell down to meet the face that was his own.

His steed came home at daybreak, and they sought him far and near,
Through many a hopeless year:
Though the birds sang out the story, and the wood-sprite cried in vain,
And the spirit of the rain;
And the maids of mist and mountain knew the grey pool where he lay,
And sometimes was his wild cry heard at dawn or close of day;
But they never knew, his people, who in war and famine drear
Prayed the Gods to give them back their King again.

112

AUTUMNAL.

In September
The land grows gold with miles of waving wheat:
Sad heart, dost thou remember
How tall and fair the green spears stood in May?
Alack! the merry morn that might not stay;
'Tis sunset now, and night comes, grey and fleet.

In September
Droopeth the red fruit in the orchard close:
Sad heart, dost thou remember
How the boughs bloomed auroral in the May,
Waxed paler, flushed rose-redder day by day?
For these we shall have Winter with his snows.

In September
Chirps the bright robin with his breast a-fire:
Sad heart, dost thou remember

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How the thrush trilled her love-song in the May,
And the bold blackbird sang when eve was grey?
Silence hath fallen on all the tuneful choir.

In September
Redly the trees like wind-blown cressets burn:
Sad heart, dost thou remember
How the leaves gleamed transparent in the May,
And danced against the sky in happy play?
The hearth grows cold, the fires to ashes turn.

In September
The green young world is waxen old and sere:
Sad heart, dost thou remember
The golden breath the cowslips had in May;
How the breeze waved each scented hawthorn spray?
Our year goes out, and we go with the year.

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AT DAYBREAK.

There came a voice at midnight through the rain,
The knocking of a hand upon my door;
“Open, my heart!” the sweet voice pleaded sore;
“Open; how long wilt thou deny my pain?”
And I but stirred, and turned to dreams again,
Heavy with fumes of poppy and mandragore,
And while all night tempestuous winds did roar,
Broken with tears the voice cried on in vain.

Now I awake at dawn and understand;
“Down, thou wild heart; He yet may wait,” I say;
And I unbar the door with trembling hand:
Only the rose-gold hills that front the day,
Only dark leagues on leagues of forest-land:
So I am grown a-sudden old and grey.

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DREAMING.

Once, in a dream-hour's ghostly glimmering light,
One set her face for her love's dwelling-place;
With flying feet, and heart that beat apace,
The wan dream-soul went out into the night;
Adown pale paths she passed in breathless flight,
Nor noted how the dear, familiar ways
Were stranger grown in this sad, strange moon's rays:
Lo! and at last her love's home came in sight.

Yea, at his door she knocked and cried till morn,
And moaned around his house, and knocked again,
Calling on love's dear name; but love was dead;
Empty was all, and desolate, and forlorn,
Lost like her heart; and still the weary rain,
And the wind's voices wailing overhead.

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ST. FRANCIS TO THE BIRDS.

Little sisters, the birds,
We must praise God, you and I—
You, with songs that fill the sky;
I, with halting words.

All things tell His praise,
Woods and waters thereof sing,
Summer, Winter, Autumn, Spring,
And the nights and days.

Yea, and cold and heat,
And the sun and stars and moon,
Sea with her monotonous tune,
Rain and hail and sleet,

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And the winds of heaven,
And the solemn hills of blue,
And the brown earth and the dew,
And the thunder even,

And the flowers' sweet breath,—
All things make one glorious voice;
Life with fleeting pains and joys,
And our brother, Death.

Little flowers of air,
With your feathers soft and sleek,
And your bright brown eyes and meek,
He hath made you fair.

He hath taught to you
Skill to weave in tree and thatch
Nests where happy mothers hatch
Speckled eggs of blue.

And hath children given:
When the soft heads overbrim
The brown nests, then thank ye Him
In the clouds of heaven.

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Also in your lives
Live His laws who loveth you.
Husbands, be ye kind and true;
Be homekeeping, wives—

Love not gossiping;
Stay at home and keep the nest;
Fly not here and there in quest
Of the newest thing.

Live as brethren live;
Love be in each heart and mouth;
Be not envious, be not wroth,
Be not slow to give.

When ye build the nest,
Quarrel not o'er straw or wool;
He who hath be bountiful
To the neediest.

Be not puffed or vain
Of your beauty or your worth,
Of your children or your birth,
Or the praise you gain.

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Eat not greedily:
Sometimes for sweet mercy's sake,
Worm or insect spare to take;
Let it crawl or fly.

See ye sing not near
To our church on holy day,
Lest the human-folk should stray
From their prayers to hear.

Now depart in peace:
In God's name I bless each one;
May your days be long i' the sun
And your joys increase.

And remember me,
Your poor brother Francis, who
Loveth you, and thanketh you
For this courtesy.

Sometimes when ye sing,
Name my name, that He may take
Pity for the dear song's sake
On my shortcoming.

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BIRTH TO BURIAL.

Oh, when was the King Christ born,
And where might it be?
Between the midnight and the morn,
When ghostly shadows flee.
His palace a stable was,
His throne His mother's knee,
And cradled in the sweet dry grass
Of a manger was He.

But come to manhood's fair estate,
What crown might He wear?
What courtiers on His footsteps wait,
On some high palace stair?
What throne? The Cross was stark and base;
Grey thorns were on His hair;
His courtiers smote Him on the face,
The piteous face and fair.

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Now take the dead King from His throne,
In state He shall lie;
His garden tomb is chill and lone
Below an ashen sky:
His mother's face hid in His hair,
There's never a moan or cry;
Only a tall white angel there
Will wring his hands and sigh.

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IN THE MAY.

Oh, my swallows! hasten up from the South,
For young May walks knee-deep in the Irish meadows,
And living gold is her hair, and the breath of her mouth
Is delight, and her eyes are starring the happy shadows;
The honey heart o' the cowslip lies at her feet,
The faint-flushed buds of the hawthorn trail o'er her bosom,
And the floating gown that covers her, fragrant and sweet,
Is the drifted rose and snow of the apple-blossom.

Fair are the passionate skies of the southern land,
Blue beyond dreams, and a great sun hangeth all golden;

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Fair are the hills that are sceptred kings, as they stand
With the gold on their brows and their ermine mantles unfolden,
And the purple robe to their feet, and the death on their eyes;
And fair the vales where the sunny rivers are singing:
There are the vines, and the olives silver of guise,
And overhead are the white doves wheeling and winging.

