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

Once—once upon a time in Nomansland,
Hard by the dim shore of the Mythic Sea,
Went forth in arms a young and valiant knight,
Sir Huon of the Rose, with whom there rode
Bold Ferribrand, his stout and trusty 'squire.
These through an oaken forest all day long
Seeking adventures fearless forced their way
Where limbs and leafy branches overhead,
And mighty trunks with mossy bark begirt
Standing on every hand made dismal shade;
But not a human creature met their eyes,
Nor things of life indeed, save once a deer
That scurried fast before the tramp of steeds,
And one scared lizard, warted, rough and grey,
Which for an instant threw a startled glance
From the dead trunk of an uprooted tree,
Then darted into covert. All day long
Thus rode the twain till darker grew the shadows,
When at the sunset hour they came upon
A treeless space, where in a garden fair,

With rose and lily planted, yews close-clipt,
Blue violets under foot, and many birds
Singing on sprays, a stately palace—
Whiter than snow the carven points whereon
The late light rested, tinged with blue the rest—
Lonely and fair it stood—a song in marble.
Straight to its gate of bronze Sir Huon rode,
And grasping there a silvern horn which hung
Suspended from above, a blast he blew
Which shook alarum over frieze and cornice,
Buttress and turret, moat and barbacan,
Piercing with shrilly tones the casements through,
Then faintly fading into distant echo.
Scarce ceased the notes ere rose the barred portcullis,
The drawbridge dropped and opened wide the gates,
And thence came forth a bent and grey old man
Who, bowing, helped them to dismount and then,
The tired steeds giving to the charge of grooms,
Ushered the wanderers to the mighty hall
With rushes fresh-bestrewn, and bringing seats,
With reverence low and courteous words inquired
How he could serve his visitors the best.

Then said Sir Huon—“To your noble lord
Present my service and bespeak him thus—
‘The errant knight, Sir Huon of the Rose,
Craves entertainment for himself and 'squire.’”

Answered the porter next—“O, noble knight,
Whose deeds in arms outstripped his coming here,
This palace has no lord—a maiden rules.
The noble Lady Kallimais, sole child
Of good Sir Ebberon, now with the saints—
(Sir Ebberon, once marquis of this wood,
And all the border-land wherein it stands)

Is mistress uncontrolled of this domain.
But nevertheless your welcome is assured,
Where hospitality as free as air
Best fitting his degree each guest receives.”

Asked now Sir Huon—“Dwells she ever then
Alone and lonely, this fair damosel?”

Spake then the porter in reply—“Not so;
Never alone, since she has men-at-arms
Prompt to obey (if need be, to defend)
And varlets stout, and maidens at her beck;
But lives she here with none of her degree,
Since to the Saracens from whence she came
Her step-dame went, the Princess Pharmakis.
Gloomy and terrible in mien was she,
And, so they whisper, wise in things forbidden,
Who loved not well the Lady Kallimais,
And at their parting flung back angry words
And threats of evil. I might more recount
But fear I prate too much. Be pleased to sit
While I acquaint my lady of your coming.”

Then came a page with store of amber wine,
In golden flask, and cups of amethyst,
And wheaten bread upon a silvern salver,
Of which the knight partook, the 'squire in turn.

Now presently came forth fair Kallimais,
As breaks the bright moon through a rift of clouds—
As shows the yellow moon from sombre clouds—
Lighting all things and beautifying all.
She came preceded by her seneschal,
Around her gathered her attendant maids,
Her white-haired old confessor close behind—

The Fray Baltasar, bent with years and vigils—
And with a gentle air and courteous speech
Welcomed the knight, and bade her servitors
Attend him to a chamber with his 'squire,
That he might change apparel at his will.
Now Kallimais was young and beautiful,
And had a charming manner and a grace
That well accorded with her youth and beauty;
And stout Sir Huon felt his heart athrill,
And a strange fear which was a joy in mask
Pass through his spirit as he left the hall.
And after then, his armor laid aside,
In velvet double-piled and sable clad,
And silken hose, and shoes of Barbary leather,
And linen fine, and golden baldric on,
He came fine-prankt to banquet in the hall,
And seated at the right hand of the lady
Was waited on with honor and respect,
Fell straight in love who still had laughed at love
In days before, and worn no lady's token,
And troubled was thereat, for he was poor
Though coming of a good and ancient strain,
While she not merely was of highest rank
But riches had to match her pedigree.

And so that night Sir Huon in his sleep
Wandered through dream-land with sweet Kallimais—
Even in dreams with downcast eyes he gazed—
And wakened in the morn to think of her;
Yet had no thought of her when she was by,
For then both brain and heart were in a whirl;
And for the three days he remained as guest,
Grew more enraptured till at length he knew
He rather would be lord of that fair lady,
Than reign as king o'er all broad Nomansland.

Then went the knight away, bidding farewell
To Kallimais, and with his faithful 'squire
Journeyed to Palestine, where great renown
He won by fighting with the Paynim foe;
And all men held him, as a warrior
Valiant afield, and passing wise in council;
And went his name and fame to many lands;
But wheresoe'er he was his mind went back
To one fair palace standing in a garden,
And one fair damosel with golden hair.

Two years had passed, when from the stirring wars
Seeking a rest from action, he came back,
And craved the hospitality again
Of Lady Kallimais, yet fairer grown,
Who welcomed him in honorable ways,
As did indeed the household of the lady
Which honored much the grave and silent knight,
Till something in her eyes emboldened him
To press his suit upon her, which he did.

The lady heard him with a blush and sigh,
And said—“I feel it honor to be wooed
By one whose name is good on all men's tongues,
And frankly say that no man lives on earth
Whom I would rather take to be my lord.
But ere I yield my maiden state and freedom,
One boon I seek. Pledge me the sacred word
Of a good knight and true, that every week
Upon each Friday, save when it may chance
That holy Christmas falls upon that day,
You suffer me to pass alone the hours
From early dawn to nightfall, seeking not
To penetrate the chamber where I go,
Nor ask to know how I am occupied.

Promise me this upon your knightly faith,
And I your loving lady will become,
And you henceforth shall be my gracious lord,
The master of my life and all I have.”

To her Sir Huon in a burst of joy—
“Freely I promise this which is a trifle,
As I would more than this—I would 'twere more!
Not as condition for the hand you grant,
But from affection, and the yielding love
Which may deny you nothing. So I pledge.”

And so in due time wedded were the twain—
The king, of whom the Lady Kallimais
Held land in fee, the match approving well;
And noble lords and ladies gentle born
Made festival through all the honeymoon,
And tenantry and vassals loud rejoiced;
And for a year the pair lived happily,
Naught to arrest the current of their bliss
And mutual fondness growing day by day.

II.

An old compagnon found Sir Huon soon—
Sir Ranulph of the Thistle—who at times
The palace visited, and since the twain
Had been in arms together in the past,
Was feasted and made welcome when he came.
Brave was Sir Ranulph, little fearing man,
Not fearing God at all—an envious wight,
And wicked, though his wickedness he hid
Beneath his roistering manner as a cloak.
Frank in his speech, but secret in his deed,
Open in manner, but with envy gnawed,

He felt chagrined Sir Huon should have won
Riches so great and eke a lovely dame
Who loved him dearly, and he strove to find
Some spot of weakness in the life of either
Which he might pierce and thus his malice sate.
And so he peered into the household ways,
And looked where no one saw his envious glance,
And heard where no one thought he used his ears,
Till, bit by bit, from casual words he learned
That from the cock-crow till the sunset hour
On every Friday, Lady Kallimais,
Locked in an inner chamber where no eye,
Save God's, could see her, passed the hours alone.
And marvelled not the household, for it deemed,
The day being one of fast, the lady there
In abstinence and prayer and meditation,
And wholesome mortification of the flesh,
As well became a sinful mortal, strove
To purge the spirit of its earthly dross.
Sir Ranulph smiled at this—some mystery,
He thought, was there beyond what met the senses
Which he would open. Hence he laid his plans.

And so it fell one Friday, ere the noon
Sir Ranulph came, and stayed till fish was served,
And learned the lady was at her devotions,
And could not be disturbed, for so her lord,
Having love and confidence, in truth believed.

Then, full of evil thought, Sir Ranulph said—
“A happy man are you, my dear old friend,
To have so good a wife, so pious too,
Of whom, and of whose ways you are assured.
Ah me! that there are men less blest than you!
Ah me! that there are dames less true than yours!

I knew a noble knight whose wife retired
Weekly as does the Lady Kallimais,
Your pure and virtuous consort. As for her,
A wicked wretch, and he, a man abused.
He knew not as he would not of her ways,
So confident was he; but chance revealed.
There was a smart young page—but that is naught:
The dame is dead—she was a wicked woman;
In truth I know not how the story came
Thus to my memory. Whence had you, pray,
This wine of Cyprus? 'Tis a toothsome drink,
And good for mind and body. Pledge me now
To the old days when both were bachelors,
And wish me some fair dame in whom I'll hold
That quiet trust you have, and should, in yours.”
Then he began to bring again to mind
Their old adventures, when they had the world
All free before them, and their swords were new,
And hearts were eager, and their thoughts were young;
And talking all, and listening none, soon wore
The hours, then took his leave and went away—
A wasp that ere it flew had left a sting.

Strode through the hall Sir Huon all alone,
And out the portals to the garden fair,
And up and down the walks; but neither rose,
Of odorous petals tinged with delicate hues,
Nor stately lily with its snowy bell,
Nor modest violet from its timid lips
Offering its fragrance, had a charm for him.
He thought upon his dame, fair Kallimais—
So sweet, so pure, so true, fair Kallimais—
And yet so strange her ways, fair Kallimais.
Why, if devotion were alone her purpose,
Should she shut out the path to heaven above

She trod in to the loving lord she loved?
She was no wicked dame, fair Kallimais,
As she of whom his friend, Sir Ranulph, spake;
But good and sweet and filled with piety,
And fond of him beside—yea! loved him well.
And yet a wife who was a loving wife
Should have no secrets from her other self,
Not even in her intercourse with heaven;
A whole day in devotion; but one day,
And six which showed no thought of prayer or praise.
He might not spy—'twere mean indeed to spy;
He might not follow her—his promise barred
The way to that; he might not questions ply,
So he was pledged. Sir Huon's lot was hard.
And yet if by some mode outside his vow
He could discover aught, could find him why
Her fast was lone, and what she did within
That inner chamber from the world shut out,
Why then, his mind at ease, and then—and then.
So on another day, she being out,
He furtive sought that inner room, and found
But a mean altar with a crucifix,
A missal, and a vase of holy water,
A praying-stool of wood, and nothing more.
The stool was worn, and bore the marks of knees;
The missal worn, and bore the marks of use.
Never a man so shamed of his suspicions;
And yet when he beheld in the partition
A small round knot that outward fell on pressure,
And struck the floor of the adjoining room,
He let it stay there as it fell—of course.

When Friday next came on, so ill at ease
Sir Huon, that he wandered round the house
Until he came to that same empty chamber

Next where his pious wife was knelt in prayer.
He crept there softly, like a thief he crept,
And would have shrunk away, had not his glance
Fell on the hole from which the knot had dropped.
Then curiosity o'ercame resolve,
And so he stood before the aperture,
And slowly placed his eye thereto, and saw.

And this he saw. At first a tiny mouse
That capered up and down the room—then, horror!
A tigress body, supple, long and strong—
Black stripes and white upon a yellow ground—
Fearfully beautiful, with frightful paws,
And cruel claws, and slender limbs and strong—
A tigress body, with no tigress head,
A tigress body, with a human head,
A tigress body, and the head his wife's—
The head was that of Lady Kallimais,
The golden hair down falling like a mane,
The blue eyes raining floods of earnest tears,
The rosy lips with mental woe contorted—
Enchantress, or enchanted, who might know?
Meanwhile the mouse kept capering up and down,
Frolic and joyous, leaping here and there;
And every time the eyes of Kallimais
Rested upon the tiny creature's form,
A shudder ran through body and through limbs,
A newer shadow on the forehead passed,
A sharper pang of anguish on the face,
While the salt tears fell ever faster, faster;
And the poor creature, whatsoe'er it was,
Monster, or form enchanted, or a vision,
Would rest its fore-paws on the altar there,
And bow its head before the crucifix,
And seem to pray; whereat the mouse would leap,
And jump and frolic as the thing were mad.

Sir Huon had a noble soul and kind,
And knew some doom had fallen on his wife,
A fearful doom and weird and terrible.
Such agony had come not of her will;
'Twas dealt by one who had the mastery,
Or by her fault, or by his greater power;
But he would not believe 'twas through her fault
And so he left, and sought the open air,
And marvelled. When they met that night no word
Dropt from his lips to tell what he had seen;
But when she fell asleep upon his breast
He lay awake all night, and pondered much
How and through whom he might deliver her,
His dear wife Kallimais, from sore distress,
And free her from her bonds, nor break his vow;
For such his love that he believed her wronged,
And such his love he knew her innocent;
But innocent or guilty, nevertheless,
Or wronged or wronger, he would save her yet—
For, innocent or guilty, she was his,
Or wronged, or wronger, he was still her lord:—
For weal or woe he wedded that fair dame;
In weal or woe his love was still the same.

III.

Deep in the forest, in a mossy hut,
By boughs o'ershaded, where a bubbling spring
Rose eager from between the ferns and mosses,
And filled its basin with a crystal flood
Wherein the watercresses loved to grow,
There dwelt the anchorite Heremiton.
A saint was he who had a scholar been—
And hence a sinner, for who knows all things
Will do all things, and most of deeds are sin—
Master of every tongue, and every science

Permitted and forbidden, but of those
Forbidden he forebore. The mate of lords,
The favorite of kings, he left them all,
Flung riches, pomp and honors far away,
And came to end his days in solitude
Where man but rarely was, God evermore.
And there he lived a lonely, quiet life,
Save when some hind, sore smitten by disease,
Called forth his skill in leechcraft to his aid—
His food fresh herbs; his drink the limpid flow;
Rushes his bed; his thoughts upon the grave.
Sir Huon sought him out, and told him all.

The anchorite a moment mused, then said—
“A capering mouse, the other seems to fear it?
Saw you no human being in the place?”
“Why, no,” replied the knight; “naught save these two—
And one is human surely though deformed,
The tigress body with my lady's head,
But saving this no trace of man or woman.
The mouse, the altar, and the crucifix,
The vase of holy water and the stool—
The room held nothing more—of that be sure.”

