THE BATTLE OF BENBURB.
A BARDIC ODE.
[_]
This battle was won by Owen Roe O'Neill over the Parliamentarian
forces, A.D. 1646. The rebels left 3,423 of their
dead on the field.
I.
At even I mused on the wrong of the Gael;—
A storm rushed beside me with war-blast not wail,
And the leaves of the forest plague-spotted and dead
Like a multitude broken before it fled;
Then I saw in my visions a host back driven
Ye clansmen be true, by a Chief from heaven!
II.
At midnight I gazed on the moonless skies;—
There glisten'd, supreme of star-blazonries,
A Sword all stars; then heaven, I knew,
Hath holy work for a sword to do:
Be true, ye clansmen of Nial! Be true!
III.
At morning I look'd as the sun uprose
On hills of Antrim late white with snows;
Was it morning only that dyed them red?
Martyr'd hosts, methought, had bled
On their sanguine ridges for years not few!
Ye clansmen of Conn, this day be true!
IV.
There is felt once more on the earth
The step of a kingly man:
Like a dead man hidden he lay from his birth,
Exiled from his country and clan:
This day his standard he flingeth forth;
He tramples the bond and ban:
Let them look in his face that usurp'd his hearth!
Let them vanquish him, they who can!
Owen Roe, our own O'Neill!
He treads once more our land!
The sword in his hand is of Spanish steel,
But the hand is an Irish hand!
V.
I saw in old time with these eyes that fail
The ship drop down Lough Swilly;
Lessening 'mid billows the snowy sail
Bent down like a storm-rock'd lily!
Far, far it bore them, those Sceptres old
That ruled o'er Ulster for ages untold,
The sceptre of Nial and the sceptre of Conn,
Thy Princes, Tirconnell and green Tyrone!
No freight like that since the mountain-pine
Left first the hills for the salt sea-brine!
Down sank on the ocean a blood-red sun
As westward they drifted, when hope was none,
With their priests and their children o'er ocean's foam
And every archive of house and home:
Amid the sea-surges their bards sang dirges:
God rest their bones in their graves at Rome!
Owen Roe, our own O'Neill!
He treads once more our land!
The sword in his hand is of Spanish steel,
But the hand is an Irish hand!
VI.
I saw in old time through the drifts of the snow
A shepherdless People dash'd to and fro,
With hands toss'd up in the wintry air,
With the laughter of madness or shriek of despair.
Dispersed is the flock when the shepherd lies low:
The sword was of parchment: a lie was the blow:
What is Time? I can see the rain beat the white hair,
And the sleet that defaces the face that was fair,
As onward they stagger o'er mountain and moor
From the Ardes and Rathlin to Corrib's bleak shore:
I can hear the babe weep in the pause of the wind—
‘To Connaught!’ The bloodhounds are baying behind!—
Owen Roe, our own O'Neill!
He treads once more our land!
The sword in his hand is of Spanish steel,
But the hand is an Irish hand!
VII.
Visions no more of the dreadful past!
The things that I long'd for are mine at last!
I see them and hold them with heart and eyes;
On Irish ground, under Irish skies,
An Irish army, clan by clan,
The standard of Ulster on leading the van!
Each chief with his clansmen, tried men like steel;
Unvanquish'd Maolmora, Cormac the leal!
And the host that meets them right well I know,
The psalm-singing boors of that Scot, Munro!
—We hated you, Barons of the Pale!
But now sworn friends are Norman and Gael;
For both the old foes are of lineage old,
And both the old Faith and old manners hold.
Montgomery, Conway! base-born crew!
This day ye shall learn an old lesson anew!
Thou art red with sunset this hour, Blackwater
But twice ere now thou wert red with slaughter!
Another O'Neill by the ford they met;
And ‘the bloody loaming’ men name it yet!
Owen Roe, our own O'Neill!
He treads once more our land!
The sword in his hand is of Spanish steel!
But the hand is an Irish hand!
VIII.
The storm of the battle rings out! On! on!
Shine well in their faces, thou setting sun!
The smoke grows crimson: from left to right
Swift flashes the spleenful and racing light:
The horses stretch forward with belly to ground:
On! on! like a lake which has burst its bound!
Through the clangour of brands rolls the laughter of cannon:
Wind-borne it shall reach thine old walls, Dungannon!
Armagh's grey Minster shall chant again
To-morrow at vespers an ancient strain!
On, on! This night on thy banks, Loch Neagh
Men borne in bondage shall couch them free!
On, warriors launch'd by a warrior's hand!
Four years ye were leash'd in a brazen band;
He counted your bones, and he meted your might,
This hour he dashes you into the fight!
Strong sun of the battle, great Chief whose eye
Wherever it gazes makes victory,
This hour thou shalt see them do or die!
—They form: there stand they one moment, still!
Now, now, they charge under banner and sign:
They breast unbroken the slope of the hill,
It breaks before them, the Invaders' line!
Their horse and their foot are crush'd together
Like harbour-locked ships in the winter weather,
Each dash'd upon each, the churn'd wave strewing
With wreck upon wreck, and ruin on ruin.
The spine of their battle gives way with a yell:
Down drop their standards: that cry was their knell!
Some on the bank and some in the river
Struggling they lie that shall rally never.
'Twas God fought for us! with hands of might
From on high He kneaded and shaped the fight!
To Him be the praise! What He wills must be:
With Him is the future: for blind are we!
Let Ormond at will make terms or refuse them!
Let Charles the Confederates win or lose them;
Unbind the old Faith and annul the old strife,
Or cheat us, and forfeit his kingdom and life!
Come hereafter what must or may
Ulster, thy cause is avenged to-day:
What fraud took from us and force, the sword
That strikes in daylight makes ours, restored!
Owen Roe, our own O'Neill!
He treads once more our land!
The sword in his hand is of Spanish steel,
But the hand is an Irish hand!