Oh, but our Irish woods are lovely to-day!
The trees are young knights, in whose helms the proud plumes quiver;
Singing lustily goeth the wind on his way;
The voice of a naiad chants in the reeds by the river;
A young wind bloweth the dancing grasses aside;
On baby leaves at their play is a white sun streaming;
And down from the hills the rain comes veiled as a bride,
With dripping feet, and her silver mantle all gleaming.

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Surely the nightingale, under a southern moon,
Singeth the deathless tale of her passion divinely;
But oh, the innocent joy of the blackbird's tune,
And the liquid trill of the thrush as she carols finely!
Whistle, my blackbird, out in the orchard croft;
Whistle, my gold-throat, clear as the viols of heaven;
Answer, my thrush, with your silver fluting and soft
Make faint the pale translucent air of the even!

Long of coming! our king-cup meadows are gold,
And the daisies dance in the balmy wind that is blowing;
I hear the bleating of young lambs free from the fold;
The shadows fly where the spears of the wheat are showing;
Soon will the lilac open, waxen and sweet,
And laburnum's torch flare out in the golden weather;
And oh, the joy of our summer were incomplete
Wanting the flash and gleam of the swallow's feather.

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Hasten, hasten! over the leagues of foam;
Flee over yeasty seas, over low land and high land,
And answer, swallows, answer true when ye come—
In all the lands is a land as lovely as my land?
Up from the southward floats with the breast of a dove
A silver cloud to our misty skies that are summer's,
And lo! the flash of the happy wings that we love,
The wheel and whir of our swallows, our dear latecomers.

126

DEATH AND THE MAN.

THE MAN.

I know the gifts you bring—
With your awful veilèd brows—
A pall for covering;
A deep and narrow house,
Where many a creeping thing
With the worms shall hold carouse.

I know you, as you stand,
For a fleshless skeleton,
With an hour-glass in your hand,
And its seconds all but run:
Oh, a sad life with its sand
Runs out quickly and is done!

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Friend, unveil your face to me,
For I fear you not at all—
Fear no horror I can see,
Who have thirsted for your call,
With sick longing, patiently,
Hearkened for your footstep's fall.

As the young bird on a day
Left the egg's dishonoured shell,
Sunned his wings in bloomy May,
Piped most sweet his joy to tell:
But the shell was cast away;
On a dunghill it befell.

So my body earth to earth
Shall return for evermore;
While my soul, in second birth,
Shall spread sunny wings and soar
To a new May's golden mirth,
Far beyond the salt sea's shore.

DEATH.

As you will it, look on me!
Am I loathly, terrible,

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A grisly shape to see—
I, the angel Azrael?
In mine own fair far country,
My brothers love me well.

My brothers hold me fair;
In mine own far radiant Heaven,
By God's feet, my place is there,
Where the spirits who are seven,
With flame-lilies in their hair,
Bow the brow from dawn to even.

Yea, I sit below the throne,
Weaving starry robe and wreath
While the marvellous years go on:
“Now, my messenger,” He saith,
“Lo, the soul I made Mine own,
Bring it home to me, sweet Death!”

Oh, the hills were like clear glass,
When I left mine own country—
The sun all white gold was;
But the shades from greenwood tree
Made cool places on the grass;
And your dead love spake to me.

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She knows you will come home
When the pale sunset is sweet,
Sailing o'er the ocean foam;
She is listening for the beat
Of my wings that tell we come:
Nay—your hands about my feet!

Oh, I lift you up heart-high,
On my breast I take your head;
We are flying, you and I,
Past the moon, and the sun's bed.
Do you fear me as we fly?
Is it bitter to be dead?

130

THE SICK PRINCESS.

She sickened first three years ago and more,
The Northland's Princess, whiter than its snows,
Lost peace and rest, and still the sickness grows;
Her hungry heart grows hungrier yet and sore.
Now she is walking up and down her bower,
With the unresting step her women fear,
And her unbound hair shimmering soft and clear,
Like sunset through a shower.

Outside the peacocks on the terraces
Flash to the sun their green and purple eyes,
And doves are wheeling, and the dragon-flies;
The garden all one bower of beauty is—
So still, so still, the sun dreams in the blue—
A midday silence brooding over all;
The city's bells sound faint and musical;
The leaves thirst for the dew

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The Roman de la Rose lies on the ground,
Face downward, as she cast it yesterday;
Her palfrey calls with far, impatient neigh;
Her hawk goes with his jesses still unbound,
Though kites fly low, and trembling doves are mute.
Her needle rusts in her embroidery;
Her half-done missal fades, her paints are dry;
The strings snap of her lute.

Her women whisper of her grief apart;
And Roland, her tall hound, with heavy sigh,
Licks her unheeding hand as she goes by;
She answers not; her eyes are with her heart
In distant lands. “O tarrying love,” she saith,
“O love, that only dreams have given to me,
Ride on, ride fast, lest one should outstrip thee,
Whose stately name is Death.”

At eve, when Hesper dawns, she will go down
White as a folded lily in the cold,
Yet soft and smiling in her gown of gold,
Although her brows are weary 'neath her crown;

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And at the banquet look so fair and young,
That hearts will leap and laughter ripple there,
Forgetting how, above her golden hair,
Death's night-black wings are hung.

And must she die? I think not, for some morn
She will steal out in peasant maid's disguise,
With new life stirring in her heart and eyes,
And only Roland following through the corn;
Warned of a dream, she will lay down her state,
And crown, and kingdom for love's blessed sake,
And travel with bare feet through bush and brake,
By wood, and thorpe, and town,

And beg her bread like any beggar-maid,
And drink at streams that gather heaven's blue,
And make of them her bath and mirror, too;
Her bed the moss within the greenwood's shade;
Till the birds know her, and the hares are fain
To nestle to her with their coats of fur,
And the old sickness is forgot of her,
So glad and strong again.

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And so in some rich dawning she shall hear
One singing like God's wingèd heavenly folk,
And see one coming clad in russet cloak,
And know fulfilled her dream of many a year:
A Trouvère with a dusky southern face—
Nay, but a king's son in a Trouvère's guise—
And each shall know the other's heart and eyes,
For each a resting-place.