“And so this form—your wife, or whatsoe'er
The creature be, if not illusion, knelt
Before the altar and the crucifix,
And not it seems in mockery. That proves
The shape and change is not the fault or will
Of Lady Kallimais. She has a foe
So potent as to scoff at holy symbols,
So strong it bids defiance to the church.
Book, bell and candle will not chase the fiend,
For here no fiend, but something even worse,

A raging woman. Has there ever been
A rival for your love who seeks revenge
On her who won your love? You shake your head.
Had then the gentle Lady Kallimais
No bitter foe who strikes for fancied wrongs?
No rival beauty whom in maiden frolic,
By some light word she wounded in her pride?”

The knight replied—“My lady has no foes,
That I have ever heard of—could not have;
For she is gentle as the morning dew,
And kindly is to every living thing,
And ever was. The only one who hated—
And she because my lady being heir
Barred her from all our lands—is leagues away,
The Princess Pharmakis. She is not here,
But far from hence in Paynim lands, where dwells
Her father, of a province there pashaw.”

Then said the anchorite—“Be 't whom it may
Be sure she comes, and in the mouse's shape;
And ere the charm be broken she must die,
Or when the charm is loosened she must die.
My magic staff, my books of magic art,
Are buried deep, and I had never thought
To bring them to the light. Nathless, I will.
And now observe me well. On Thursday night,
When twelve has told its number from the bell,
And loosed uneasy spirits from the graves,
I will be waiting at the postern gate;
Admit me then, and to that oratory
Where prays and suffers Lady Kallimais,
Conduct and leave me. Then at cockcrow go,
When once thy lady shall have left her couch,
And seek thy spot of vantage. Look within,

Note what shall meet thy gaze, then go thy way;
Come thou again at nightfall, and again
Note what thou seest, and there remain until
I call thee, and be glad of heart meanwhile;
For if I read this tale of thine aright,
And potence has not left me through disuse,
The sufferer shall from wrong delivered be,
The wronger perish at the place of wrong.
The saints protect and guard thee—go!”

And so on Thursday at the midnight hour,
When the clock struck Sir Huon left his couch—
His wife still wrapt in slumber—oped the door,
And took Heremiton with book and staff
Straight to that inner chamber where he left him,
Then to his couch returned, but not to sleep.

Ere the cock crowed the Lady Kallimais
Arose and touched her lord, who slumber feigned,
Then kissed him fondly as he lay and said—
“The Holy Mother be his shield!” and then
Hastily robing to her sorrow glided,
Whereat the knight with tenderness was filled.
Then crowed the cock within the palace yard,
And rising from his couch Sir Huon now
Followed, and sought his former hiding place
From whence he looked upon the scene within.

His wife was kneeling at the altar's foot,
Her sweet head bowed the crucifix before,
When suddenly a dame, in velvet clad,
Her back toward him, in the room appeared.
The stranger spake not, stirred not, but a thrill
Went through her form, and then it shrunk and shrunk,
Smaller and smaller, shape and substance changing

Until it changed into a mouse which ran
And capered gaily in the chamber's space,
Then came and fixed its bright eyes on the dame.

Then rose the lady from the altar, rose
As one enforced, and in the centre stood,
And trembled there; and then a change began.
Her robe spread to a tigress' hide, her limbs
Were clad with fur, her fingers armed with claws;
And bit by bit, all but her face and neck
Became a ravening, savage brute, while tears
Fell from her eyes, and o'er her tortured features
There spread a veil of woe. And then the mouse
Ran here and there, and leapt and frolicked fast,
Whereon Sir Huon softly went away.
He dared not enter, for his oath forbade,
But all that day he neither ate nor drank,
And waited till the night was drawing nigh,
When he returned, and looked again, and saw.

There was the Lady Kallimais yet pacing,
And there the mouse was capering as before.
And now the last rays of the setting sun
Streamed through the oriel level from the west,
Wrapping them both in radiance like a flame,
When sudden stopt the tigress, so the mouse,
And shook the tigress, an expectant gaze
Crossing the face. The body shook and shook,
And bit by bit, the furred hide passed away,
The silken robes succeeding, and the limbs
Grew human once again, and on the stool
Before the crucifix the lady knelt
And thanked the Blessed Lord. Stood still the mouse,
And shook and shook, but on the instant then
A grey cat from beneath the altar crept,

With ears bent back, and whiskers quivering,
And sprang upon the mouse, and struck its claws
Into the creature's skull, and slew it straight.
Astounded stood the Lady Kallimais,
Then in a moment more the cat was changed,
And, book and staff in hand, before her stood
The grave, grey anchorite Heremiton.

The anchorite remained within; the knight
Came to the door and met his wife, who swooned
Into his arms; and then he kissed her lips,
Whereat once more she came to life, and o'er
Her cheeks and lips the blood took course again.
Called loudly by the anchorite, they entered;
And there upon the floor, a lifeless corse,
The velvet-covered Princess Pharmakis
Lay stretched before them. But Heremiton,
Shunning their thanks, bade them thank God alone,
And left the palace for his woodland cell.

That night the lady told her lord, with tears,
How once a beggar to the palace came—
A loathsome leper asking care and food,
Whereat she shuddered and avoided him,
On which he cursed her for a wretch, and then,
Her anger being roused, she bade her serfs
To scourge him off, of which she sore repented.
Up to that time the spells of sorcery
Of Pharmakis had never power; from thence
They fell in force; and, for she had a heart
So like a tigress on that day, was punished
By being made a tigress in her form
When fell the day she drove the leper off.

IV.

When came Sir Ranulph on one Friday morn,
And saw Sir Huon and his stately dame
Together in the garden, well he knew
Was happily solved the mystery of that pair
But not for him; and so he held his peace,
And leaving them, and going to the wars,
Was slain in a melée. No more of him.

But nevermore the Lady Kallimais
Knew change of form; the fearful doom had passed;
And lived her lord and she in happiness
For many years, and died upon one day.
From them the house of Tourblanc came, whose crest,
A tigress demi, with a woman's head,
Rampant, surmounts its arms, a turret argent,
Proper, upon an azure field displayed.

So ends the tale of Lady Kallimais.

FIONN AND THE FAIRIES.

[_]

Fionn MacCumhail (the Finn MacCool, of the common tongue) takes a place in Irish legends, somewhat like that of Arthur, in the circle of the Knights of the Round Table, or Roland, among the twelve peers of Charlemagne. The Fingal of MacPherson's romance is a mere pinchbeck counterfeit of the original. Fionn is the leader of the Fianna, but in keenness and might, Oscur and others of his followers surpass him. He is a chevalier sans peur, but no sans reproche. The bardic traditions paint him as possessed of the weaknesses of a man, as well as the courage of a hero. In the story which follows, we have a leading idea which, in some shape, is common to the folk-lore of all countries. Arthur's Sleeping Heroes, the Seven Sleepers and Rip Van Winkle are all of this class. We find the abstraction of mortals by fairies a leading feature in Cymric folk-lore; but there the result is usually tragic. On the return of the unfortunate guest, he falls to ashes or dwindles and dies.

Fionn, who in those days was chief of the Fianna,
Started to seek in the mountains his prey;
With him his wolf-hounds, Brann, Brod and Lomluath,
Making o'er mead and through woodland their way,
Down to the glen of the thunderstruck oak-tree,
Cleft in the rocks that were grassless and grey.

Presently Brann stopped and scented, then bounded
Eagerly forward, the rest after him—
Ah! they were fleet and of noble endurance,
Massive of jaw and of muscular limb;
Woe to the elk or the wolf they encountered—
Triumph for them, but destruction to him!

Fionn followed fast, in the chase ever earnest,
Came where the hounds stood in front of their prey;
Not theirs to harm aught that seemed to be human;
This a dwarf harper, old, withered and grey,
On a stone seated, unheeding their presence,
Twanging his harp-strings, and chanting his lay.

Wizen-faced, small and deformed, but he sat there
Calm, as though nobles and ladies among;
Never before did a harp make such music,
Never such song by a mortal was sung;
Fionn heard in wonder; the hounds in a circle
Sat on their haunches, outlolling each tongue.

Then, when at last died the sound of the harp-strings,
Fionn asked the dwarf: “Why alone in the glen?
Brutes only live in the cliffs and the wild wood,
Harpers and bards in the dwellings of men.
Follow me straight to the camp of the Fianna;
Sing there the song of the heroes again.”

“Fionn of the Fianna!” the harper responded,
“Waste not a pity unneeded on me;
Wander I may at my will and my pleasure—
Harp and its owner are equally free,
I am an elf—Cnu Deroil, so they call me,
Servant to Una, the Queen of the Sighe.

“But unto you for to-day is my mission,
Chief of the heroes and pride of the land;
On you, through me, does my mistress lay geasa,
Not for a service by spear or by brand,
But as her guest, by the vow you have taken,
Never to fail at a woman's command.”

Opened a way as he spake in the hill-side—
There was a portal where none was before;
Wide was the entrance; Fionn followed the harper—
True to their vows were the heroes of yore;
Then when they passed it, closed clanging behind them,
Ponderous wings of the great brazen door.

Ah! what a vision of ravishing beauty
Burst on Fionn's sight! How surpassingly fair!
Blue sky above him, and lush grass around him;
Silvery fountains to freshen the air;
Pathways that led through the roses and lilies;
Birds ever singing with melody rare.

There on the lawn rose a palace of marble,
Azure in shadow and snowy in light;
Turrets and pinnacles, casements and doorways
Studded with rubies and diamonds bright;
Seneschal grave at the door to receive him,
Soldiers in saffron, and maidens in white.

Fionn, with his wolf-hounds at hand, entered boldly,
Towering his figure, athletic and tall,
Ushered with welcome where, robed in rich colors,
Courtiers and ladies were grouped in the hall;
There on her throne sat the golden-haired Una,
Gracious, and fairer by far than them all.

“Hero of heroes!” the Sighe-queen addressed him,
“Honor and service are yours where I sway;
All things around you are yours to partake of,
All of my subjects your orders obey;
Only one thing to you here is forbidden;
Use all the rest with what freedom you may.

“Here in the hall is a spring overflowing,
Limpid as ether, no crystal so clear;
Draught it has yet never furnished to mortal,
Meant but for those who are born to it here;
Touch it not, taste it not, else woe betide you,
Even one drop of it costing you dear.”

Nothing for Fionn from that moment but pleasure,
Feasted and served with a homage profound;
Every delight that the fairies could tender,
Pleasing to sight or to taste or to sound;
Hours they went by on the swiftest of pinions,
Life was an evermore merry-go-round.

So, for six days a continual revel,
Even the hounds of the feasting partook;
Then on the seventh satiety followed,
Fionn on his face wore a wearisome look;
Brann, Brod and Lomluath, all growing sullen,
Crept to one side in a sheltering nook.

What were the dainties around in profusion?
What were the wines of the purest and best?
What were the homage and service they gave him?
What was fulfilment of every request?
What were the smiles of the golden-haired Una?
Draught from that fountain was worth all the rest.

Fionn, with a thirst that was fierce and resistless,
Stooped to the water and drank to his fill;
Shrieks all around him; rose bristling the wolf-hounds,
Went through their master a tremulous thrill;
Broke with the draught all the magical fetters
Closing his vision and binding his will.

Elves clad so finely wore dead leaves for garments,
Everything round him was squalid and base,
Lawn, groves and hall were one damp, dripping cavern,
Noisome and gloomy the look of the place;
Una was changed to a hag, old and withered,
Crooked in figure, and wrinkled in face.

Fled he in horror; a few rotting faggots
Crossing the door made no barrier to him;
Out in the sunlight, he stood there and shivered,
Muscles were weakened and vision was dim—
What made the wolf-hounds so old and decrepit,
Gaunt, trembling, toothless and feeble of limb?

Marvelous change on himself! All unshaven,
Down reached his beard to the waist-buckle near,
Over his person his dress hung in tatters,
Tangled the locks that fell over each ear,
Rusted his glaive till it clung to the scabbard,
Rotten and worthless the haft of his spear.

Vanished the door that had been in the hill-side,
Leaving the rock on it grassless and bare;
Pathway that led to it covered with brambles,
Tracks to it leading no longer were there,
What had been meadow was grown up with coppice,
Grass where the birches and hazel-trees were.

Making their way through the much-tangled thicket,
Out came they all on a wide, open road;
There they beheld a stout, vigorous peasant,
Bearing of branches a staggering load—
Gleaned from the forest—and merrily whistled,
Cheerily seeking his humble abode.

“When was this road made?” asked Fionn, of the other;
“Seven days since, and no pathway was here.”
“You are a stranger,” the cotter made answer,
“Else you would know all about it, that's clear.
Cormac, the king, had it cut when Fionn left him;
Seven years that, on this day, to a year.

“Strange, too, it was; Fionn was traced to yon hill-side,
He and his hounds; then, no tokens were found;
Some say he went off to join ‘the good people,’
Others, he wandered to far foreign ground.
No one knows rightly. He was a bold hero;
Much they lament him when this day comes round.”

“And who leads the Fianna now?” “Diarmuid, the dauntless;
Courts he Fionn's widow, I hear gossips say;
Makes but poor speed, I am told, in his wooing;
Still the fair Maghneiss replies to him ‘nay,’
Tells him that Fionn will return from his travel;
But she'll come round. Women do. 'Tis their way.”

Fionn heard no more, but strode steadily forward,
Doubt and amazement fast kindling to wrath—
“He who depends upon love, or on friendship,
Little of hope for his happiness hath.”
Then, whistling sharp to the three feeble wolf-hounds,
Sadly pursued to his dwelling the path.

Soon he was there; when he came to the portal,
Looking forlorn, 'twas a beggar, they thought;
All were new servants, proud, arrogant, heartless—
Vainly the needy their kindliness sought.
Maghneiss above, who had come to a casement,
Threw him an alms-gift, which deftly he caught.

“Give the poor wanderer food, drink and shelter,”
Maghneiss exclaimed. “On this day of the year

No one shall go without dole and a welcome
Due to his memory ever held dear.
He would have done it, for he was kind-hearted.”
“Maghneiss, my darling,” cried Fionn, “I am here!”

The Fianna shaved the cheeks and chin, leaving only the mustache.

