The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics")

The legend of warriors sleeping underground and awaiting the time for action, is one common to many countries. The Welsh have it, and talk about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, who, with their followers, lie asleep under Craig-y-Dinas, until the day when the Briton shall arise and expel the hated Saxon. In German folk-lore Frederick Barbarossa figures in a similar way. In most cases the summons is to be made by sound of trumpet; but there is a wise provision in the legend that he who seeks to become the champion must arm himself before he utters defiance—he must draw the sword before he blows the horn. The legend among the Irish varies only in the character of the sleepers. One, which I prefer, makes the sleepers to be Fionn MacCumhail and the Fianna. Their sleeping-place is variously located in Ulster, Munster or Connaught, but the details are always the same. The legend is evidently mythical and based on the sleep of Nature during winter, waiting to be awakened by the rays of the spring sun. Study shows that most folk-lore is mythical in its nature, and not a legendary debasement of history.

Darkly the falling twilight lay
On Sliabh-na-Bhan at close of day,
Where Con O'Regan made his way.

A desolate spot, the slopes of green
And scattered furze the rocks between
Were scarcely through the darkness seen.

By rounded mound and cliff-side tall,
Heart throbbing at the night-owl's call,
He reached at last the Glann-na-Small.

Glancing around in fear, he spied,
In-swinging at the steep hill-side,
A gate of bronze that opened wide.

Light issued thence, but came no sound;
A stream of radiance smote the ground,
And deepened more the darkness round.

Con knew the story often told,
How Fionn MacCumhail, with comrades bold,
Lay sleeping in some cavern-hold—

Waiting till one with mighty hand
Should come to lead the dauntless band,
And purge of Sagsain's brood the land—

To lead them forth, and victor then,
To reign the very king of men,
While Eirè would be free again.

He oft had heard that in the cave
Lay war-horn bright and tempered glaive,
Biding the coming of the brave.

What one these magic gifts should gain,
And on the war-horn wind a strain,
O'er Ireland as its king should reign.

Ambitious, though with timor filled,
Desirous, though uncertain-willed,
He entered, while his pulses thrilled.

The gate swung wider at his touch,
Yet somewhat lingered in his clutch,
The sight he saw appalled so much.

Ten lines of steeds were standing there,
Extending miles; and none were bare—
Caparisoned with trappings rare.

By each a warrior couch had made,
His form in saffron garb arrayed,
And at his side were spear and blade.

Rigid and silent all were they;
Yet each, though motionless he lay,
Seemed well equipped for bloody fray.

Bronze cressets pendant overhead,
A dim light, faint and wavering, shed
On those long lines of living dead.

Where horses stood and warriors lay,
Fainter in distance grew each ray
Till lost in darkness far away.

An altar at the entrance bore
The sword and horn, the same he wore—
Stout Fionn MacCumhail—in days of yore.

A harper, where these arms were set,
In stony silence sat, and yet
He seemed to sing a bargaret,

Of what in olden days occurred,
A voiceless song without a word,
By quick ears of the spirit heard.

Con stood there terrified; alone
With men and horses silent grown
By time and sleep to things of stone.

The warriors seemed like giants tall,
The steeds in size past those in stall,
The dust of years encrusting all.

Huge shapes of ill the shadows grew,
And creatures weird of sombre hue,
Flitted the space cavernous through.

Yet, faint of heart, his timid hand
The horn with trembling fingers spanned—
He dared not touch the warlike brand.

At this, to feet the sleepers sprang,
And spear and sword together rang,
Filling the cave with martial clang.

The horses tossed their heads and neighed,
And champed their bits; the warriors swayed
Their forms, and bared each tempered blade.

As went the stir the host among,
A banner green aloft was swung—
“Has the time come?” on every tongue.

Con felt it was enchanted ground;
But courage at the last he found,
The horn with feeble breath to sound.

At notes so tremulous and thin,
Laughter arose the place within,
And spake a voice above the din:

“Better the wretch had ne'er been born,
Who holds my famous sword in scorn,
And, ere he draw it, blows the horn.

“Leader to whom all men will bow,
In time will come; he comes not now;
Nor such one, venturous fool, art thou.

“No weakling varlet may command
The Fiannan host with spear and brand,
To smite the foe and free the land.

“To wield as one the headstrong throng,
To raise the right and crush the wrong,
A leader must in heart be strong.

“For halting will and feeble deed,
Rashness and folly caused by greed,
Destruction be thy proper meed!”

He ceased; but when the speech was o'er,
A whirlwind rose with rush and roar,
And Con to outer darkness bore.

Closed then the rock; when morn came round,
Some peasants Con O'Regan found
Stretched, dying, on the stony ground.

He told his tale ere life had gone—
Within the wilds of Sliabh-na-Bhan,
The last who saw the cave was Con.

Ere eyes again that spot may see,
Ere time arrives its host to free,
A hundred years must numbered be.

The pronunciation of this famous hero's name, the Finn MacCool, of the vulgar tongue, and the Fingal, of MacPherson's romance, is difficult to convey to other than Irish ears. Fee'un Mac'Coow'ull, with the unaccented syllables so hurriedly pronounced that Fionn and Cumhail sound almost like monosyllables, will give the reader a notion.

University of Virginia Library

THE SLEEPING FIANNA.