Oh, I can see them—she with yellow hair
Still jewelled with the diamonds from the spring,
Her eyes afraid with joy or some sweet thing,
Her hands clasped softly, as in suppliant prayer;
And he who sought her over seas and lands,
Coming with all his bearded face aflame,
And his lips murmuring still her lovely name,
And eager outstretched hands.

In the enchanted forest let them stay,
Where the bright birds flash by like living flowers,
And the ripe fruit hangs ruddy in the bowers,
And the years go like one delicious day;

134

Where summer lives and nightingales sing long,
A fairy palace waits with open door,
And a green sea beats on a golden shore
With low monotonous song.

135

THE IRISH HILLS.

I look unto mine own blue hills,
That gaze across the land,
And all their peace my hot heart stills;
Yea, I begin to understand
How beautiful exceedingly
The everlasting hills shall be.

“The everlasting hills”—it seems
The name to call these by;
Oh, my fair hills, as blue as dreams
Of a passionate Italian sky;
Blue as the violet fields that spread
Girt with pale primrose overhead!

Yester eve they were silver-grey,
Soft as a young dove's breast;
And rose and amber hues have they
When the sun goes in the saffron west;

136

And all the vales are purple-black,
Below the paling day-star's track.

I know all tender shades on them,
I love them in all moods—
Kingly robe and diadem,
Or mist that like a grey bird broods;
Their vapoury clouds that sail and glide,
The rain that clothes them like a bride.

My hills are like great angels,
Whose wide wings sweep the stars,
And peace for their evangels
Cried clear across earth's fumes and jars;
My hills stand all unchangingly,
While man's short days go by, go by.

And here they see the green woods stand,
And there they gaze to sea,
Where the white ships glide from the strand,
And the waves moan perpetually;
With De Profundis on their lips
For some who go to the sea in ships.

137

The sails drop o'er the verge o' the world,
Like lonely birds that fly,
In the autumn days, with wings unfurled,
Seeking Summer that will not die;
Sailing down to the Southern Star,
Where purple Summer islands are.

Sad is the sea that speaks to me
Of parting and of pain,
Of some that go all hopefully,
And never see their land again.
Ah me, o'er many a lonely grave,
The desolate long sea-grasses wave.

Give me mine own hills, and my woods
That toss their branches high,
Within whose dusky solitudes
The thrushes sing all innocently;
The blackbird pipes at dawn and even,
And the lark chants at the gates of heaven.

138

IN A GARDEN.

I know a garden, lone and grey,
Winds are wandering there all day;
Sweet hands laid there long ago
Seeds of all the flowers that blow.

Sweet hands fenced it round with care,
Planned and shaped each bright parterre,
Made it fruitful, made it good,
Yea, with dew of red heart's blood!

Rained the rains, and laughed the sun,
Still the patient hands toiled on:
Grew the garden all one plot
Roses and forget-me-not.

139

There, like angels carved in stone,
Silver-winged, the lilies shone;
Heart-strings fashioned as a lute
With the music standing mute.

Pansies, dusk and velvety,
And all other flowers that be,
Raised their innocent eyes and smiled,
All within my garden wild.

In the midst, the water clear
Of a little happy mere
Laughed to heaven in baby glee;
Sang one brown bird goldenly.

Oh, but all the place was fair!
Sweetest eyes that ever were
Gazed across the bowers and through,
Saw no other thing to do.

Then the Master to His side
Called one: “Wilt thou here abide?
With My agony and sweat,
Toiling in the noon-day heat,

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“I have made it fair for thee:
Keep it fair for thee and Me.
Wends my pathway far away;
I will come another day.”

As He turned, and set His face
From the innocent garden ways,
Sang my bird in leafage dim
Lustily in praise of Him.

Grew the time from green to gold,
Summer's treasures manifold
Lay upon the lap of June—
Overflowed her full hands soon.

In a starlight, strange and sweet,
Who comes by with bleeding feet?
On His weary golden head
Dank and cold the dews are shed.

“I am wounded sore,” He saith,
And a sob is in His breath;
“I have borne a grievous load,
Travelled on a thorny road.

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“I am weary nigh to death,
And Mine own are cold,” He saith;
“In yon hamlet by the shore
I have knocked at many a door.

“I have called all night,” He saith,
“But the village slumbereth;
Lights are out and all asleep—
None My weary watch to keep;

“Dark it is, and night-dews fall.
But I know a banquet-hall,
Steeped in warm and radiant air
In a palace past compare.

“I will seek that fair abode,
Rest Me from My weary load;
Nay,” He saith, “but here should be
Garden bowers that bloom for Me.

“Here a bird in olden time,
Sang from Matin song to Prime,
And his pipe was clearer far
Than the lutes and viols are.

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“Lilies angel-fair of face
Stood about a peaceful place,
With their moon-pale wings and sweet,
Folding them from head to feet.

“While they dreamed of Me,” He saith,
“Roses praised Me with their breath;
Laughed a small mere goldenly
With a tender joy for me.

“I will rest Me here,” He saith,
“Ere I cross yon lonely heath;
Sweet 'twill be an hour to go
Through the bowers that love Me so.”

So He gladly turns aside;
Yonder swings the wicket wide,
Enters in—oh, sad surprise!
Wreck and ruin meet His eyes.

Everywhere His swift gaze goes,
Broken lily, dying rose;
Thorns o'ercreep the dark earth's face,
In this strange unwholesome place.

143

Strong the nettles, rank and tall,
Poppy flaunteth over all,
Deadly nightshade hath o'ergrown
Sweetest flowers were ever blown.

Dead the bird, or singing is
In some brighter bower than this;
Goes the Master on and on,
With His fair face strange and wan.

With a tremor and a thrill
Cometh morn across the hill;
Rose-gold from her clear lamp shed
Falleth on the Master's head.

Streameth very still and clear
On the waters of the mere,
Grown a marish choked with weeds;
Tall and slender stand the reeds:

Tall and slender and forlorn,
Frail against the risen morn.
Lo! across the radiant mists,
Wind that bloweth where it lists,

144

Taketh them with sudden breath,
O'er each reed-mouth murmureth,
With a mighty quivering,
Hark! the reeds begin to sing.