Daoine Maith—good people, i. e., fairies. The Irish peasant, like the Welsh, never speaks of these mysterious beings in any other way.

THE WOLF-GIRL.

[_]

This legend is current, in some form, in all the northern countries of Europe, and similar stories may be found in the folk-lore of the East. In some cases, the enchanted woman takes the form of a serpent or a dragon; and, in others, is hideously scarred, or otherwise repulsively deformed. It is always a kiss, generally the third given, which breaks the charm and restores the victim to her original beauty. Occasionally, the sex is reversed, as in the instances of Beauty and the Beast, or the Brown Bear of Norway. In these last, however, it is positive affection, and not the mere semblance of it, which works the deliverance. There is a characteristic anachronism in the usual Irish legend which introduces a Christian priest to perform the marriage service, although the Fianna were undoubtedly Pagans, and their last chief, Fionn MacCumhail, was slain more than five centuries before the advent of St. Patrick. Filial affection, like a respect for female purity, holding so high a place among the ancient Irish—and in that respect the race has not degenerated—I have chosen to effect the release of the father through the self-sacrificing effort of the son.

The Fianna sat at a banquet there,
From ovens drawn the heath,
And heaped on platters huge the meats
That steaming lay beneath—
The mighty joints of cattle black,
Leaf-wrapped the lake-caught fish;
While bowls of meadh went circling round
For those who drink might wish.

Foul-mouthed, bald-headed Conan sought
By coarsest jests to glean
Some scattered grains of thoughtless mirth—
“Where now,” he cried, “is Fionn?
Some damsel lures our grey-haired chief
From comradeship to stray;
And makes him laggard at the feast,
Who still is first at fray.

“We miss our Diarmuid much to-day;
His sword was of the best;
And well as that his hand could wield,
His tongue could hurl a jest;
But now, with much of meat and meadh,
The Fianna all are dumb;
And even peerless Oscur here
Is long of face and glum.”

“Be silent, ribald!” Oscur said;
“Such gibes are out of place;
I have a cause for looks forlorn;
Your words are scant of grace.
Life gloomy seems as here I sit,
For eighteen years to-day
Have passed since Lir, the Druid vile,
Stole Aebh, my child, away.

“Pursuit was made, but all in vain;
We searched the country round;
None know if she be living or dead;
No trace of her was found;
This day each year my soul is sad,
The sunbeams give no light;
I feel no pleasure in the feast,
No longing for the fight.”

There as he spake came slowly Fionn,
With faint and tottering pace,
And grimly beckoned Oisin then,
And drew him from the place.
A gloom came over all around,
Even Conan had no word,
As earnestly and silently
The son and sire conferred.

“My son,” said Fionn, “your sire is weak,
Nor could his life to save
Find needed force to hurl the spear,
Or strength to wield the glaive.”
“Whence comes such weakness,” Oisin asked,
“Oh, sire, and chief of men?”
“I fell this morn within her power,
The Wolf-Girl of the Glen.”

O'erspread with pallor Oisin's face,
As Fionn rehearsed the tale—
“She met me at the pile of rocks
Before the Glann-na-Gael.
I strove to spurn the wretched thing,
And bade her from me flee;
She only growled and bared her fangs,
And spake these words to me:

“‘Henceforth no strength be in your frame,
No courage in your heart;
A beardless stripling in the fight
Shall play a manlier part.
Henceforward pointless be your spear,
And dull of edge your sword,
Till I am wedded by your son,
Despite my form abhorred.’

“Her curse has struck; a weakling now,
To exile hence I go.”
He turned, but Oisin stayed his steps—
“No, father dear, not so!
Sweet Saebh, my mother, was your wife;
Here with our comrades stay;
And have a priest ere I return,
For Oisin weds to-day.”

Forth Oisin strode to Glenn-na-Gael,
And at its mouth beheld
A woman of such fearful mien,
That horror she compelled.
She lacked not grace, though clad in rags,
And moved with supple limb;
But on her neck and shoulders wore
A wolf's head, fierce and grim.

The jaws were strong and told of blood,
The fangs were long and white,
Out lolled the red and dripping tongue—
It was a loathly sight;
But when the Wolf-Girl spake, the voice,
To Oisin's great surprise,
Was gentle, sweet and tender-toned,
Despite those cruel eyes.

“What seeks young Oisin here,” she asked,
“Since Oisin it must be,
For one so loathly to the eye,
None else would care to see?
You love me not, you could not love—
You're coming here alone
To free a father from the spell
By magic o'er him thrown.”

“I come,” said Oisin, shuddering,
“To do as you demand;
It is not love or heart you seek;
You ask, I give my hand.
I swear to wed with you before
The Fianna all to-day,
And what so geasa you impose
Will faithfully obey.”

A hideous sight that wolfish head,
A thing to scare and harm;
Yet, as the tears fell from her eyes,
He felt a secret charm;
Such gentle way, such silvery tones,
Such lithe and subtle grace—
Alas! to find them illy joined
To such a loathly face.

He took her gently by the hand,
And wondered at the sight—
A woman with a head so foul,
And hands so fair and white.
But ere with fitting courtesy
The Wolf-Girl thence was led,
She paused, and to the listening youth,
In gentle tones she said:

“As soon as we shall wedded be,
My first and sole command—
You bow to east and west and north,
And kiss me on each hand:
And then, despite these fangs and lips,
Lout lowly to the south,
Then clasp your arm around my waist,
And kiss me on the mouth.

“For thus and thus, and thus alone,
You break the potent spell,
That from the Druid's wrath through me
Upon your father fell;
And thus and thus, and thus alone,
You may another free,
If, where the Fiannan heroes are,
You give me kisses three.”

They came to where the Fianna sat;
The priest was waiting there,
While weakling Fionn far sat apart,
With dull and gloomy air.
Quoth Conan, with a grin: “Such bride
No bridegroom dare abuse;
Some wives have ready finger-nails,
But this her teeth might use.”

Amazed the stout companions all
When Oisin stood beside,
As blithe as though her face were fair,
His weird and fearful bride;
And heard him tell the trembling priest
To speed the nuptial rite,
With voice as gay as though such fere
Would be his heart's delight.

With mistletoe and mystic sign,
The priest had made them one;
But still the Fianna silent sat
When all was featly done,
And no one dared salute the bride;
Even Conan made a pause
Before those wild and cruel eyes,
Those fanged and bony jaws.

But Oisin there, before them all,
Bowed north and east and west,
And fearlessly his shuddering lips
Upon her hands he pressed;
A tremulous motion shook the bride;
He bowed him to the south,
Then clasped his arms around her waist,
And kissed her on the mouth.

A thrill ran through the comrades here—
What wondrous thing was this?
What transformation strange had come
Upon that triple kiss?
To silk, bedecked with jewels bright,
Changed were the rags she wore;
And she, as lovely as the dawn,
A Wolf-Girl now no more.

In speechless rapture Oisin stood;
Cried Oscur as he rose:
“Oh, Una's living image! come
To bless my life-time's close!
Speak! tell me who you are, fair bride!”
She knelt at Oscur's knee—
“One time the Druid stole me. Aebh,
Your daughter—I am she!”

Sprang Fionn to feet with lusty bound,
His olden strength returned;
New vigor filled his stalwart frame;
New fire within him burned.
He backward drew his ponderous spear
And hurled it at an oak;
The spear-head found the hither side,
The shaft in splinters broke.

THE RESCUE OF NIAV.

[_]

The myth, whose solution is found in the last stanza of this ballad, is not peculiar to Ireland, but is found in some shape or other in every country of the Old World. The contest between truth and error, right and wrong, light and darkness, plays a prominent part in the folk-lore of Europe and Asia. This particular story is not drawn from the legends of the Irish Fianna, but is characteristic. The suit of armor known as the Corrbolg, and the sword and spear that went with it, were in the custody of Meadbh [Maev], the Sighe Queen, and it was their absence which enabled Goll, of Connaught, to overcome Cumhail, the father of the famous Fionn. As for Fear Doirche, he plays important part in Irish story, and as Fir Dorocha, the vulgar form, he is the hero of a well-known bit of demon-lore.

The Fianna were seated at banquet, with Fionn, the undaunted, at head,
And Oscur sat there on his right hand, but nothing to comrades he said.
Of the savory dishes around him, his lips and his hand took no heed,
And beside him, undrained and untasted, there stood the great beaker of mead.

Quoth Conan, the bald and the foul-mouthed: “Our Oscur is troubled, methinks;
The youth who pins faith to a woman may look for a trick from the minx.
Better that before marriage than after; in sorrow it softens the pain
To know we are free to seek others, not tethered by padlock and chain.”

Ere Oscur could rise to rebuke him, in came with nor warning nor leave,
Dust-covered and breathless and footsore, the page of the fair Lady Niav.

Low louted he there before Oscur, and this was the story he told:
“Fear Doirche has seized on my lady, and borne her away to his hold!”

Sprang the Fianna around to their weapons, so ready they were for the fray,
And quick at battle as banquet; but Fionn bade them sternly to stay:
“Though each charge on ten of the foemen, when courage a triumph compels,
Fear Doirche scorns courage and numbers, so guarded by magical spells.

“He is bound by his oath to a combat, to combat with one and no more,
The wealth of the vanquished the victor's, whenever the conflict be o'er;
And so long as that oath be unbroken, the stronghold where safely he lies,
Though a thousand may be its assailants, their stoutest of efforts defies.

“At the door of his castle a war-horn is hung for a foeman to sound;
When its notes have awakened the echoes, Fear Doirche to fight there is bound;
But nothing of doubt has the Dark-Man, no terror of spirit to feel—
Our swords are of bronze and fire-hardened, but his of invincible steel.”

“And yet will I meet him,” cried Oscur; “his spells and his steel I defy;
To rescue sweet Niav from his thraldom, I fight till I conquer or die.

Follow after who will to behold me; forbidden to aid, ye may see
If your comrade be worthy of friendship, if fit for a curadh he be.”

Strode Oscur alone, while they tarried awaiting permission of Fionn;
Through the glen, o'er the plain, past the wildwood, his feet sought the distance to win;
But when passing Cairn Gorey in silence, his hand on his well-tempered glaive,
Came a lady of ravishing beauty, the Sighe-Queen, the powerful Meadbh.

“Stay thy steps at my geasa,” she uttered; “to conquer thy foe in the fight
The arms of the Clann-Sighe are needed to match those of magical might.”
Then she struck on the three stones beside her; they opened, and forth from them came
Three dwarfs, and each one bore a burden—three dwarfs, and not one had a name.

One bore the invincible Corrbolg, and one the infallible spear,
One carried Skullbiter, the falcon—who bears it no foeman should fear.
“Take this,” said the Sighe, “for thine armor; take these for thy weapons from me;
Thus armed, thou may'st equal Fear Doirche; the rest will depend upon thee.”

Then vanished the dwarfs and their mistress. The Corrbolg by Oscur was donned,
Skullbiter he grasped with his right hand, his left twirled the spear like a wand;

Then, firm in his purpose and eager, he sped on the rough, rocky way
To the fir-studded cleft in the mountain, where Niav as a prisoner lay.

And there, at the gate of the castle, the bright, golden warhorn was hung;
A grasp! to the lips! and defiance in air to Fear Doirche was flung;
And scarce had the notes summoned echo, the echo that came as they rang,
When opened the great iron portals, and flung themselves back with a clang.

Forth came, in black armor, Fear Doirche, his magical blade in his hand;
No word left his lips, and no warning; he spake by the sweep of his brand.
And there Oscur's mouth was as speechless; he came not to talk, but to fight,
To peril his life for his lady, to do his devoir for the right.

Fear Doirche was black-haired and swarthy; his dark eyes were snake-like and cold;
Young Oscur was fair-skinned and blue-eyed; his locks in the sunshine were gold;
Fear Doirche was built like the oak-tree, the blast of the tempest to take;
Like the tall, slender ash-tree was Oscur, to bend some, but never to break.

The grey rock is smitten by lightning, and stands there unmoved by the shock;
So each in attack was the lightning, and each in resistance the rock;

And long they fought keenly and fiercely, and neither a syllable spoke,
Their blades flashing fast in the sunlight, as clashing stroke followed on stroke.

Niav stood on the rampart above them, and eagerly noted each blow;
And she cried: “Who would master Fear Doirche, to do it must never strike low!”
Oscur heard, and he pressed with more vigor; on the helmet his blows fell like rain,
And, as Fionn and the Fianna came near them, Fear Doirche fell, clave to the brain.

Came the Dark-Man's retainers all humbly, the victor's commands to receive;
And down in her ravishing beauty, there came, joy-transfigured, sweet Niav.
Though Truth had been captured by Error, stout Courage had rescued her straight;
And Courage and Truth, with the Fianna, they entered the wide castle gate.

THE SLEEPING FIANNA.

[_]

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.

THE BELL OF CIL-MIHIL.

[_]

The legend of Lough Ennel confuses dates. Going back in Irish history as far as Irish history can be dissevered from bardic tradition, we find frequent mention of the beautiful sheet of water known by the name, which seems to have existed when Patrick made his advent as apostle and bishop, at or about A.D. 432. It was the same lake which, five hundred and thirty years later, King Donald, then ard-righ of Ireland, made the base of his internaval operations against the Munster insurgents. If the legend had been based on any convulsion of nature, the event must have occurred anterior to the conversion of the Gael to Christianity.

No vale of more beauty than Ennel
Could vision or fancy reveal,
As it lay stretched in emerald beauty
For miles round the rath of ua Nial,
While crowning a mound in the center
Rose, mossy and hoary, Cil-Mihil.

Woods here and woods there in the valley,
The farms of the peasants between,
Tipped with light and low-nestled in shadow,
Flecked the whole with their varying green;
And far to the northward, copse-sheltered,
There bubbled the fountain of Caoin.

In the days of the power of the Druids,
They laid on that grove in the dell,
By charms and by doings unholy,
A deep and a mystical spell;

And its name told the destiny fearful
In future attached to the well.

Said the Druids: “So long as around it
Shall truth, love and justice abound,
So long shall its clear crystal waters
Flow freely and sink in the ground,
And peace to near dwellers and comfort
And plenty and gladness be found.

“But whenever, if ever, arises
A ruler unjust and unwise,
At whose hands, in the fury of passion,
A holy man innocent dies,
The well shall burst forth in a torrent
And cover the land where it lies.”

