University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

Banqueting Hall in Eman of Macha. Nobles assembled. Enter Conor Mac Nessa, attended by Caffa the Druid, Barach, Conal Carnach, Cuchullan, Fergus, Ulster.
CONOR.
Welcome, my noble friends! right welcome all!
Ye are the noblest Princes of our land!
And these divine Professors of the Art
Of Poetry—bright Crown of all the Arts—
Who play on golden harps with silver strings,
Making melodious music for our souls—
Welcome—thrice welcome are ye all tonight!
Let Caffa, our dear kinsman, join with us—
The mightiest Musician of our Age—
He shall be Leader of our Highland Band;
For worthy is our great High Priest to sit
Beside the throne of Ulster's royal King.
Sound all your golden harps with silver strings,
Accompanying them with your sweet songs,
That you may show how much you love my love,
While we enjoy this grand festivity.
Break forth! loud as the Clarion of the Skies!

[They sing, Caffa leading them, while playing upon their harps, the following
ORPHIC HYMN.

CONOR.
Thanks, thanks, my noble friends! I thank you all!
But you, my generous Caffa! thank the most!
So David-like have you acquitted yourself—
Triumphantly bearing off the Palm to-night!

CAFFA.
I thank you much, my noble King! your praise
Sits like a Crown of Glory on my head.

CONOR.
Right worthy are you now to wear it there,
For truly have you proven yourself, this night.
The mightiest Musician of our times.
No gift goes unrewarded in our Realms.
This Crown, which I now place upon your brow,
Shall shame the brightest Diadems of Gods—
Withering with its perennial green,
The shortlived laurels of the mightiest kings!
They flourish only in the Spring of Time,
But this is amaranthine, born in Heaven,
Whose life is co-eternal with the soul—
To decorate this young Immortal's brow!

CAFFA.
For in the lifetime of the truly great,
Who live above all time, there are no years—
No Winters withering their immortal Bays;
For though unto our mortal eyes they seem
To die, they are the inhabitants of Heaven;
For he who lives the perfect life on earth,
Not only lives in Heaven, but Heaven in him.

CONOR.
And you, my nobles! let me thank you too!
For right well does your presence here this night,
Show your exceeding love for me.

ULSTER.
With our
Bowed heads, our hearts uplifted, we return
You thanks, great King!

CONOR.
I thank you for your love.
You sit here on the Benches of the Gods,
Around this central Sun of all your light,
Like Stars in Heaven, all singing while you shine—
Reflecting back the glory you receive.
Like Morning Glories ranged around their stems,
Blowing their purple Trumpets at the skies
To hail the Dawn; so sit ye blooming here,
Chanting sweet Hymns of Praises to your King.

ULSTER.
Whatever you may choose to say of us,
Our deeds shall make it like the fan that cools
The face of Beauty—it shall take away
More perfume than it brings.

CONOR.
A Godlike thought!

CAFFA.
A man like this we look for every day
To guide our Ship of State safe into Port;
Like Torna the Intelligent, or Niall
Of the Nine Hostages; or Connal, named
Of the Swift Steeds, who sat on Munster's throne;
Or great Colum Kill, the wise Monk of Hy;
Or good Mac Brodin, Erin's wisest Bard—
Whose voice, like some clear rivulet at night,
Leaping down Felim's fair-inclining Hill—
(Whence he dispensed his laws to all the land)
Making sweet music, as it goes, to green
The longing vales, while the birds sing to hear
Its sweet fortuitous intuition flow—
(The Eden-crystalline songs that Nature sings)—
Filled every human heart with perfect joy;
Or Cormac, who was Judge of judgments true—
A King who gave advice to Kings of old,
In Temor's mighty Halls; or strong-armed Conn,
Victorious in a hundred fields—who rushed
From Croghan's Halls, conquering Eogan Mor
On Lena's bloody plains; or Feradah the Just;
Or matchless Moran, once his father's judge—
That stately wood which all the trees obeyed—
The glory of whose frontlet was his front;
Whom Kithro, Laureate to the King, with songs
Of glory, fired his mighty soul to go
With Connal, son of Crogran, of Connaught,
And matchless Conn, against the mightiest foe.
Like Labhra's Laureate, Fercart, was his soul
Full of immortal songs!

CONOR.
The Past well praised.

CAFFA.
These were the Trees who bore immortal fruit—
Apples of Paradise!

CONOR.
Forbidden fruit?

CAFFA.
Forbidden but to lips of Gods.

CONOR.
Such fruit
Brought death into the world—when Adam Eve
Gave his immortal for her mortal life.

CAFFA.
The unworthy cannot taste such heavenly food;
For Angels only eat the Bread of Heaven.

CONOR.
Then what is left us mortals—but to starve?

CAFFA.
He who anticipates the life to come,
Enjoys an Apotheosis among
The Shining Ones above mortality.

CUCHULLAN.
Apples of Gold pulled from a Silver Tree.

FERGUS.
A Rose of Eden full-blown in the bud;
Like eggs that hatch their birds full-fledged when laid.

CAFFA.
Knowledge of good brings life—of evil, death.
Wisdom is born of Heaven—Ignorance, of Hell.

CUCHULLAN.
Apples of gold in silver salvers brought;
Like those Hesperian Apples, famed of old,
Guarded by no fierce dragon, but pure Love.

CONOR
(ironically).
Nor is there any serpent in the core—
Unlike the bitter one that Eve bestowed
On Adam for his immortality.

CAFFA.
The fruit we love grows on that Tree of Heaven,
Whose roots are anchored in the heart of God.