With a sudden wailing cry,
With a grieving melody
Strangely plaintive, shrill, and clear,
In the golden atmosphere:

Passionate, as though one should take
Some lost heart grown like to break;
Wild with woe, and loss, and love,
And should make a lute thereof;

With his mind on music bent,
Should lean o'er his instrument,
Striking out some deathless strain,
From the straitened heart-strings' pain

So the wind leans over these,
While his fingers touch the keys,
Striking clear wild notes and thin,
From the breaking hearts within.

145

One who standeth by the mere,
Bendeth very low to hear;
Flusheth the wan mere to flame,—
Hush! the sad reeds sob His name.

These had held some memory dim,
In their lonely hearts, of Him—
Some old echo it might be
Of the lost bird's melody.

Wanes the music, ebbs and dies;
Grave and pitying are His eyes,
And His lips grown tenderer,
For that desolate music fair.

So He turns, and takes His way
Down the garden flushed with day;
Now, who lieth in the dust?
He who hath betrayed his trust.

Fevered sleep doth hold him bound,
With dead wreaths his brows are crowned,
Fumes of last night's revelries
Bring strange phantoms to his eyes.

146

But he riseth hastily
With a sudden anguished cry,
Falleth at his Master's feet;
Shrinketh from His gaze so sweet—

Shrinketh from the pallid face;
Casts his arms in mute embrace
Round the blessed feet, that bleed
From the thorny road they tread;

Lays his shameful face to them,
Kisseth wild the garment's hem;
Sayeth nought, his lips are dumb,
For his shame no words will come:

Cowereth he in woe and dread.
Lo! a kind hand on his head;
Lo! a sad voice sayeth low,
“Look at Me, nor fear Me so.

“Here one thought of Me,” He saith,
“Hath remained 'mid sin and death:
Sing thy frail reeds silverly
Unforgetful songs for Me.

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“Shall Mine enemy despoil
This, made fruitful by My toil,
Watered with My blood and sweat,
Working in the noontide heat?

“Nay, indeed, it shall not be.
Come, dear heart! wilt strive with Me
Till thy garden desolate
Hath regained its old estate;

“Till the lone, death-stricken bowers
Flush with fruit and flame with flowers,
And a new bird wings its way
Here, in some fair future day,

“Who shall learn with patient meed
From the wailing of each reed,
How to sing so goldenly,
That My heart shall gladdened be,

“When, grown weary, sore distressed,
I shall come for welcome rest,
To the lovely bower apart,
Of Mine own beloved's heart?”

148

AFTER HARVEST.

I know not if its sun rose bright and fair,
That early August day whose name is writ
On the heart's tablet, searing, burning it;
Only the flush of life was everywhere:
But in its dawning grey
One lay a-dying, half the world away.

Alas! and here the young birds in the nest
Stirred, and, half-dreaming, one began to sing;
The long gold shafts fell thick o'er head and wing,
And made a jewel of the robin's breast:
But as the day grew gold,
Death kissed a singing mouth, and left it cold.

149

Alack! and here the rosy mists would creep
Down the blue peaks that looked against the sun,
And the tall poppies bloomed and burned anon
In the wide wheat the reapers came to reap:
Death stroked a young gold head,
Whispering low how sweet 'tis to be dead!

Still flushed our garden in the saffron dawn;
The rose's heart was dreaming of the bee,
Where the south wind was breathing spicily,
And the long shadows streaked the dewy lawn:
The eyes Death closed that morn
Were like wet violets when the spring is born.

Oh, good-bye, joy: for all the summer's done.
The year's at death—and many a sweet thing's slain;
Good-bye to bird-songs and the waving grain.
But you, whose going withered our life's sun,
Out of your silence, say
Must we fare far before we find your May?

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NOEL.

The holly and ivy let us bring,
And weave it with the thorn,
To make a crown for the greatest King
That ever yet was born.
The snow's a-flower in the garden bed,
The frost is in the tree,
But holly hath his berries red,
And ivy's green to see;
And pluck the Christmas roses bright
And the pagan mistletoe;
For the fairest Babe is born to-night
The world shall ever know.

There's many a one is wending by
To see the new King's face,
To kiss His hand for fealty,
To pray, “Long live His Grace!”

151

Lo! country lads that keep the sheep
Upon yon bleak hillside;
The sheep are following half asleep,
The dog walks wondering-eyed:
And these are kings, but lesser far
Than Him we go to see;
And yon's a great and flaming star
That travels fast as we.

So fare we to the palace door
That standeth open wide;
The snows drift on the earthen floor,
The night-wind wails inside.
Are kings in Jewry and in Rome
That sleep in beds of gold,
With ermine like the white sea-foam
To wrap them from the cold;
But oh! what manner of king is this
That keeps such state forlorn?
The King of the Poor the new King is,
And in a stable born.

Oh! this is but a lowly Child,
Though beautiful to see;

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And here is but His mother mild,
Who rocks Him on her knee;
And here is but a grey-beard man,
And ass and oxen by.
King Babe, no taller than a span,
Accept our fealty:
We bring Thee here a Christmas wreath;
Some day the thorns shall be
A crown to crown Thee for Thy death
Upon the shameful tree.

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ROBIN'S FAITHFULNESS.

Robin, sitting and sunning his breast,
Singeth a song unweary,
Though the pale sun hath dropt low in the west.
Robin, Robin, my dearie!
Singeth when birdies are warm in the nest.

Thrush and blackbird, feathered as brave,
Tremble and shiver;
Scarce at the noontide will pipe a small stave.
Where barest boughs quiver,
Cosy and soft is the home-nest they have.

Swallow went on a weary day,
When Summer lay dying;
Spread his long wings and sailed away,
Out on the south wind flying.
Swallow, come again with the May.

154

Summer lands are fragrant with bloom;
Why should you linger, Swallow?
Leaves are falling, and frost hath come,
And Winter doth follow,
Grim and stark, with his brows a-gloom.

My Robin sang unheard in the May,
For the chorus of thrushes
Stifled his love-song, merry and gay;
And in their pauses and hushes
Blackbird piped from his bloomy spray.

But singing-birds and hearts are for Spring,
When a warm wind's blowing;
And hope and love, and many a thing,
May go with the swallow's going
Over seas on his soaring wing.

To my Robin the praise belong,
And the love be given!
This is the message rings in his song:
“In earth or in heaven,
The day shall dawn, though the night be long.”

155

Thrush and blackbird, keep in the nest
Till daisies sprinkle the meadow,
And scented winds blow out of the west!
Only through shine and shadow
Singeth the birdie I love the best.