The Druids had gone, and the Christians
Came there, and they builded Cil-Mihil;
They taught men the truths of the Gospel,
The ills of our nature to heal,
Till the time when to rule o'er the valley
Came the worst of the tribe of O'Neil.

His smile fell in blight upon woman;
His frown fell in wrath upon man;
And the wrong and the shame of the chieftain
Infected the hearts of the clan,
Till, in face of the world, prince and vassals
A race in iniquity ran.

When the priest rose to preach in the lecturn,
They scoffed at both sermon and text;
With jeering at matins and vespers,
The soul of the good father vext;

While each night that they wasted in riot
Was only the type of the next.

Prince Brian was first in the revel,
And first in the scoffing as well;
On the priest and the young, pallid curate
His sarcasm bitterly fell;
But his anger waxed highest whenever
They rang, night or morning, the bell.

Yet that bell to the church had been given
By Lorcan, his grandsire of old;
It was wrought in a pattern of beauty,
Sounding sweetly through silver and gold,
From coins that were flung in the metal
As molten it ran to the mold.

The bishop had sprinkled and blessed it,
And hallowed by mass and by prayer;
An anthem was reverent chanted
By silver-voiced choristers there,
And sweet-smelling incense ascended
As high rose the bell in the air.

And there in the turret suspended
The spires of the grey church among,
It was said that on Sundays and feast-days
The music in air that it flung
Brought kneeling the chiefest of sinners,
Subdued by its musical tongue.

When it rang at the birth of an infant,
With blessing the ringing was rife;
It assured, when 'twas pealed at the bridal,
Sweet concord for husband and wife;

When tolled at the earthing the knelling
Gave hopes of a heavenly life.

But now, under Brian, the wicked,
Men scoffed at its sweet, silver note;
No longer on senses of hearers
Remorse for their wickedness smote;
They bowed not in humble contrition
When the Angelus pealed from its throat.

But, one night, in the month of November—
Heaven guard us!—it sudden befell,
While the valley was covered with slumber,
Resounded the clang of the bell,
Awful, slow, through the murk of the midnight,
Waking all with its funeral knell.

Rose the sexton from bed at the tolling
To learn who the ringer might be;
Half-clad came the folk from the village,
And roisterers checked in their glee,
Terror-struck, when below at the bell-rope
Mortal ringer no vision could see.

Then the boldest climbed up to the turret,
Whence came the deep sound to the air;
The bell it was swinging and ringing,
But no mortal ringer was there;
And he quickly descended where bended
The priest and the curate at prayer.

Came a giolla in haste from the castle,
And said to the neighbors around:
“Ochone! for the son of Prince Brian
Dead, dead in his bed has been found—

In the bed where his nurse left him sleeping—
An hour ere the bell gave a sound!”

Later on, when the corpse came for burial,
Prince Brian, who stood at its head—
“Take the bell from yon turret and break it,
Not alone for its jangling,” he said;
“But the bell that has tolled for my Eoghan
Shall sound for no commoner dead!”

In vain did the priest, horror-stricken,
The sacrilege ban in despair;
The Kerns, at command of their master,
Climbed, eager, the steep turret stair;
The belfry before them was empty;
The bell which they sought was not there.

Then Brian broke forth in his fury—
“A trick, done to thwart me!” cried he.
“Somewhere in the church it is hidden;
We'll gain it, wherever it be.
Rack the place! Tear to pieces the altar!
Bring the bell from its hiding to me!”

High the Host held the old priest before him.
“Bad man, from thy purpose refrain!
Lost is he, both in body and spirit,
Who the House of Our Lord would profane!”
Prince Brian he blenched not, and feared not,
Though shrank back the Kerns in his train.

Like cords stood the veins in his forehead;
His face grey as ashes, then red.
“For insolence die by the sword-strokes,
A warning to others!” he said.

And, their blood sprinkled over the altar,
The priest and the curate fell dead.

A shock like the shock of an earthquake;
A crash like the loud thunder's sound;
Burst the fountain of Caoin in a torrent,
Surged the fierce-rushing waters around.
At noon were church, valley and castle—
At night, but Lough Ennel was found.

Next morning, the priest and the curate
Were found in their robes on the shore;
With rites of the church, and with mourning,
Their forms to the church-yard they bore;
But the others, engulfed in the waters,
Were seen of the world never more.

And to-day, when the death-angel hovers
O'er one of the house of O'Neil,
The pitiful wail of the Bean Sighe
They hear o'er the dark waters steal,
While wells from the depths of Lough Ennel
The sound of the bell of Cil-Mihil.

“Cil-Mihil,” the “Church of Michael.” The Irish “C (Coll)” is always hard. Thus: “Cil,” “Coll,” “Cnoc,” “Celt” and “Caoin,” are pronounced “Keel,” “Kul,” “Knoc,” “Kelt” and “Keen” respectively.

“Banshee,” woman fairy, whose office it is, in all families of pure Milesian descent, to give warning of impending death.

THE BEGGAR'S WORD.

[_]

The name of the wicked prince in this legend is arbitrary, though the ancient Irish had an ard righ (high king, or emperor) thus called. Of the latter is told, with some variations, the tale of Midas. The story was caught probably from some monk in the days when Ireland stood pre-eminent in classical as well as theological learning, and it became filtered through the peasants' sieve. This Labhradh Loingseach—Lora Lonshach of the common tongue (Leary?)—was gifted with a pair of horse's, not ass's, ears. The barber relieved his mind of the awful secret not by whispering it to a hole in the ground, but into a split which he made in a willow. Of this the king's musician chanced to make a harp that treacherously, at a public festival, uttered the barber's words, “Da Chluais Chapail ar Labhradh Loingseach”—i.e., Lora Lonshach has horse's ears. As for Donn, called Firineach—the teller of truth—from the invariable fulfilment of his predictions, he may be set down as an Irish Thomas the Rhymer. His identity is not fixed. Sometimes he is called a local fairy king, and sometimes set down as a son of Milesius, the conqueror of Ireland, who has taken up his residence in a rocky hill, waiting until the country recovers its nationality.

Proudly arose Cnocfirinn's height, at that time clothed with trees,
Whose many leaves showed light or dark, synchronic with the breeze.
A castle stood upon its crown—now lie its ruins low—
But that was in the olden time, twelve hundred years ago.

And there the cruel Lora reigned, the king of all that land;
No trace of justice in his heart, no mercy in his hand:
To noble high, or peasant low, denying ruth or right:
Black be his memory, Lora-na-ard, the tyrant of the height!

His wrath the worst on Cormac fell—on Cormac of the Glen;
His hate for him was twice of that he felt for other men—
His cousin Cormac, rightful heir, whose crown usurped he wore,
Who Glann-a-dord alone retained of all he held before.

But naught for sway did Cormac long; a noble, shunning strife;
His greatest treasures, children twain and Amarach his wife—
Oscur, his son, a stripling tall, of proud and noble air,
And Niav—right well Fiongalla called—the innocent and fair.

Long time had Lora set his eyes on daughter and on land;
To wrest the last, to wreck the first, a deadly scheme he planned;
For tempting from his lofty towers, in all its pride complete,
Was Glann-a-dord, its woods and fields—and Niav was young and sweet.

So when one morning Niav went forth, with handmaids in her train,
As was her wont, to taste the air that swept the dewy plain,
There sudden from behind a knoll rode gallowglasses base,
Who rudely seized the lady fair and bore her from the place.

The gallowglasses of the king their saffron jerkins showed,
And to the summit of the hill the vile marauders rode.
The royal rath they entered, and with victory elate,
With shouts their lovely prize they bore within the castle gate.

Her brother heard her piteous shrieks, and snatching spear and brand,
Sprang light of foot up rock and cliff to intercept the band;
But only gained the castle gates to find them closed to him,
And at a wicket, sheltered well, the warder old and grim.

“What do you here,” the warder cried, “with spear and glaive displayed?
Our royal lord no comer brooks in hostile guise arrayed.
Begone, rash boy, or dread his wrath!” “'Tis Lora's self I seek.
Where skulks this coward king of yours, oppressor of the weak?”

Oped at the words the castle gates, and poured the wretches forth,
The vile assassin kerns well armed, the hirelings from the North.
The first went down before the sword, two others followed fast;
But all too many they for one, who, wounded, fell at last.

They haled him soon where Lora sat, and grimly said the king,
“For this, at dawn, before your house, on gallows-tree you swing;
And for the treason that is bred in nest at Glann-a-dord,
Your father's lands are forfeited unto his sovereign lord!”

Ill news will travel fast; and hence, ere quite an hour had flown,
A mother's heart was throbbing quick, a mother's voice made moan;
A white-haired father bent in grief, all pride and state laid by,
His only son, his hope, his pride, next morn was doomed to die.

Amid their grief the sunset fell, the hour was growing late,
When came a tattered beggar there, and rapped upon the gate.

“I am,” said he, “the poorest man among the sons of men;
God save ye kindly! give me bed and supper at the Glen.”

“Alas, poor man,” a servant said, “seek not for shelter here;
Avoid a house upon whose roof there falls such grief and fear.”
“Nay, nay,” said Cormac; “spurn him not! Whatever be our woes,
No man in need, while yet I rule, from hence unsuccored goes.”

They let the beggar in the gate, they set him at the board,
Where some one told him of the doom that hung on Glann-a-dord.
“Oh, sha gu dheine?” said he then. “But Oscur shall not die:
Not his, but Lora's race is run, I say, who cannot lie!”

The night had passed, the dawn was there, no cloud upon the sky;
And soon they raise before the door the ghastly gallows high;
And soon with mournful sound of horns the sad procession shows—
The troops of Lora on the march, and Oscur bound with those.

Came forth the beggar with his hosts, and with scarce-hidden laugh,
Exclaimed in measured accents, as he leaned upon his staff:

“Last night there was no banshee's cry, that ever death portends;
Take comfort, gracious Bhan-a-teagh, the right the right defends!”

Proud Lora prances on his steed, and lightly leaps to ground;
He gazes on the gloomy tree, then looks revengeful round,
When Amarach, with tottering steps, approaches where he stands,
And on her knees for mercy begs with high uplifted hands.

“The boy shall die!” the monarch said, “so treason may be checked,
And vassals taught their sovereign's will to hold in due respect.”
“You err, O king,” the beggar said; “not he, but you shall die.
I say it, I, Donn Firineach, the one who cannot lie!”

“Peace, fool!” replied the king. “And learn, O Cormac, to your cost,
Your son his life and you the lands of Glann-a-dord have lost.
But as for Niav, my leman she, to grace my palace hall.”
“Thou liest, king!” the beggar said. “She has escaped thy thrall.”

“Now who are you,” the monarch cried, “who dares to wake my wrath?
Far better in the woodland stand within the wild wolf's path.
Vile beggar-churl, this insolence to-day you well shall rue.
The tree which they have reared for one, has room enough for two!”

A noise as though the lightning-stroke a thunder-cloud had kissed.
Cnocfirinn opened at its base, poured forth a cloud of mist.
Impetuous over rock and mead in mighty mass it rolled,
And hid the beggar from their sight within its silver fold.

All stood appalled. What sign is this? Now guard us, Holy Rood!
Closer the cloud of mist advanced to where the monarch stood;
An arm in glittering mail came forth, a hand that bore a glaive;
It rose in air, then sweeping down, the head of Lora clave.

Then shrank the cloud away, dispersed, and showed a glittering ring
Of warriors bold in green and gold, and at their head their king—
Beggar no more—Donn Firineach, who one time ruled the land;
And to her sire the Lady Niav he led with kindly hand.

“From my deep sleep in yonder hill,” he said, “I heard your woe,
And came to raise the humbled right, and wrong to overthrow.
There lies the tyrant's worthless corse; inearth the soulless clay.
King Cormac has his own again, and none shall say him nay.”

His green-clad soldiers formed in rank; they marched toward the hill;
The awe-struck throng in wonder stood, their breathing low and still.

Cnocfirinn opened wide its base; the green elves entered there;
It closed; and rock and cliff around again were grey and bare.

Then joy was in the people's cup, o'erflowing at the brim;
For Cormac ruled o'er Munster wide, and Oscur followed him;
And Niav, before a year had gone, her young heart fairly won,
Was Queen of Ulster in the North, and bride of Nessa's son.

Fair-Cheek.

Is that so?

Vanithee (vulg. dict.)—i.e., woman of the house.

OWEN ROE'S VOW.

Lord Talbot rode at even forth
With fifty merry men,
And as the darkness lower fell,
Swept through the Wizard's Glen.

Through straight ravine, past treacherous bog,
Their steps to safely guide,
A peasant, in a russet coat,
Rode by Lord Talbot's side.

No sound was heard but tramp of hoofs,
When sudden, left and right,
Broke forth, with startling discord there,
The voices of the night.

Pierced through the sombre shade around
The hooting of the owl;
And in the distance far was heard
The wild wolf's fearful howl.

“These ominous sounds,” Lord Talbot said,
“Are not for us, I know;
They bode the fall of him and his,
The outlaw, Owen Roe.

“Too long a terror to the Pale,
His course will soon be run;
We'll root the breed, and scotch the seed,
Before to-morrow's sun—

“Both him and his, the comely wife,
The children young and fair,
The very babe that hugs the breast;
Nor sex, nor age, we'll spare.”

“I know, Lord Talbot,” quoth the guide,
“Your lordship's manner well;
And how, a score of years ago,
Your wrath on wretches fell.

“The band of Cormac Roe O'Neil,
A hundred gallant men,
With you four times their number met
Within the Wizard's Glen.

“One-third your men you lost that day;
One-half of his were slain;
You promised ‘grace’ if they would yield—
The terms they made were plain.

“A little space beyond it is—
We'll reach ere long the place
Where Cormac and his sons were killed,
Exempted from the ‘grace.’

“You spared the wife, but when she begged
Her sons' lives, bending low,
At least the fair-haired youngster there,
You sternly answered, ‘No!’

“She saw them die on gallows tree,
And said: ‘For this, thy sin,
I have another son, who'll wash
His hands thy blood within.’”

“You know the tale?” Lord Talbot cried,
As quick his rein he drew;
“None heard the woman's words save me;
Who, peasant, then are you?”

He raised his good sword as he spake,
And smote, but missed his mark;
The peasant swerved his horse aside,
And vanished in the dark.

What sound is that? The raven's cry!
Whoever yet had heard
Within the murky gloom of night,
The croaking of the bird?

