Shamrocks :: :: University of Virginia Library

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.