156

AN OLD STORY.

“He prayeth best who loveth best
All things both great and small.”

About the noonday's glare and heat,
In a gaudy Eastern street
The merchants vended their merchandise,
And the buyers bought: there was busy hum
Of the human bees in the honeycomb;
The air was heavy with droning flies.

All manner of garbage and decay
Defiled the public way;
Rank breaths rose up from the festering heap.
But a pitiful dead dog lying there,
Bruised and broken, with stainèd hair,
Never stirred in his welcome sleep.

157

Yesterday, if a stone were thrown,
He had shivered and slunk on;
Hunted to death, he was glad to die,
But longed for a dark place cool and sweet,
Far from the eyes in the cruel street,
Where none might mock at his agony.

And now he fears not anything,
Come Cæsar or come King.
To-day he giveth no man the way;
Even the children, his enemies,
Or the carrion-birds, or the ravening flies,
Trouble him not in his dreams to-day.

And some went up, and some went down:
A priest in his sacred gown;
And a Pharisee, clad in the hodden-grey
For his fasting-time, went scornful-eyed,
With robe withdrawn, to the windward side—
He was going up to the Temple to pray.

The priest smiled under his beard, yet cast
An insult as he passed;
And one threw mud on the eyes a-stare.

158

“See his slit ears,” another said;
“The thief who gorged on the children's bread
Is food himself for things of the air.”

But who is this that cometh now?
A King with a radiant brow,
Whom the people hail as they loved Him much.
And some fell down as He passed through them,
With reverent lips to His garment's hem,
And mothers held their babes for His touch.

There He paused in the market-place,
With a shade on His lovely face;
Knelt Him down by the dead dog's side;
With a shrinking gesture of pity and pain,
Saw the wounds with the piteous stain,
And the channelled cheeks where the tears had dried;

And the dusty paws touched tenderly
With a pity lovely to see;
And closed the lids on the eyes beneath.
As the white teeth gleamed in the open mouth,
“No pearl,” said He, “from seas of the south
Is half so white as his pearly teeth.”

159

And one who heard asked curiously
What manner of man was He.
And a woman answered the questioner,
“It is the Jesus of Nazareth
Who called our Lazarus up from death,
And spareth ruth for a thieving cur!”

160

THE LOVE OF THE HILLS.

I.

He who hath drawn from birth the mountain air,
All the blue hills' strange influence shaping him,
Hath loved them, lying mighty heart and limb,
And felt their solemn stillness as a prayer:
Who hath rejoiced in them, and found them fair,
Praised still their beauty were it bright or dim,
Fashioned their meanings; they too loving him
And answering him with understanding rare.

Such a one—in the flat land lying drear,
With no world's ending, and an empty sky,
Lonely and vast, with but a strange bird's call,
Will bear his heart a-hungered many a year,
Sickening to see his hills stand silently,
Flushed with the day or grey at evenfall.

161

II.

Therefore do I rejoice—who love you so,
My hills—to think there will be hills in heaven;
The everlasting hills, at dawn and even,
Standing to gaze against the sunlight glow;
Silver and grey, and domed with shining snow,
In rose-flecked purple and in wan gold laven.
Oh, there shall be none sick or unforgiven
In the most pleasant vales that lie below!

And oh, the warm wind blowing from the heights!
Blowing like balm. I think that heaven will be,
In some sort, reassuming of old things—
Our hills, our woods, our song-birds, our delights,
And our lost loves that sailed away—ah me!—
Far on Death's dark, with wide unwavering wings.

162

SHAMROCK SONG.

Oh, the red rose may be fair,
And the lily statelier;
But my shamrock, one in three,
Takes the very heart of me!

Many a lover hath the rose
When June's musk-wind breathes and blows;
And in many a bower is heard
Her sweet praise from bee and bird.

Through the gold hours dreameth she,
In her warm heart passionately,
Her fair face hung languid-wise:
Oh, her breath of honey and spice!

163

Like a fair saint virginal
Stands your lily, silver and tall;
Over all the flowers that be
Is my shamrock dear to me.

Shines the lily like the sun,
Crystal-pure, a cold sweet nun;
With her austere lips she sings
To her heart of heavenly things.

Gazeth through a night of June
To her sister saint, the moon;
With the stars communeth long
Of the angels and their song.

But when Summer died last year
Rose and lily died with her;
Shamrock stayeth every day,
Be the winds or gold or grey.

Irish hills, as grey as the dove,
Know the little plant I love;
Warm and fair it mantles them,
Stretching down from throat to hem.

164

And it laughs o'er many a vale,
Sheltered safe from storm and gale;
Sky and sun and stars thereof
Love the gentle plant I love.

Soft it clothes the ruined floor
Of many an abbey, grey and hoar;
And the still home of the dead
With its green is carpeted.

Roses for an hour of love,
With the joy and pain thereof;
Stand my lilies white to see
All for prayer and purity.

These are white as the harvest moon
Roses flush like the heart of June;
But my shamrock, brave and gay,
Glads the tired eyes every day.

Oh, the red rose shineth rare,
And the lily saintly fair;
But my shamrock, one in three,
Takes the inmost heart of me!

165

THE ROCK OF AGES.

Stormy and wild the night; never the gleam of a star;
Drowned dead faces drifting on through the awful dark.
Hark! the thunderous voices; deep calleth to deep afar.
Now, my Lover, my Christ, Thy saving Cross be mine ark!

Strengthen, Strong One, mine arms! Lo! they bleed even now;
For the wind like a scorpion's lash, and the driftwood scourged of the sea,
And the waves encurled like snakes, with the foamy crest on the brow,
Have worked the whole night long their terrible will on me.

166

The driven clouds shape fantastic till they flee, a goblin rout,
And here one streameth wildly like a lean witch's hair,
And there one mows and chatters; and an awful moon looks out,
Her stony face as the face of some drowned mariner.

Mine eyes are dim with the waves, salt spray clings to my cheek,
Seaweed and driven sand tangle my trailing hair;
But the rock is soft as down to my tender body and weak—
Mine ark, from the evil things of the sea, and the earth, and the air.

Now, if I look below, what glimmers blue to the sight?
The cruel fin of a shark; he is patient waiting for me.
Above, and a vulture screameth hoarsely across the night.
The twain, with glittering eyes, are watching their hour to be.