That was the cry of Owen Roe—
The signal of his wrath:
The men-at-arms their horses reined
Within the narrow path,

For sudden came, in front and rear,
A mass of eager foes,
And these, within the rock-walled gorge,
Upon the horseman close.

A wall of pikes, before, behind,
Steep cliffs on either hand—
“Stand steady! strike the rascal kerns!”
Was Talbot's vain command.

As well strike wasps upon the wing,
As men in such a space;
As one went down ten others came,
Eager to fill his place.

Great rocks were hurled from heights above,
Came thrusts of pikes below;
And vainly the beleaguered men,
Dealt fiercely blow on blow.

Not one of all the men-at-arms
Who rode at eve of day,
Hemmed in, and barred on every side,
Escaped the fatal fray.

Lord Talbot there alone was left;
“Come on, vile knaves!” cried he.
“Stay!” said a voice; “you've dealt with them:
Their leader leave to me!”

With that a form came from the dark,
Full-armed from top to toe.
“You asked just now who I might be;
Learn I am Owen Roe.

“My kinsmen's blood cries from the ground,
And racks this heart of mine;
It will not cease till I have washed
My hands in blood of thine.”

Quick there a dozen torches blazed,
Not one who held them stirred—
As moveless they as cliffs around,
And no one spake a word.

No sound to break the stillness there,
Except the clash of steel,
So stern was each, and scant of speech,
Intent their blows to deal.

There stood the living men at bay,
The living men around,
And, in their ghastly stillness, lay
The dead men on the ground.

Lord Talbot's treacherous weapon broke;
Its fragments flew apart,
As Owen's blade relentlessly
Pierced through his foeman's heart.

Then, thrusting in the welling blood
His hands, he bathed them both—
“Now, mother, rest in peace,” he said,
“Thy son has kept his oath.”

Since then four hundred years have gone;
Yet glooms the Wizard's Glen;
But never has that lonely spot
Seen deed of blood again.

Nettles and night-shade grow therein;
Moss forms on tree and stone;
But where Lord Talbot's blood was spilled,
The grass has never grown.

And whoso watches in the place,
That same night of the year,
The spectral torches' light may see,
The clash of blades may hear.

THE WHITE DOVE.

[_]

The rapid conversion of the ancient Irish from Druidism to Christianity, compared to the slow progress of missionary efforts among other Northern nations, may be accounted for by the fact that the dominant people in Ireland were of a different race from those of England, Wales and the northern part of Europe. Originally, doubtless, Ireland was settled by the branch of the family known as Kelts, as other parts were by the branches usually called Belgæ and Teutones. Comparatively few in numbers, they gave way before the Teutonic sea-kings, the Fermorians, who were in turn displaced by the Belgæ, or Firbolgs, who were in turn driven out or exterminated by what appears to have been a Dacian invasion—the Tuatha de Danaan. All these seem to be of the same race—all of large, coarse build, with blue eyes and yellow or golden hair—the exceptions being so rare as to call for distinctive names when they appeared. The last invaders, who maintained permanent possession, were of a different race, and of different physical characteristics. They were called Milesians, or Gael, from their leaders, or Scoti, from the mother of Milesius, and came mediately through Spain from the Greek islands of the Mediterranean, between which and Ireland there can be traced some similarity of customs. They differed from the Kelto-Belgo-Teutonic race in appearance, their figures being more graceful, their hair dark, and their eyes blue—the ruling Irish type to-day. Their mythology was more intellectual, their habits less barbarous, their practices more chivalrous, and their folk-lore more innocent than that of their Keltic, Belgic or Teutonic predecessors. Hence probably their easier conversion. But it was nearly a century before Druidism was entirely destroyed, and the supremacy of the Gael practically established.

At that time lived Achy, the Druid, and Vauria, his wife, in a cot
Which stood in a glen of Sliabh Boughta, a lone and a desolate spot.
A Druid and Pagan was Achy; while Christians were others around,
He clung to the faith he was bred in, and for Crom kept undaunted his ground.

With the pair was their twelve-year granddaughter, of kin, but she was not of kind;
Sweet her face as the dawning of morning; as pure as the night-dew her mind;
Her hair of the tint of the sunlight; her eyes, of the sky overhead;
And her smile thrilled the heart of the gazers—'twas visible music, they said.

A life full of woe for the orphan, to toil for her grandsire compelled;
He hated her much for her father, but more for the faith that she held;
To make her deny or forsake it, nor curse nor caress could avail—
Though her face was the face of the Firbolg, her heart was the heart of the Gael.

“Disobedient your mother,” said Achy, “sole child, and she scoffed my desire;
She fled with a hated Milesian, in spite of the ban of her sire;
She was false to the faith of her father, the worship of Crom she disdained,
And you, of the union sole offspring, in pestilent error she trained.

“Your father was slain in a battle, your mother soon sickened and died;
The haughty Milesians disowned you, and drove you away in their pride.
I gave you that shelter and succor which vainly from others you sought,
Yet you cling to their creed and defy me, and Crom and our rites set at naught.”

And so they were cruel to Aoifè, however their love she implored,
Her dress of the coarsest, in tatters, her food what was left on the board;
But she clung to the Blessed Redeemer, she lacked in no duty she owed,
Was gentle in speech and in manner, and bore with sweet patience her load.

Grew daily the wrath of her grandsire, and hotter the fire of his hate,
And blows fell at times with his curses; and sadder and sadder her fate,
Till at last, in a frenzy of passion, he drove her away from the door,
And bade her go forth to the stranger, and trouble his household no more.

Sore-beaten, heart-heavy and tearful, went Aoifè perforce on that day,
Bewildered, through forest and coppice, she wearily wended her way,
Till sudden, a low, gentle cooing she heard in the branches around,
And then came a dove from the covert, and fearlessly stood on the ground.

It was white as the snow-drift in winter, on body and pinions and crest,
Save a cross that was colored like blood-drops, and borne plainly marked on the breast;
And Aoifè, forgetting her sorrow, bent forward to give it her care,
When it fluttered before as she followed, and rose now and then in the air.

Absorbed in pursuit, she pressed forward, her woe and her bruises unfelt,
Till she came where the forest was ended, and spread there the green Brugh-na-Celt;
Behind her the maze of the woodland; before in the distance there lay,
With glassy repose on its surface, the beautiful water, Lough Rea.

Went the dove out of view for the moment, for there, in the sight of the maid,
Swept near from a break in the forest, a noble and proud cavalcade,
Brave lords and fair ladies well mounted, with servants in waiting beside,
And they paused, when the figure before them, shy, blushing and trembling, they spied.

“Now, who,” said the young prince who led them, “be you who are wandering here—
Are you one of the good fairy people, or wood-nymph awaiting her fere?
And why, child, those rough, ragged garments, where beauty rich velvets would grace,
And what is the cause of the trouble that mantles with sorrow your face?”

The dove came and sat on her shoulder, and lovingly cooed in her ear,
And the child, unabashed at their presence, spake then with nor shyness nor fear:
“For my faith I am homeless, Prince Cormac; few words, and my story is told;
My grandsire is Achy the Druid, my father was Nessa the bold.”

Up spake Lady Saav, Cormac's mother: “My son, she claims wardship from you,
For brother-at-arms to your father was Nessa, the brave and the true.
That dove on her shoulder is token, for Nessa, her sire, on his shield,
Bore it argent, cross gules on its bosom, displayed on a fair azure field.

“She is heiress to all wide Cioncarragh; her uncle, proud Ronan the Red,
Seized her land, drove her off to her grandsire, and told all the world she was dead.
The tale, it appears, was a false one; Red Ronan relies on his might;
You are prince of Iar Conacht; your duty to see that the wronged has her right.”

A sound in the distance like thunder, a crash and a far-distant cry;
The dove in the air swiftly circled, then melted away in the sky;
And soon came a giolla swift riding, to tell how a cliff overhead
Had fallen and crushed the lone cottage, and Achy and Vauria were dead.

Nine years rolled away, and a banquet for noble and peasant was spread,
When Aoifè, the Flower of Cioncarragh, to Cormac, of Conacht, was wed;
And her lord threw aside the half-lion, he had borne up to then as his crest,
For the dove that was white as a snow-drift, a cross of blood-red on its breast.

THE LEGEND OF THE O'DONOGHUE.

The great O'Donoghue! he ruled the land around Lough Lean;
The tree-clad hills that kissed the clouds, and many a fertile plain;
And happy were his people all, for in that blessed day,
Harvest rewarded honest toil, and justice held its sway.

Content the peasant in his cot, his tenure fixed and sure;
No Duine Uasal dared oppress the honest, worthy poor;
Each had his right, and leaned thereon; he reverenced king and law—
O'Donoghue gave the good his love, and kept the bad in awe.

The king a feast to vassals gave upon the first of May,
And gallant knights and ladies fair were gathered there that day;
And Conn, the white-haired harper, sat in honor nigh the king,
The daring deeds of warlike knights and damsels' charms to sing.

Majestic sat O'Donoghue amid the glittering throng,
And gazed well-pleased upon the scene, and listened to the song;
But suddenly his gladness passed, he drooped his noble head;
And then, while all around were hushed, these startling words he said:

“The gift of prophecy is mine—ah! would it were not so!
My sight beholds a thousand years with all their scenes of woe.
Where now four potent monarchs rule, with one the chief of all,
The stranger shall usurp their power and hold the land in thrall.

“What follies, crimes and misery shall darken all the land;
Wrong sitting in the highest place and modest virtue banned;
The fierce invader break the oaks whose trunks he may not bend,
And men, grown wolves, with eager fangs their brothers' throats shall rend.

“It will not be that Irish hearts or Irish courage fail;
It will not be through sword alone the stranger shall prevail;
But bitter feud and warring kings and treachery and sin
Shall tear the bonds of love apart, and aid the foe to win.

“By Irish hands shall Ireland fall, and not through alien blows;
False sons shall thrust their mother forth, and profit by her woes;
By venal wretches, in their greed, a people shall be sold,
And Esau yield his birthright for a title and for gold.

“The world shall see from year to year, however men may strive,
The patriot on the gibbet die, the spy and traitor thrive,
The cabins lone and desolate, the castles ivy-grown,
The priests before the altar slain, the churches overthrown.

“Famine shall smite the stricken land, and fever burn and slay;
The best and bravest of our sons to distant climes will stray;
And Ireland's valor, learning, wit, all other lands shall stir,
And give them progress and renown, but not, alas! for her.

“So shall our race endure a fate of agony and tears;
The stranger's yoke shall gird its neck for twice five hundred years;
Then, right shall be a thing of might, and wrong be stricken low,
And conscience strike on Pharaoh's heart to let our people go.

“Ah, then! what blessings shall be hers, our Erin green and fair!
No longer war, no longer hate, but peace and concord there;
The hum of busy industry make music to the ear,
The hammers clink, the shuttles whir through all the thriving year.

“Obey my son; but as for me, I may not see this woe;
From hence, till right is might again, O'Donoghue will go;
But once in every hundred years my presence here shall be,
And those alone whose hearts are true may hope to gaze on me.”

He ceased, and, striding from the hall, while they were still with fear,
He reached the strand and walked alone upon the waters clear;
His stately figure all could see, touched with the sunset light,
Receding till the twilight mists had hidden it from sight.

And now, in every hundred years, those who are pure indeed
May see the great O'Donoghue upon his milk-white steed.
He sits there at there at the water's edge, as in his manhood's prime,
And looks, and shakes his head, and says: “Too soon! it is not time!”

Then, wheeling round his courser good, the surface o'er he glides,
Lost in the mist that settles down from Toomies' lofty sides,
While floats a strain of music, like a melancholy wail,
Above the murmurs of the wave and sighing of the gale.

But when the thousand years have gone, upon the placid lake
All men shall see O'Donoghue his joyous progress make;
His horse's hoofs shall touch again Killarney's grassy shore,
And Ireland cast her burden off, and rule herself once more.

KING CON MAC LIR.

[_]

The enchanted island, Tir-na-n-oge, of Irish folk-lore, like Flath Innis, of the Scottish, and Gwerddonau Llion of the Welsh romances, is an isolated land of untold delights, lying far off in the Western Atlantic, and only found by mortals whom those who people it desire as guests. It is ruled by the fairy-queen, Meabdh [Maev], whom some Irish writers think to be identical with Queen Mab. The latter, however, is evidently from the Welsh [mab—a little child]. Either Shakespeare himself or the writers of some of the many plays which he revised for the stage, and which are mixed with his own, were well acquainted with Welsh fairy mythology, as numerous allusions testify. The isle of Prospero bears more resemblance to Gwerddonau Llion than to Tir-na-n-oge. One legend tells of a visit to the place by Oisin [Ossian?], the son of Fionn [Fingal?], the son of Cumhail, but I prefer a variant of the story. Something should be said, for the general reader, about the Fianna of Connaught, who, like the Fianna of Leinster and the Claun-Degaid of Munster, are supposed to be an order of chivalry. Neither they nor the Red Branch Knights of Ulster could be said to be knights at all. Though pledged to be loyal to the king, kind to the poor and profoundly respectful to woman, and only becoming a Curaih, or companion, of the order, after prescribed ceremonies, the Fian was merely a laoch [hero], and the order bore no relation to knighthood, which was a Christian institution. Nor, beyond a helmet and shield, did the Fian wear defensive armor. The Fianna appear to have formed a superior part of the standing army of the native princes of which the galloglasses and kernes made up the bulk.

Past sixteen hundred years ago, a prince, devoid of fear,
Was King of Conacht, known of men, as potent Con Mac Lir,
Who, from the Shannon to the sea, o'er all the land held sway,
Beyond Lough Gill upon the north, and southward to Lough Rea.

He held no court at Cruchain while the summer days were fine,
But in his rath at Brugh-na-ard, upon the Ceann-na-Slyne;
And there, within the banquet-hall, where mead and wine were poured,
White-bearded counsellors and bards sat at the well-filled board.

Around him were the Fianna brave, each laoch with weapon keen,
'Neath where the yellow lion blazed upon its field of green;
And there fair dames and damsels sat, with locks of ebon hue,
And arms and hands of creamy white, and eyes of heavenly blue.

King Con grew tired of mirth one day, and sought the open air,
And seated him to gaze upon the heaving ocean there,
When slumber overcame his sense; but, waking soon, he found
Two things enwrought with cunning hand beside him on the ground.