CUCHULLAN.
Your golden words inwoven with the silk
Of silver, embossing flowers of rarest truth,
Become the garments of divinest forms
Of Beauty, voluptuous with pure love.
Cornelian cherries, grapes of amethyst,
And rich barbaric pearls do curdle on
The web in the grotesquest forms of Art,
Making an Eden of the priceless work,
By the caduceus of your Art, twined by
The serpent of your power, you did all this.

CONAL CARNACH.
His thoughts flowed from his soul in words of love,
Like the majestic march of some great host
Of liberated peers, going to receive
Their crowns of glory from the hands of kings.

CONOR
(to Ulster).
Most worthy Patriot! Pillar of our Throne!
Thou art my Lucifer—my Morning Star!
Adding new joy to this auspicious hour.

ULSTER.
We are informed, dread Sovereign, that the King
Of Scotland has attacked great Usna's sons,
And driven them from the land.

CONOR.
Good news for us,
But bad for them. Where do they say these three
Young heroes lodge?

ULSTER.
Far in the Isle of Skye,
Couched on a milkwhite arm of the Sea in Lorne.

CONOR.
Would they were in the sky.

ULSTER.
Better that they
Should die at home, than killed by Scotland's King;
For it is hard to die in foreign lands—
That, too, for any woman in the world.

CONOR.
Let them return again, so that it be
In due obedience to our laws.

ULSTER.
But they
May not return from those far Western Isles.

CONOR.
Let them be sent for, then.

ULSTER.
But, who shall go?

CONOR.
I know not that; but this I wish to know,
Whether or not you ever saw a place
More beautiful than Eman, my own home?

ULSTER.
We never did, great King—nor any house
So well attended as this one.

CONOR.
Well, then,
I want to know whether or not you know
Of anything you want which you have not?

ULSTER.
We know of nothing—having all we want—
Our Crown, the priceless bounty of your love.

CONOR.
Then you are richer far than I can boast;
For I do know a burden under which
We all do lie.

ULSTER.
What want is that, great King?

CONOR.
That the three greatest warriors in the world—
Most valiant Luminaries of the Gaels—
Should now be absent from this festive hall,
To-night, for any woman in the world—
She, too, a prostitute from Conor's bed.

ULSTER.
Most true, great King—we had forgotten that.
They are the three brave Sons of Albhi, one
Of Caffa's three fair daughters—Nature's queens.
Scions of a King are they—three Kings. Had we
But dared, we would have said this long ago;
For Ullad would be now, this very hour,
The mightiest Province in the world, wer't not
That they are absent from our homes tonight.
No other Ultonians equal them,
Such Lions of military prowess are they.
But who will go for them?

CONOR.
I know not that;
But this I know, that he who loves me best
Will go—Naisa being under solemn oath
Not to return with any, save these three—
Brave Conal Carnach, Fergus, Son of Roy,
And great Cuchullan. Now, then, I will know
Who of these three best loves myself. So, first,
Brave Conal Carnach, come this way.

CONAL CARNACH.
I will.

CONOR.
What would you do, should Usna's Sons be slain,
While on their way, under your guarantee?

CONAL CARNACH.
Not one man's death alone would give me peace,
But all should die who would attempt their lives.

CONOR.
Then, Conal Carnach is no friend of mine—
Nor shalt thou go. Come forth, Cuchullan, come.
What would you do, should Usna's Sons be slain
Under your guarantee?

CUCHULLAN.
I pledge my soul
To my Almighty God, that he who would
Insult them on the way, should die that hour.

CONOR.
Most true, Cuchullan, he would die! By which
I know thou art no friend of mine. Away!
Thou shalt not go. Come, Fergus, come to me.
What would you do, should Usna's Sons be slain
Under your guarantee?

FERGUS.
Why, by my soul,
(Although I swear not to attempt thy life),
They all should die together as one man.

CONOR.
Then, if you swear not to attempt my life,
You, now, shall go for them. So, now, prepare—
For they will come with you. Returning thence,
Call at the mansion of great Barach, Son
Of Cainti—pledging me thy solemn word,
That, then, so soon as you shall have returned—
Whether it be by night or by the day—
You will not tarry till you send them here,
To Eman's halls.

Enter Illan Fin, Buini, and Callon.
FERGUS.
I pledge my soul I will.
Come, comrades, let us bear away to-night;
For I will guarantee their safe return.
Come, Illan Fin, Buini, Ruthless Red—
My noble sons—come, you must go with me.
Come, Callon, bearer of my shield, come forth.
Now for the fortress of great Usna's Sons.

[Exeunt omnes.
CONOR.
Come hither, Barach. Do I know thy heart?

BARACH.
You do, my lord; you know you do.

CONOR.
Then, mark!
Have you a feast prepared for me?

BARACH.
I have;
But could not bring it over with me here.

CONOR.
Then give it Fergus, just as soon as he
Arrives in Erin; for, you know, it is
His solemn vow not to refuse a feast.

BARACH.
I will, my lord, as soon as he arrives.
Farewell!

CONOR.
May greatness weave around thy brow
A diadem of glory, like that crown
Worn by the Angels, seen by the Man of God
In the Apocalyptic vision of the Heavens.

BARACH.
Bright as the one the King of Ulster wears.

CONOR.
Which thou shalt wear long after I am dead.

BARACH.
God grant that you may never die, great King.
But I must go—the night is growing late.
Farewell!

CONOR.
Farewell. Remember what I said.

BARACH.
Farewell! I will be faithful to my trust.

CONOR.
Be faithful: keep but Fergus there, while they
Move on to Eman—then my cup is full.

[Exit Barach.