167

My face is against the Cross; empty is it and grey,
The lonely awful arms spreading against the sky.
On the crown a silver dove broodeth ever and aye,
Unheeding the tumult of waters and the mad winds rushing by.

Once at the mirk midnight came a roar and a rattle of thunder;
The sea and the stormy sky were black as a raven's wing.
As the fiery spear of the lightning clave the blackness asunder,
Lo! mine eyes looked up, and saw a marvellous thing.

The Cross no longer was bare: One, fair and kingly and pale,
Was set thereon, and His side was stained with a terrible stain,
And the rents in the hands and feet yawned wide for the cruel nail,
And the weary head was bent, the dead lips ashen with pain.

168

And lo! on either hand, two crosses loomed through the mist.
Two dead men hung on these: one face was turned away,
And the other looked with a passion of love and desire to the Christ,
And a strange light gleamed on his brows, and a smile on his mouth did play.

And I know where lieth yon low gold line to the east
Are the shore and the happy city. The wind wafts here on its wing
Voices of viols and lutes. One holdeth a marriagefeast;
And the blare of the trumpets is clear, and the sound of the harp-playing.

Thence in the heart of the storm, One putteth forth in a boat,
Out on the shrieking sea, from the gold shore, holy and sweet,
And the winds come up to devour Him, the tiger waves spring at His throat;
Lo! at the sound of His voice they are fawning about His feet.

169

Hither and thither He goeth: now He leaveth His bark,
Walketh upon the waters—they are singing like brooks in May—
And He gathereth into His arms the floating bodies and stark,
And the life comes back at His touch to the faces sodden and grey.

And He roweth these to the land; hasteneth back through the night—
Wherever His feet have passed is a mystic radiance like noon—
And He pauseth and peereth oft, lest one may escape His sight;
So He reapeth His harvest under a waning moon.

He looketh not yet to me, but I bide His time on the rock.
One night He will row my way, with His deep eyes raised to my face.
Shall I fear? Can the tempest avail, or the winds or the earthquake shock,
Against this eternal strength steady from brow to base?

170

MARAH.

My baby was always weeping,
From the hour it was born;
It never leaped and crowed
Like other babies at play;
In waking still or in sleeping,
It wept most dumb and forlorn.
Bearing its mother's load,
No wonder my head is grey.

It never looked on its father;
He is lying under the sea.
When they told me my dear was drowned,
The midsummer was here.
I was singing in the heather,
And the lark's song answered me;
For his ship was homeward bound.
We were only wed that year.

171

I was like a crazed creature;
I wept most terribly;
Mad laughter and mad weeping,
Till my little one was born.
Like him in form and feature,
With eyes like a summer sea;
But the tears from the closed lids creeping
Never ceased till this morn.

It would have broken my heart,
But it was broken already;
The Lord has taken it home:
There is none so tender as He.
And His mother in motherly part
Will train the footsteps unsteady,
Nor think it too troublesome
To rock asleep on her knee.

And teach him later to play
And laugh and run like another;
For there are playgrounds up there,
To please the lambs of the fold.
Nor let him forget; and some day
He will run, beholding his mother,
And twine his hands in her hair,
And kiss her with loving untold.

172

SUN AND WIND: MAID DAFFODIL'S SONG.

“The June rose hath her lover,”
Pipes Robin on the tree;
“All day he bends above her,
A knight clad goldenly.
And O his words are tender,
And O his gifts are free;
And yet for all his splendour,
How faithless he can be!

“I heard him,” Robin's saying,
“Make love—how long ago?—
To a maid that goes a-maying
When every leaf's in blow.
Her name is Hawthorn Blossom;
She's hued like pinky snow;
She carries in her bosom
The reddest fruits that grow.

173

“And many another lady
With faithless words he'll woo,
When orchard boughs are shady,
And summer skies are blue;
The lily, white and saintly,
Forgets her nun-like hue,
And blushes meek and faintly
To hear him woo and sue.

“But your knight is no rover,
O golden girl,” he sings;
“For the North Wind's your lover,
And he's the heir of kings.
When in his rough embraces
He crushed your golden wings,
And kissed your golden graces,
His vows were truest things.”

For joy, O redbreast bonny,
I dance below the trees;
Your song is sweet as honey,
And brings me sweetest ease
If I were dead to-morrow,
He'd fly to Northern seas,
And cry his lonely sorrow
To bleakest Hebrides.

174

His heart none else possesses,
When on my gown of gold
And on my yellow tresses
Lies down the chilly mould.
No fickle false deceiver
My maiden heart doth hold;
He loves and loves for ever,
And blows not hot and cold.

175

COR DULCE.

Through Umbria when the dear St. Francis went,
Preaching in many a hamlet, many a town—
Oh, sweet St. Francis in his faded gown;
His eyes on fire, his curved lips innocent!—
Often he fell to weeping bitterly,
With cries, and sobs, and tears uncomforted;
And still “O Love unloved!” made all his cry;
“O Love that goes unloved!” was all he said.

O Love unloved! I have a Lover true,
Whose love exceedeth all the loves that be;
O mine own Lover, yet unloved of me,
My Love who loved me in old years and new!
Waiting for me beneath the midnight skies,
With thorns, and blood, and death-dews on His head.
And pierced entreating hands, and yearning eyes:
Who loved me still when other loves were fled.

176

If such a love were given to you, or you—
A love that sought you in the throes of death,
That thirsted for you with its dying breath,
Yea, held death sweet that was endured for you,
Embraced the Cross that broke it for your sake;—
I wonder would your recompense be this:
To give Him gall His dying thirst to slake,
To kiss Him, and betray Him with your kiss?

And I who was His chosen and His bride,
Sat at His feast, and drank the selfsame cup,
Dipped in the dish with Him when He did sup;
Then left Him and went out in the night-tide,
And so betrayed Him to His enemies—
Yea, and did smite Him who hath loved so well.
Say, friends, and how shall I atone for this,
And purge me from my guilt intolerable?

Ah me, ah me! I dare not lift mine eyes,
Who may again betray Him ere night goes;
Who may deny Him ere the shrill cock crows.
O happy thief who hath His paradise,

177

Why do I turn to thoughts of you to-day;
And meek St. Peter, who sinned heavily,
Yet washed with lifelong tears his guilt away;
Rather than all the sinless saints that be?