Wondering, he raised them both—a branch, of silver pure and white,
With golden leaves and jewelled fruit, a fair and wondrous sight;
And near it, golden-hilted, lay a finely-tempered glaive,
And on the branch and on the sword was cut the name of Maev.

“The queen of Tir-na-n-oge!” he cried. “Ah! would that I might be
Her guest within that happy isle, from care and sorrow free—
The country of perpetual bliss, perpetual summer there,
Where men are ever stout and brave, and women ever fair!”

He girded on the magic sword, the branch he took in hand,
When suddenly beside him there he saw a lady stand,

A damsel fair of high-born air, and of such gracious mien,
The monarch's spirit knew her well, the mighty fairy-queen.

“That sword is yours, that branch is mine; and know, oh, King!” quoth she,
“Who bears that token of my love himself belongs to me;
My barque awaits your coming, moored impatient on the shore;
Your eyes shall soon behold my realm, but these at hand no more.”

She glided noiseless down the crags; half-way within the tide
There lay a barque of oak and pearl, with oars on either side;
He followed her as in she stept, and hands unseen began
To bend the sails, and move the oars, and shape the course they ran.

They sailed that day, they sailed that night, till at the dawn was seen,
Set like a gem within the wave, an isle of emerald green,
A lovely land of birds and flowers, of sweetly singing streams,
Of tree-clad hills and bosky dells—a land of daylight dreams.

With harp and flute, and joyous song, and light and twinkling feet,
Down came a troop of tiny elves the royal pair to meet,
And led them to a palace tall, its gates with gems aglow,
Its massive towers and slender spires as white as driven snow.

They entered by a corridor whose sides were flecked with gold,
Whose rosy satin hangings fell in many a sheeny fold,

To where a throng of courtiers stood within a glittering hall.
“Behold my realm,” the Bean Sighe said: “and you are lord of all!”

Thenceforth all joys that thought could form were laid before the King;
A wish required no words of his the object sought to bring;
His word was law, his frown was fate, and though a mortal, he
Was served by all the Daoine Maith upon the bended knee.

Six days of perfect happiness, and swift the moments went;
But who of mortal mold is yet with what he hath content?
Excess of bliss became a pain; his soul began to pine
For Druids, bards and Fianna brave within his rath at Slyne.

Queen Maev, she saw, and seeing, smiled; and thus to him said she:
“To-day a longing fills your heart the home you left to see.
Go, then; but take this flask, and should you tire of Conacht, then
Shatter the glass, 'twill bring you back to Tir-na-n-oge again.”

He sailed upon the fairy barque, and soon on Galway strand,
Where rose the rocks of Ceann-na-Slyne, he leapt upon the land;
He climbed the crags; he reached the Brugh—the land around was bare;
No garden fine, no stately rath, no sign of life was there.

A pile of crumbling stones remained, moss-grown were these and drear;
He looked around; no trace was found of dwelling far or near.
Until at length, in wandering 'round, some wretched huts he saw,
Whose inmates on the stranger looked with wonder mixed with awe.

Old folk and children were they all. King Con demanded then
Of one old man who nearest stood: “Where are the younger men?”
“They're at the war,” the man replied, “but most of them were slain
In battle at Clontarf, what time King Brian beat the Dane.”

“Brian! who's he?” “He was Ard Righ, and fell when fight was o'er,
And now the princes Malachy have made Ard Righ once more.”
“The princes, they have made him?” spake the monarch, frowning. “Nay!
In such a making, Con, your king, has yet a word to say.”

“King Con!” the other cried. “Goll rules; and Con we do not know;
They say he lived within the land, six hundred years ago.
I heard a bard the tale recite, how Con in Conacht reigned,
In days ere good St. Patrick came, and Druids yet remained.”

“By Crom! but this is strange!” Con cried. “Oh, sir!” the old man said,
“Such wicked oath as that might bring a curse upon your head.
Crom was a heathen god of old. We bow to the Most High,
And heathen gods and Satan's works all Christian men defy.”

Con muttered: “Wondrous things are these! What change a little time!
My rath a heap of moss-grown stones! My faith in Crom a crime!
Another king usurps my throne! The land around a grave!
Conacht, farewell! Come, Tir-na-n-oge! Greet me once more, sweet Maev!”

Swiftly he strode across the ground, with light and lusty limb;
The wretched cottars vainly strove to keep their pace with him;
They saw him leap from crag to crag, and on the sea-beach stand—
What did he then? A crystal flask he crushed upon the sand.

A tiny wreath of smoke arose, which swelled and larger grew,
Till it became a cloud of mist, and hid King Con from view;
It seaward moved, huge, white and dense, and on the wave they saw
A barque of oak inlaid with pearl, nearer and nearer draw.

The vessel in the mist was wrapped; the people stood amazed,
And deepest terror filled their hearts, as silently they gazed;
The mist dispersed, and o'er the waves, leaping from crest to crest,
The barque, with silken sails outspread, went sailing to the west.

This is an anachronism by poetical license. The lion or on a field vert, belonged to the Red Branch Knights of six centuries later.

THE BROKEN WORD.

A LEGEND OF AN IRISH LAKE.

[_]

Among the most curious of the Irish legends are those which account for the formation of the loughs, or lakes, with which Ireland is picturesquely dotted. Loch Owl had its waters borrowed from one witch by another, and never returned. In other cases they were excavated by Fion MacCumhail, vulgarly known as Finn MacCool. But the more common and more poetical origin is in consequence of the sudden overflow of a magic spring, through the neglect or fault of a mortal. To this class Lake Inchiquin belongs.

The following poem tells the legendary story of the origin of the lake, one of the most romantic sheets of water to be seen in the whole picturesque and storied island. It also contains a moral that all who run may read.

A thousand years ago there stood a castle proud and tall,
With buttress and with barbacan, with moat and lofty wall;
A thousand vassals dwelt without, a hundred served within,
And o'er them reigned the proud O'Ruarc, the Lord of Inchiquin.

A stone-throw from the castle gate a cavern's mouth was seen;
A bubbling fountain near it rose amid a patch of green,
O'erflowing to a placid pool that in the sunbeams' light
Which smote at times its crystals depths, shone like a mirror bright.

'Twas told throughout the household there, how at the noon of night,
Three ladies from the cavern came arrayed in robes of white;
And doffing those they freely bathed, as though they nothing feared,
Then, robing them again, within the cavern disappeared.

O'Ruarc resolved that sight to see; so at the midnight hour,
When troubled ghosts re-visit earth, and imps of ill have power,
He made his way to see what fate to glad his eye would bring,
And cautious lay, in silent wait, beside the haunted spring.

And soon came forth the damsels fair, in samite mantles clad,
And two of them were wreathed in smiles, and one of them was sad;
And all of them were beautiful, but fairest of the three,
The lady of the pensive look—the youngest, too, was she.

But as they stood upon the brink, their robes to lay aside,
The eldest cast a look around, and there O'Ruarc she spied.
Startled to see a mortal there, shrank back the sisters three,
And, with alarm upon each face, they turned themselves to flee.

The eldest and another fled; but ere the third could go,
She felt O'Ruarc around her form his arms detaining throw.
“In vain the struggle, lady fair!” the prince in rapture cried:
“Be you a mortal maid or not, none else shall be my bride!”

He bore her to his castle gate; in vain her piteous plea;
The more her plaint, the more her tears, the more enamored he;
And ere a week her smiles returned, and blushes followed smiles;
For well the handsome prince was versed in wooers' winning wiles.

But, ere they wedded, these her words: “One promise you must give,
If you would keep me by your side contented wife to live:
Swear you, so long as both survive, and you be mate to me,
No guest within our castle home shall e'er invited be.”

He pledged to that his princely word, and then the two were wed;
And happy lives for year on year the happy couple led;
And children twain, a boy and girl, to bless their union came;
And fairer grew, as seasons rolled, the prince's stately dame.

But men are changeable and weak; they even tire of joy;
O'Ruarc of fondness wearied much, the sweets began to cloy;
And straying, with excuses fair, in wistful looks despite,
In chase he spent the day abroad, in revelry the night.

And at the chase he overheard: “O'Ruarc has prudent grown;
A guest he is, but never host.” Cried he, in angry tone:
“I pray you, gallant gentlemen, this day be guests of mine.
And when the sun to-morrow comes he'll find us o'er our wine.”

With ready shout they answered him, and turned their steeds in haste;
Then galloped fast and eagerly across the furzy waste,
Past the Donn Thir and up the hill, and through the thick green wood,
Then down into the pleasant vale where lone the castle stood.

Stood at the gate to await her lord, the lady of the land;
She gazed at them with troubled face, her children at her hand;
And ere O'Ruarc, dismounting fast, could reach the place before,
She and her children gained the pool, and sank, and rose no more.

Up surged the waters from the spring, as though in pangs and throes;
Upward and on remorselessly the angry torrent flows;
Where once the calm and fertile vale and castle proud had been,
Spread deep and green the waters of the placid Inchiquin.

But he who looks within its depths on one day of the year,
Will see that castle's ivied walls and turrets grey appear,
Will hear the horse-hoofs clinking loud, a smothered cry, and then
The surging roar of waters fierce; and silence reigns again.

FEARGAL MAC CONGAL.

[_]

Much of the early history of Ireland is obscure, but the incident of the complaint and prophecy of the hermit of Killin, whose black cow had been slain by marauders, is tolerably well authenticated. The cause of the fatal Battle of Almain, at which King Feargal fell (about A.D. 718), was the attempt to collect the odious tribute of Leinster. This special tax had been imposed by Tuathal the Legitimate, which the Constitution of St. Patrick confirmed. The King of Leinster was not only compelled to give yearly large herds of cattle, but also to send to the Ard-righ [awrdree], or chief king, i.e., king of all Ireland, at Tara, one hundred and fifty young men and maidens to do the menial work of the palace. This degrading act of vassalage was made sure by the division of the cattle tribute, two thirds of which were divided between Connaught and Ulster, and the remaining third between Munster and the Queen of Ireland. Of course, Leinster evaded or denied this tax whenever opportunity offered, and this led to many bloody wars, with varying results. Aodh Roin, who figures in the ballad, and who is there made King of Leinster, through poetical need, was really the Prince of Down (Ulidia) and one of Feargal's vassals. Hugh V., Feargal's son, afterward overcame this troublesome fellow, and cut off his head at the church-door. The same monarch fully avenged the defeat at Almain by the victory of Ath-Senaid, where over nine thousand Leinster men were slain.

A thrill of joy in Tara's halls, brave knights and ladies fair,
With nods and smiles and courtly ways, were gathered gayly there;
Old counsellors wore looks of youth, and harpers grave and grey
Struck well-tuned strings harmonious to many a pleasing lay.

The queen had given the king an heir; rejoicing in his birth
Congal had summoned to the place his bards of chiefest worth,
And bade them through their inner skill predict the full career
Of him, roydamma, who should reign o'er Ireland many a year.

“Nor tell alone his fortune fair,” the royal father said,
“Nor how the laurel-leaves of fame may diadem his head;
But rather speak what perils grave may stand within his course,
That prudence may avert their blows, or wisdom break their force.”

Quoth Ailleen Mhor, the eldest bard, and chiefest of them all:
“From humble source the danger comes upon his head to fall.
No foreign foe shall work him ill; disease shall bring no care;
A black cow may his ruin prove—of her let him beware!”

Loud laughed Congal at words like these. “A black cow wreck a throne!
Of all the prophecies run mad, the maddest ever known!
A wolf at bay, I've seen at times the boldest bandog tame;
Black cows the neat-herd may assail—kings deal with nobler game!”

Congal was wiser than he spake—he felt of fear a shade;
Howe'er absurd the danger seemed, yet prudence he obeyed.
No heifer-calf with hide of black was kept on hill or plain,
But speedily and cruelly by butcher-hands was slain.

Years after that, in health and strength, to lusty manhood grown,
When King Congal was laid in earth, Feargal sat on the throne.
Of kings not he, perhaps, the worst, but, neither weak nor strong,
He was, as whim or passion moved, the friend of right or wrong.

In those days, over Leinster reigned the wicked prince Aodh Roin,
Who granted no man justice fair, save as a purchased boon,
Who smote the great with cruel hand and trampled on the small,
And with impartial tyranny denied their rights to all.

But grievous wrong makes bitter wrath, and loud the people swore
Their ruler's reckless ways should vex the hapless land no more;
Aodh Roin should meet the tyrant's fate—the fate that waits him when
The bearers of the burthen sore discover they are men.

But Aodh was shrewd as wicked, he was bold as well as bad;
To meet the peril of the hour one apt device he had—
And so he sent his messengers when Easter-tide began,
To summon all his vassals stout to meet him at Almain.

Then came each Duine Uasal, and his sword he brought along;
Then came each chief attended by his galloglasses strong;
They came to meet the tyrant there, and learn what he might say;
They came, a thousand men-at-arms, in terrible array.

Prince Aodh came forth in armor clad, and stood there sword in hand—
“Ye seek,” he said, “fair gentlemen, for freedom in the land.
Look to the cause of all your woe, and do not look to me;
Look to the tribute Leinster pays as due to our Ard-righ.

“Ten thousand cattle every year are drained from us by him;
Our neighboring kings the plunder share, and smile in pleasure grim;
But worse than that, the maidens fair and youth we yearly send
To Tara's yoke of servitude their necks to meekly bend.

“Ye murmur at my iron rule; remove its cause and then,
No more a slave who reigns o'er slaves, I'll own that ye are men.
Deny the tribute Tuathal forced, and make our Leinster free,
And never a land had kinder king than ye shall find in me.”

Arose the ready, sharp response: “For Leinster's rights we stand!
Henceforth the tribute we deny. No burthen on the land.
Home, home, and arm! Be ready all with plunderers to deal;
For tale of slaves, give point of spear; for cattle, edge of steel!”

Feargal of this at Tara heard. “The Leinster clans arise;
King Aodh, with vassals at his back, the tribute due denies.
Up, Ulstermen and Connaughtmen, and summon forces forth!
We'll teach the rebels of the east the power of west and north!”

The vassals, save Ulidia's prince, responding to command,
Full twenty thousand men-at-arms in line of battle stand;
And at their head the Red Branch Knights, in all their pride, are seen,
Their golden lion broidered fair upon its field of green.