O Love unloved, my Love that goes unloved!
For all your Passion's sake, your lonely grave,
For that unstinted wealth of love you gave;
O Love unloved, sweet Love that loves unloved!
Break me, a reed, or bind me who are strong,
And make me strong to suffer and resist,
And give me tears to weep, a whole life long,
The traitor's kiss wherewith your face was kissed!

178

THE KING'S CUPBEARER.

“And I said to the king; Why should not my countenance be sorrowful, seeing that the city of my fathers is desolate?”— Esdras, book ii. chap. ii.

Spake of old an Eastern king to his cupbearer
(Saith the chronicle divine):
“Day by day the shadows on thy brow are drearer
As thou pour'st the red, red wine.

“Am I King, and not have power to heal thy sad ness?—
Thy hands tremble as they fill.
Ask what boon thou wilt, to change thy grief to gladness,
And thy will shall be my will.”

179

Who made answer straight: “O bounteous lord and master!
Shall thy servant not be sad?
When his people groan in bondage and disaster,
Shall thy sunshine make him glad?

“Lo! the consecrated city of his fathers
Lieth waste this very hour,
And the grey wolf with the crafty fox foregathers
By the ruined wall and tower.

“And the creeping ivy casts her trails for pity,
And the pallid moonlight falls
O'er the desolated hearthstones of the city
And the temple's crumbling walls.”

As he spake, the queen's hands stirred in trembling fashion—
Her white face was like a star—
And her great eyes gathered stormy pain and passion
For some memory afar.

Gold and samite were the rich robes of her station,
Jewels starred her night-dark hair;
But her nation, banned and stricken, was the nation
Of the sad-eyed cupbearer.

180

Then, oh! kingly spake the high King, fair and stately,
And his smile was grave and fine.
“Go, my cupbearer, from hence with speed, and straightly
Build anew this town of thine.

“Take thee out from bondage all thy groaning people;
Make thine own my treasuries,
And my craftsmen thine, till shining tower and steeple
Shall thy holy place arise.

“Wilt have porphyry, marble, silk, and jewels shining?
Wilt have rich woods of the South?
I had given half my treasures, unrepining,
For a smile of my queen's mouth.

“Yea, the whole of these, I ween, had purchased cheaply
Smiles where now the shadows be!”
Saying turned; the queen was paling, flushing deeply,
And her smiles were fair to see.

As I read the Book, a New Year's sun was falling
Over last year's drifted leaves,
And a distant wind was rising, dying, calling,
And a bird sang in the eaves—

181

Sang out wildly, sang out clearly, in the shadows,
An enraptured roundelay;
Though the Spring's feet had not lit the barren meadows,
He had heard her far away.

And a pallid sunshine wandered at its pleasure
O'er the pages, brown and old;
And without, a dead branch tapped a phantom measure
On the window touched with gold.

And I cried aloud, with sudden pain and longing,
“Oh, my Erin! how is this
That your loyal sons the High King's heaven are thronging,
And forget you in their bliss?

“Your true martyrs crowd the royal presence-chamber,
Clad in white robes, as they stand;
And your poets shine in amethyst and amber,
With their gold lutes in the hand;

“And your warriors wait with Michael the Archangel,
And their clear swords flash with light;

182

And your saintly sages learn a new Evangel—
And have these forgotten quite?

“Oh! surpassing fair the wondrous hills of heaven,
Whereunto their glances go,
In God's sunshine smile, abloom through dawn and even
With a strange perpetual glow:

“And for that those hills are white, and calm, and saintly,
Are they loth to think upon
The blue, blue hills of Erin, flushing faintly
In the rose-light of the dawn—

“The misty hills of Erin, glimmering pearly
In the sun at high noonday—
The purple hills of Erin shadowed rarely
When the gold hath waned to grey?

“Oh! limpid clear the heavenly rivers going
Over jewelled sands beneath,
And the solemn music of their silver flowing
Like a prayer that murmureth:

183

“Are they loth to think on Irish streams thereafter—
The brown salmon streams, in May
Laughing softly with the sunshine in their laughter,
Like the children at their play;

“Laughing clearly when the western wind comes speeding
With the wet rain on its wings?
Is their heaven so fair that still they go unheeding
All the old beloved things?”

Oh! the heavenly vales of amaranth and moly
Steeped in amber lights and rose!
Through the gold sheaves goeth Christ, the fair and holy,
Smiling gravely as He goes—

Smiling tenderly for all His blossoms shining
In the mystic, widespread noon;
In His earth-fields many a pallid flower is pining
He will gather to Him soon.

And, indeed, I think He would not pass unheeding
If your sons should come to Him,

184

Crying out, “Behold, Lord! where our vales are spreading
Far away, and fair, and dim.

“The loved vales wherefrom we came unto your heaven,
They are laughing to the sun;
But the wrong's mailed hand doth smite them like the levin,
As the centuries roll on.

“Oh! the years go by like hours in those lush meadows
Where the silver lilies grow,
But our feet are set in darkness and in shadows
For our mother's pain and woe.

“And the stormy cries, come through the golden weather,
Sear our hearts like iron brands,
And the moaning and the wailing come up hither,
And the wringing of the hands.

185

“And we cannot taste the joy that lies before us—
It is withered at a breath
In the anguish of the motherland that bore us,
Lying sick, and nigh to death.”

And so tender is the Lord's heart, prone to pity,
Now I think that He would say,
Like the Eastern king, “I will rebuild the city;
I have heard your prayers to-day.”

“This hour seals the book of seven centuries, dreary
With the anguish and the wrong,
That shall seem but as an olden tale and weary
To the nation waxen strong—

“Waxen stately, waxen noble, till, in gazing
One day from yon golden stair,
You will hear far off the chanting and the praising
When the nations welcome her.”

186

A WINTER LANDSCAPE.

The white snow like a pall
Lies deathly over all;
The year's streaked for the grave.
No stir in bush or cover,
The blackbird's song is over,
And robin hath no stave.

The black hills, fringed with snow,
Like widowed mourners go;
The snow-fields ghostly are.
In the golden August weather
They were gold and green together,
And the dreaming hills were far.

187

There's a young girl's funeral
Winding on to the hill's wall;
Men's shoulders carry her.
All Summer she was yearning
For her sailor-love's returning;
Now he's here she will not stir.

A moon floats languidly
In the beautiful rose-blue sky;
The bare boughs twine like lace;
In the west the day is dying,
And the gold and opal lying,
And the black night comes apace.

188

THE GOOD SHEPHERD.

Shepherd, that art most tender to Thy sheep,
Fair and right pleasant are Thy pastures wide,
The daisied hillocks, where, at high noontide,
The young untired ones of the flock shall leap.
Lovely the green grass, where, in shadows deep,
They who were weary dream all peaceful-eyed;
Lovely the large moon overhead doth ride,
And the great hills their mystic watchings keep.
But far away where wintry winds are blowing,
O Shepherd, hark! a tender lamb doth stray,
Lost in the darkness and the midnight rain;
Arid and salt the bitter herbs are growing,
Whereof it makes its food; the dreary way
Dark is with thorns, and blood-tracks of its pain.

189

He took His lantern and His shepherd's crook,
And left His lovely fold, nor turned to see
How His beloved slept all peacefully;
And the moon silvered hill, and vale, and brook.
Across the weary wold His way He took;
About His path strange shapes did flit and flee,
The wind moaned in the darkness terribly,
And from His unseamed robe the snows He shook.
He will return when clear the dawn is shining,
Weary and footsore, bearing on His breast
That lamb which in the stormy night did cry,
Breaking His dreams of heaven. So unrepining
He doth go forth each night and leave His rest,
To seek His strayed ones under the wild sky.

190

TWO WINDS

EAST WIND.

Through the streets of the seaboard town
A wind comes riotously,
Breathing salty and sweet;
Only an hour agone
It walked on the pathless sea
With grey, invisible feet.

Where hast thou come from, Wind,
With the sea's sweets on thy lips?
From the Orient, golden and far,
From Egypt and dusky Ind.
Like the sails of colossal ships
The plumes of thy wide wings are.

191

Thou hast held tall palms to thy breast,
And tasted the lotus' breath,
And drunk of the strange flowers' spice,
And scaled Himalaya's crest;
Then swooped to the plains beneath,
To walk through the waving rice.

Thou hast watched in the temple's gloom,
Before the veil of a shrine,
The beautiful maidens wait;
Oh, warm as poppies in bloom,
With eyes like the amber wine,
And lips like the pomegranate!

Thou hast crept by a thorn-choked path
With the tiger creeping before—
Red eyeballs seeking his prey;
When the lion, wounded to death,
Shook the skies with his roar
In the dusk of the jungle's day.

O'er seas and sands thou hast come,
Swifter than swallows in flight,
Swifter than dark and day,

192

And the risen sun is thy home;
Thou chasest winter and night,
With thy kiss like the salt sea-spray!

WEST WIND.

Come in, wet wind of the West,
Through the dusty streets of the town,
With the scent of the new-mown hay,
And a song of a bird by the nest,
A breath of roses new blown,
The laughter of children at play!

The meadows are waving high
With plumy grasses of grey,
And gold-eyed daisies are born;
There's a lark in the silvery sky,
And a thrush on the wild-rose spray,
And poppies in the green corn.

In the woods there's a singing burn,
And swallows stooping for flies
O'er pebbles topaz and beryl.

193

All day will the wood-doves mourn,
And gaze in each other's eyes;
And the fronds of the fern uncurl.

Oh, blow, wet wind of the West,
Through every window and door,
And kiss the children asleep,
And soothe the dying to rest,
In the dreary homes of the poor,
Where Fever his watch doth keep!

The green things, heavy with pain,
Lift their languishing brows
From the highway's dust and its heat:
For thy beautiful daughter, the Rain,
Clad in the pearl and the rose,
Walks by thee with silvery feet.

Oh, freshest of winds that blow,
Come in from thy valleys cool,
From the bowers of the evening star,
The gardens of after-glow,
With crimson roses at full,
And lilies that perfect are!

194

AFTER RAIN IN MAY.

The lark is silent, that sang all day
At the pearly gate of heaven;
The thrush sings out from a white-thorn spray,
To her clamorous brood at even;
The blackbird whistles liquid and long;
Till the horned moon grows in the apple-boughs,
The wet trees quiver, the singing river
Crooneth a cradle song.

The hedges shine with the tiny star
That takes the sky-star's name,
And speedwell bluer than noon-skies are,
And buttercup's yellow flame;
The tall cow-parsley silvers the hedge,
The briar's aglow with the May-flower's snow;
One clear green star's in the gold afar,
A wet wind stirs in the sedge.

195

O my birds, are ye drunken with pleasure
For Summer and her delights—
Her scented days with their golden leisure,
The hush of her moon-white nights?
Now Robin's singing who sang in the cold,
The linnet's throat hath a merry note,
The thrush pealeth after a rain of soft laughter,
The blackbird's a mouth of gold.

Oh, well for the birds, in their wet green leaves,
Forgetting the winter's snow,
The leafless boughs, when a wild wind grieves,
The grey frost's hunger and woe;
How some will die in the autumn rain,
The ruined nests, and the cold-pinched breasts;
How some will come with a prayer for a crumb,
Tapping the window-pane.

Teach us, Lord of the little bird's faith,
That maketh his heart secure,
And weights with no shadow of doubt or death
His anthem perfect and pure!
From matin to evensong ringeth his lay;
And after the storm the sunshine is warm;
And sweet is thanksgiving for love and for living,
To birds that sing in the May.

196

A RED ROSE.

No faint wild rose on a briar,
But a marvel of colour and fire,
My Rose;
Made perfect in every part,
With a love that is pain at her heart.

Oh, tall and stately is she!
Well weareth her royalty,
My Rose;
She stands in her shadowy place,
With the loveliest light on her face.

The strain of blackbird and thrush
She holds in her heart and its hush,
My Rose;
And the nightingale singing at night
Hath made her pale with delight.

197

The garden is fenced and apart
Where she waits with a prayer at her heart,
My Rose;
The foot of the wayfarer
Goes onward, and troubles not her.

There shall come a flower of all hours;
She shall hear a step in her bowers,
My Rose,
And know who cometh, and turn,
With eyes that yearn and burn.

O Love, whose coming is slow,
By your thorny crown will she know,
My Rose,
And your pierced hands reaching to take,
And your heart that broke for her sake.