The army of Feargal was strong; to Leinster's, two to one;
A gallant sight its rows of spears that glistened in the sun!
And right and left its flankers spread on every fertile spot,
And spoiled the noble in his hall, the peasant in his cot.

They trampled down the growing crops, they broke both hedge and wall;
They slew the cattle on the hoof, the plough-horse in the stall;
And rang the piteous cries of woe the harrowed country through—
“Ochon! Ochon for Leinster here, mo chreach! Och! puilleludh!”

King Aodh his forces marshalled then, and held them well in hand,
And, falling back in order, at Almain he made a stand;
And there, both armies fronting, on the battle-field they lay,
Awaiting to join issue at the breaking of the day.

The morning broke. The eastern sky was filled with yellow light;
Deployed both armies martially—it was a noble sight;
When suddenly, in cowl and gown, a figure spare and tall
Came wrathfully the lines between, and spake to King Feargal.

“On yesterday, O King!” he said, “your galloglasses base
To Killin came with hands profane, and spoiled the holy place;

They pilfered from my hermitage, and slew my one black cow—
I ask for justice on the knaves—I ask for justice now!”

The chieftains round the monarch laughed. Feargal, he bent his brows—
“Is this a time or place,” he said, “to speak to me of cows?”
“All times, all places justice fit,” the hermit bold replied;
“Audacious shaveling, seek the rear!” Feargal in anger cried.

“I tell thee, king of pride and sin, thou mayest repulse me now;
Beware lest in the battle's din thou meetest that black cow!
Her symbol or herself beware; when either here appears,
Vain is the keen-edged glaive you bear, and vain your soldiers' spears.”

They thrust the hermit to the rear, for now the fight began;
The Red Branch Knights on Leinster bore; Feargal, he led the van,
And clash of swords and crash of spears made music on the field,
When charged a knight from Leinster's host, a black cow on his shield.

Straight through the ranks he made a path; he slew opposers all;
Nor stayed his way till face to face he met with King Feargal.
The monarch saw the symbol dire, and drew his bridle-rein;
That pause was death; the stranger's sword smote fiercely to the brain.

Ochon! Ochon, for Ireland now! mo chreach! Och! puilleludh!
What mourning for the many slain, what keens the country through!
Ah! woe for Tuathal's wicked law. A cruel monarch's breath
Wrought on seven thousand gallant men the bitterness of death!

Roydamma, heir-apparent, and succeeding, with the consent of the minor kingdoms, to the throne.

“Alas! alas! my sorrow! alas! bloody wars!” The Irish language is noted for the number of these piteous ejaculations, that are never profane. The same may be said of its sister tongue, the Gaelic of Scotland.

THE LADY OF THE ROCK.

[_]

There are several versions of this grotesque legend current among the Munster peasantry. In one of these, the host is a gentleman named Barry, who long years before is said to have dwelt on the top of Cairn Thierna. In another, it is Cliodhna, the queen of the Daoine Maith, or “good people,” i.e., fairies, who entertains the traveller. The student will observe, not alone much resemblance between Irish and Welsh folk-lore, not strange, since they spring from kindred races, but between the former and some of the Sanskrit and Russian popular tales, a fact not so readily accounted for. This legend, however, smacks of the soil.

The sun was sinking to the hills, the twilight growing fast,
When in the dusty yellow road a band came riding past—
A squadron of the foeman's horse, whose presence brought no joy—
Grim-visaged troops of Cromwell these, unwelcome to Fermoy.

They halted in the village street, for food and rest inclined,
And so the billet-master there they eager sought to find;
And whatsoever hate was felt, none near dare say them nay,
For in their camp, a mile beyond, more black Malignants lay.

'Squire Considine could hold his own, whichever side arose—
Who stood above, he held as friends, who lay below, as foes—

And so the men he billeted, and sent them here and there;
It was for him to find the hosts—the hosts must find the fare.

They left, all save the youngest one, who in the hall had stayed,
Caught by the roguish smile and glance of Kate, a serving-maid;
In years scarce more than boy he was, and handsome, frank and free—
Unlike his comrades—and he said: “A billet, sir, for me.”

Beyond the town a pile of rock rose upward, bleak and bare;
'Twas said the fairies haunted it; no trace of dwelling there;
And Considine, who liked at times some meaner man to mock—
“I'll billet you,” he said, “upon the Lady of the Rock.

“The lady's name is Cleena, and such house you never knew;
It's walls are of the ivied stone, its vaulted roof is blue;
And you may tell her ere you're guest within that mansion fine,
That I shall furnish her with meat, and she shall furnish wine.”

Dick Ashmore started off at once, his billet in his hand,
Straight onward he was told to go, and so obeyed command;
The path was clear to reach the rock, but though he made no stay,
So dark the night, the road he left, and thus he lost the way.

A clouded night, and not a star; just then there came a sound—
The cheery clink of horse's hoofs upon the stony ground.
He turned; a noble cavalcade, and at its head there rode
A lady on a palfry white, and light around her glowed.

He doffed his morion at the sight, and made a lowly bend;
The lady reined her steed, and said: “What do you here, my friend?”
Dick Ashmore bent his head again. “An please you then,” said he,
“I seek the Lady of the Rock.” “Good soldier, I am she!”

He gave the words of Considine. Said she, with courtly air:
“Our thanks are due this gentleman for courtesy so fair.
No fairer offer could be made than this of Considine;
His meat shall smoke upon the board, and we will find the wine.”

Then up the rock the cavalcade with merry laughter pressed—
Dick Ashmore found it harder work to gain the stony crest;
But, gaining that, a mansion saw, reared grandly and alone,
From out whose many casements tall the lights in brilliance shone.

Dick, hat in hand, was ushered in; they sat him at the board
With wines of choicest vintage, and with rarest dainties stored;
He ate and drank; but chief of all, to hungry Dick's delight,
A mighty joint of beef, which soon appeased his appetite.

“Now,” said the lady, as he rose, “to-morrow when you leave
I'll see you not; but, ere you rest, three gifts of mine receive.
Yon black cow's hide, this goblet bright; give those to Considine,
To show that while he furnished meat, 'twas I who furnished wine.

“And for yourself, this sprig of furze upon your breast to wear;
'Twill bring you health and wealth and love while you shall keep it there.
Now seek your couch; be sweet your sleep; it was not yours to mock,
But his, and his has been the loss,—the Lady of the Rock.”

Sound slept the soldier all that night, sleep drowned till noon his care;
He woke, and gazed around amazed; nor bed nor mansion there;
His couch was on the barren ground; but by his side there lay
The cow's hide and the goblet, and he bore them both away.

Loud laughed the billet-master when his eye on Ashmore fell—
“And did you find the lady fair, and did she treat you well?
But sad has been your pleasure, man; your comrades long have gone,
And hold you as deserter, for the army moved at dawn.”

But to a look of wonder changed the sly, malicious grin,
When Dick the lady's message gave, and with it cup and skin.
“'Tis ill to vex the Dinah Magh!” said startled Considine;
“That hide was hers, my favorite cow, the chiefest of my kine.”

Dick Ashmore never left Fermoy; all people liked him well;
And all the Lady of the Rock had promised him befell,
Health, wealth, and love: but ill there came to him who dared to mock
The gentle Bean Sighe, Cleena, the Lady of the Rock.

THE WHITE DOE.

Once on a time, when fairies were,
Stood by the Galway shore,
Part in the sea, a cold, grey rock,
That towered the country o'er.
Its sides were like a castle wall,
Seamed like an old man's face;
And inward stretched the barren sand,
A mile beyond the place.

One fertile spot there Dermid held—
A peasant stout and young,
With eye of hawk and raven hair,
Strong limbs and silver tongue—
An acre only held at rent,
And cabin low and white;
And made his way by constant toil
From early morn till night.

One morn he rose at break of day,
And, sharpened spade in hand,
Went forth, and whistled as he went,
To dig and delve his land.
And looking east, and looking west,
Around, above, below,
He saw upon the grey rock's crest,
Standing, a milk-white doe.

There were no deer for miles around,
And ne'er had such been seen,
For deer seek not the sea-shore sand,
But lurk in covert green.
And Dermid gazed upon the sight
With awe no words can tell,
When the doe stretched forth to look at him,
And lost its poise and fell.

The peasant dropped his spade and ran,
And pity came to him,
When he saw the deer lie moaning there,
With a bleeding, broken limb.
He set the bone, and bound it close,
And spoke in tender way,
And water brought and tufts of grass
Where the creature suffering lay.

The white doe licked his kindly hand,
And tears ran down each cheek,
And looked from out its large, round eyes
The thanks it could not speak.
And Dermid said—“I have no wife,
No child is born to me;
This innocent brute in lieu of both,
Companion here shall be.”

A month passed on. One morning came,
And, rising at the dawn,
Went Dermid out to feed the doe,
And found the doe had gone.
But there a fair-haired lady stood,
Clad in a robe of white,
A short wand in her lily hand,
Tipped with a jewel bright.

“I was the doe,” the lady said,
“Doomed in that shape to be,
Till a human heart in my distress
Should pity take on me.
Name freely; I can grant whate'er
You need the most in life.”
Said Dermid bluntly then, “I need
You, darling, for a wife.”

Soon were they wedded, and from thence
Fortune on Dermid rained;
New land was his, and flocks and herds,
And golden store he gained.
Short months and years flew by, and each
Seemed fleeter than the last,
Until, with five boys round the hearth,
Ten happy years had passed.

Uprose the fairy wife at dawn,
To Dermid thus spoke she:
“At noon I seek my former home,
And you must go with me.
But, oh! whate'er you see or hear,
What others say or do,
Keep silence; utter not a word;
Or I am lost to you.”

Then forth she went, with wand in hand,
And Dermid followed fast,
Till garden-gate and hawthorn hedge
And meadow-field were passed.
And o'er the sand the way she led
To where the rock arose,
And on its grey and frowning side
She struck three gentle blows.

Clang! came a sound, as of a bell;
Parted the rock before;
And into its recesses deep
They passed as through a door;
Through gloomy passage, downward, then,
They made their darksome way,
Until they came upon a place
As bright and clear as day.

There, in a palace tall and fair,
Entered the silent two;
And Dermid, at the sight he saw,
Felt wonder thrill him through;
For on a throne of beaten gold,
Within a glittering ring,
A crown of diamonds on his brow,
There sat the fairy king.

“Welcome again, our daughter dear;
But who is this you bring?
What mortal boor dare enter here
Unbidden?” cried the king.
“My husband, sire,” the lady said,
“And dearer far to me
Than all the rank and all the state
I left for him could be.”

The fairy king arose in wrath—
“Such words to me!” he cried;
“No mortal wight of base degree
Shall keep a fairy bride.
He may retire unharmed; but thou
Shalt lie in dungeon chains.”
But Dermid, springing forward, cried—
“Not while my strength remains!”

A look of longing and despair
O'erspread the lady's face;
Deep darkness fell, and unseen hands
Hurled Dermid from the place.
The old grey rock was closed again;
The door was lost fore'er;
No more to Dermid's heart or home
Came back that lady fair.

THE LEGEND OF OGRECASTLE.

The Lady May went forth at morn
The greenwood round to roam—
The greenwood fair that spread for miles
Around her castled home;
And plucking flowers to deck her hair,
And singing, Lady May
Found she had strayed in forest shade
Too far from home away.

She turned upon her steps, when, lo!
Leapt from a hanging limb,
And stood directly in her path,
An ogre dark and grim.

Unkempt his locks of yellow hair,
His skin was like the pye's,
His fingers were like eagle-claws,
And ferret-like his eyes.

“Where are you going?” thundered he,
“And why do you wander here,
Where mine are trees, and mine are flowers,
And mine the tawny deer?
“You've trespassed on my wide domain,
And passed your father's by;
This is Amal the ogre's land,
Amal the ogre, I.”

She could not scream, she could not flee,
She trembled as he spake,
But crossed herself and prayed for aid,
For the Blessed Master's sake.
At which the ogre loudly laughed,
And to the lady said:
“I am of earth, and Christian ban
Falls harmless on my head.

“Earl Carlon is a childless man
Henceforward and for aye,
For she who was his darling child
Shall be my bride to-day.
And months shall come and months shall go,
And passing years shall be,
Ere he shall see the daughter fair
That must away with me.”

Then seizing her within his arms,
He bore the maid away;
He bore her to the church's door;
She durst not say him nay.

And there the old priest made them one,
And she, Earl Carlon's pride,
Lost home and friends, and so became
Amal the ogre's bride.

Ten years had come and ten had gone,
And children twain were born,
When forth to hunt the tawny deer
The ogre went one morn.
And waiting there for his return,
The lady longed to gaze
Once more upon the home wherein
She dwelt in other days.

She took her son and daughter through
The pathway in the wood,
And hurried on till they before
Earl Carlon's castle stood.
The tears they gathered in her eyes
The olden pile to see.
“My home was there,” she murmured low;
“My father—where is he?”

With knights around rode up the Earl,
And stopped his steed, and said:
“This woman is my daughter May,
Whom I have mourned as dead.
Fair welcome back! This hour repays
For years of grief and pain.
But be you maid, or be you wife?
And whose these children twain?”

“I've lived a wife ten years or more,
Five miles beyond these towers;
Amal the ogre is my lord;
These children twain are ours.

A loving husband has he been,
And ever kind to me,
And honor's self in all his deeds,
An ogre though he be.”

And then Amal came riding up,
To seek his dear ones three.
Earl Carlon's brow grew black with wrath,
And “Seize the wretch!” said he.
And ere Amal could draw his sword,
To serve him in his need,
A score of burly men-at-arms
Had dragged him from his steed.

“Unhappy woman,” cried the Earl,
“Learn, to thy deep despair,
The lord thou lovest is the one
Who slew thy cousin's heir.
When died our kinsman Ethelred,
He slew his only son,
And kept by force of gramarye
The lands the murder won.

“He closed your eyes by wicked arts,
By magic spells and dread,
Or with an ogre foul as he
You never could have wed.
And you and these shall dwell at home,
My children all to be;
But for Amal—I'll hang him high
Upon the gallows-tree.”

She bent her low, the Lady May,
While tears fell o'er her face—
She bent her low, and on her knee
Implored her father's grace.

“For know the truth,” she sobbing said,
“An ogre though he be,
The man whom you to death would doom
Is all the world to me.”

“Rise up, my daughter,” cried the Earl;
“Your prayers are all in vain;
I've sworn before I rest to-night
The ogre shall be slain.
Were I forsworn it were disgrace
To one of lineage high:
From hence the ogre's form shall pass,
Or I shall surely die.”

She rose, and snatched a sword from one
Of those who stood around,
And sprang to where the ogre stood,
And cut the bands that bound.
“Draw forth your sword, my lord,” she cried;
“We'll fight it out amain;
They shall not grace the gallows-tree
Till both of us be slain.”

When, lo! upon her words there came
A change of form and face;
The loathly ogre grew to be
A knight of courtly grace,
A stalwart knight of stately mien—
A hideous thing no more.
“And who art thou,” Earl Carlon cried,
“Who ogre was before?”

“I am thy cousin's son; by me
Amal the ogre fell;
But, dying, through his gramarye
Upon me laid a spell,

That I should take his name and shape,
And in his stead should be,
Until some woman pure and fair
Should risk her life for me.

“The wife I gained without thy will
From thrall her lord hath won;
To-day you have your daughter back,
And with her take a son.”
“In faith, I shall,” Earl Carlon said;
“And pleasant 'tis, I wis,
When from an ogre's form there springs
A son as fair as this!”

Earl Carlon lies in cloistered earth;
The rest have passed away;
The castle where they lived and died
Is now in ruins grey.
But where the ogre bore his bride
Four stately towers are found,
And these are Ogrecastle styled
By all who dwell around.

CEDRIC.

Cedric, the King of Mercia, in those days
Ruled justly, yet his people loved him not—
Ruled wisely, yet obtained but grudging praise;
Therefore he wearied of his lofty lot
And kingrick splendid.

So he, filled with chagrin, and sick at heart,
And seeking for new life, went forth one day—
He cared not whither so he might depart—
And, mounted on his steed he took his way,
By none attended.

And rode, and rode, until ere fall of night
He came to where the highway branched to four,
And there he found a pillar square and white,
That on each side a plain inscription bore,
The traveller guiding.

The first: “Who travels here well-fed shall be,
But hunger waits the steed that he has brought;”
The next: “Who may this road pursue shall see
His horse well filed, but he himself get naught
For coin or chiding;”

The third: “Who takes this path shall fare the best,
Both man and horse, but be dismissed with blows;”
The last: “Who goes this way finds food and rest
For him and his; but, when next day he goes,
His horse he loses.”

“Ill,” said the king, “on either path is cast;
Hunger for horse in one, for man the next,
Blows in the third, and robbery in the last—
The wisest here may feel his mind perplexed
Before he chooses.

“I like not blows; I will not plundered be;
Let those two pass; while I can hunger bear,
The want of this dumb brute I may not see;
So, in the second road we take our way,
Whate'er betide us.

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“These be strange folk that in my kingdom dwell,
And strange I never heard of them before;
Things far less singular the gossips tell—
But hurry, steed! the light of day gives o'er,
With none to guide us.”

And so, into the darkness on they rode,
The willing steed cheered by his master's tone,
Until they came to where a mean abode
Stood by the wayside, low-roofed and alone,
Smokeless and cheerless.

Here, from the horse alighting, rapped the king,
Whereat the door was opened, and a wight,
Crooked and dwarfish, bade him, muttering,
While with his fingers shading there the light,
To enter fearless.

The entertainer, scanty of his speech,
The bridle took, and led the charger in;
Inside there were two stalls with straw in each,
And in one corner stood a well-filled bin,
Of metal planished.

The dwarf in one stall showed the king his bed,
Then led the horse within the other, where
He stripped and rubbed him; next, the beast he fed,
And added litter to the plenty there,
Then quickly vanished.

The king lay down, though hungry, happy he
To hear his horse's champ, and fell asleep;
But sudden came a burst of melody,
And waked the monarch from his slumber deep
With its sweet numbers.

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There stood an angel in a flood of light,
And spake: “All selfish feeling having curbed
To do thy duty to thy horse aright,
No dreams begotten of remorse disturbed
Thy placid slumbers.

“Back to thy duty, and in that be strong;
Therein shall lie reward enough for thee;
Leave joy to others; crush to earth the wrong;
Defend the right; thy people's father be—
King of the lowly.”

The angel and the glory passed away;
The monarch felt of sleep again the touch;
His slumber lasted till the dawn of day,
When he arose, and cheered and strengthened much,
Rode homeward slowly.

King Cedric ruled o'er Mercia many a year:
Found naught affecting right too small for reck;
Gave to the injured ever-willing ear;
Upheld the weak, and kept the strong in check;
Showed law victorious;

By the firm use of measures wise and just,
Made labor prosperous and the realm content;
And now, though ages since his form was dust,
His laws remain his lasting monument,
His memory glorious.

102

SIR GUY TRELEASE.

Sybella, young and debonair,
The orphan Baroness of Ware,
Heiress of many manors, ward
Of Richard, England's sovereign lord,
Was close pursued by suitors three,
Nobles and knights of high degree—
Arthur, the Earl of Anderville,
Sir Calvert Beauchamp, Lord of Brill,
And Michael, Baron of Ambray,
Who warmly wooed her, day by day;
But vain both courtly word and deed—
To love the lady was not stirred.
Such feeling 'twixt the three arose,
That, lest the wooing come to blows,
The king, who did not care to see
Black feuds arise through rivalry,
Declared the tourney should decide
What knight or lord should gain the bride,
Her title and possessions wide.
The lists were straightway opened, free
To all brave knights, at Enderby,
And proclamation widely made
That who, in armor there arrayed,
Should hold the field at close of day,
Would bear this fairest prize away.

No braver knight all England through,
More known for deeds of derring-do;

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None wiser spake at council board
When sage opinion need implored;
None courtlier in time of peace
Than he from Cornwall, Guy Trelease.
But, penniless knight, his ruined hall
And barren acres were his all;
And, though he felt his bosom stir
With tenderness at sight of her,
And noted, when his step drew nigh,
The lady's color mounted high,
He knew his lack of wealth, and hence
Ne'er to her favor made pretence.
Now when the news he heard, said he—
“'Tis either life or death to me.
Lords Beauchamp, Anderville, Cambray—
I've ridden with them in the fray;
In England, Germany or France
There are none braver: he whose lance
Shall worst such foes as these shall be
Accounted flower of chivalry.”
So, summoning his old esquire,
Alan, who well had served his sire,
Bade him prepare at break of day
To make toward Enderby their way,
Which they might reach, though passing far,
By noon, should naught their purpose bar.

And so it chanced, when morning glowed,
Blithely Sir Guy to tourney rode,
The twain on roadsters country-bred,
His war-steed by old Alan led,
And reached at length where, in the way,
A robbed and wounded pilgrim lay.
Pitying his case, the gentle knight
Dismounted straight to help the wight.
Quoth Alan: “If you stay to aid,

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Small chance, Sir Guy, to win the maid;
We scarce can gain the lists in time;
The morning now has passed its prime.”
“Foul shame,” replied his lord, “to me,
And foul reproach to chivalry,
If, even to win a gentle fere,
I left this wretch unaided here.”
He dressed the wounds with skilful hand,
And bound them with his scarf for band,
Did all he might to serve the need,
Then placed the pilgrim on his steed,
And, by his arm supported well,
Led on until they found a cell
Where, two miles farther on the road,
A holy hermit made abode,
To whom, with caution sage and grave,
The wounded man in charge he gave.
Some hours were lost ere this was done;
'Twas now long past the noonday sun.
“This comes of beggars,” Alan said;
“All hope to reach in time is dead.
We may not gain ere close of day
The lists, ride quickly as we may.”
“If so, so be it,” said Sir Guy;
“At least the pilgrim will not die.”
Yet, strange to say, as on they pressed,
The sun slow lingered in the west,
And when at last the lists they gained,
An hour of daylight yet remained.
A joyous passage it had been
For those who glory sought to win.
He found o'erthrown the Lord of Brill,
Dead in his armor, Anderville,
Four others carried from the field;
Ambray alone retained his shield;

105

And, seated calmly in his tent,
Waited the close of tournament.
Sir Guy, a leech, ere he essayed,
Sent for the pilgrim's farther aid,
Then riding armed across the field,
Struck with his lance the champion's shield.
Quickly responded then Ambray—
“This course,” he said, “shall end the day.”
Sir Guy but threw a glance above
Where sat the lady of his love,
Whose cheeks, so pale with dread the while,
Now reddened at her lover's smile.
That tell-tale blush! Why, what to him
Was proud Ambray, so stout and grim?
A trumpet's blare! With whirlwind force
The warring knights met in their course;
Their lances shivered; from his selle
Borne by the shock, each champion fell.
Rose first Ambray; but quick Sir Guy
Sprang to his feet to do or die;
And speedily a rain of blows
Showed the stout courage of the foes.
At first it seemed the slender form
Of Guy could not resist the storm
Of terrible strokes Ambray bestowed;
The lady's heart felt sad forbode,
And quaked beneath her samite vest,
To see Sir Guy so sorely pressed.
The combat's current changed at length;
Ambray wore out his giant's strength,
And now defended where before
With strong assault he struck so sore.
Still fought the twain with eager blow,
Until the sun sank red and low;
And, as its glowing couch it found,

106

Ambray, spent, bleeding, fell to ground.

The fight was done; the king decreed
Sir Guy was worthy highest meed;
Worthy before the world to bear
The noble title of Lord Ware;
And worthy of the fair whose eyes
Betrayed her heart was willing prize.
But, as they sat at board that night,
With jocund words and spirits light,
The leech returned, and made report
Before the king and gathered court
That, when the hermit's cell he sought,
Cell, hermit, pilgrim, all were naught;
But stood instead a chapel, where
The wandering pilgrim might repair
To purge his sins by shrift and prayer,
And o'er its gate this sentence bore—
“Our Lady of Pity”—nothing more.

RUINS.

In a deep woodland,
Leaf and bough hidden,
By a dark mystery
Ever bestridden,
Crumbled and blackened,
Moss-grown and hoary,
Moulder some ruins
Known not in story.

Chimneys long smokeless;
Eaves whence the sparrows
Sally at night-fall,
Night-flies to harass;

107

Half-rotted lintels;
Roof tumbled all in;
Vaults choked with rubbish;
Door-steps down-fallen.

Once in that house, from
Ground-sill to rafter,
Pleasantly sounded
Music and laughter;
There in the hall-way,
Host the guest meeting,
Gave him warm welcome,
Heartiest greeting.

All through that dwelling
Luxury splendid—
Twenty young pages
Ladies attended;
Twenty tall lackeys
Served at the table;
Twenty blood-horses
Champed in the stable.

In the park, while the
Master remained here,
Tossed their brown antlers
Fifty fleet reindeer;
There youths and damsels
Under leaf arches,
Strolled through the shadows
Thrown by the larches.

Then in the garden,
Pinks and stock-gillies
Looked up at roses,
Lilacs and lilies;

108

Quaintly-cut box-trees
Stood by the beeches;
Ripened there cheeries,
Gages and peaches.

Song-birds in cages,
Chirping and twittering,
There where the fountain
Cast a spray glittering;
Fish in the basin,
Bright, golden-sided,
Hither and thither
Gracefully glided.

Now all is silence,
All desolation;
Tenantless what was
Once habitation;
Guests all departed,
None now come hither;
Gone is the master—
No one knows whither.

Now the park grasses,
Copsewood is shading;
Now the trim garden
Briars invading;
Fruit-trees untended,
Box out of order,
Grass in each pathway,
Weeds in each border.

Warblers no longer
Sing there in cages—
There the grey howlet
War with birds wages;

109

Choked up the fountain
Where it was flowing
Nettles and groundsel
Rankly are growing.

One thing alone there,
Ever remaining,
Mocks winter's snow-drifts,
Mocks summer's raining—
Token of terror,
Drops from a source ill,
Twenty red blood-stains
On the grey door-sill.

In the deep midnight
So the boors tell us—
Comes a fair lady
With a lord jealous;
Words and a knife-stroke,
Curses and laughter—
Vanish the phantoms—
Silence comes after.

WARD BURTON.

Lying afar in the Mexican Sea
Is a lone and desolate coral key,
Where a sparkling fountain gushes free.

The land lies pleasantly there and low,
But nothing upon the isle will grow;
No green herb springs by the water's flow.

110

Thither there came one summer day
One of Morgan's vessels of prey,
And furled her sails, and in silence lay.

She was short of water, and so to shore
Cask upon cask the long-boat bore,
And went again and came with more.

Quiet the vessel at anchor lay,
And back and forth the livelong day
The toiling pirates made their way.

One of them still remained on land—
The second he was in the lawless band,
Next to the captain in command.

Older in sin, though not in years,
And worse by far than his ruffian peers,
Ward Burton, of Morgan's buccaneers.

He had left his home in early days,
Its fields of wheat and oats and maize,
For a life on the sea and its perillous ways.

In a whaling-ship he had made his mark,
And then in a light-heeled slaving-bark,
And then in the pirate service dark.

Through tropical heat and tropical rain
He had sailed the sea again and again,
From the sandy keys to the Spanish Main.

If ever a fiend from below set free
In human shape on the earth could be,
Ward Burton, the buccaneer, was he.

111

For not alone did he take delight
In the bloody work of the perillous fight,
Slaying his victims left and right,

But battle over, with manner grim,
He forced survivors to sink or swim
Where shark fought shark for body or limb.

A plea for mercy he met with a sneer;
The name of his Maker brought a jeer;
He scoffed at pity, he felt no fear.

And this was the man that all that day
Stretched at length by the fountain lay,
And watched the long-boat on her way.

There are brown-winged doves, with rosy feet,
And warm grey plumage, and voices sweet,
That like on these coral keys to meet.

These, when the pirates first drew near,
Startled by sound of curse and jeer,
Had flown away with a sudden fear.

But presently, when the boat from shore
Tracked its path the smooth waves o'er,
The doves came back to the spring once more.

They noted not the form that lay
Gazing upon the shallow bay,
Too quiet to startle such as they.

A careless look Ward Burton threw
At one of these doves with breast of blue,
When suddenly it began to coo.

112

That sound in youth he had often heard
From the throbbing throat of a plainer bird,
And the plaintive notes his spirit stirred.

The sea and sky began to dance
Before his eyes, and an inward glance
Pierced through his memory like a lance.

He saw the house where he was born;
He heard his father blow the horn
To call the huskers from the corn.

He saw the cattle homeward go
With steady rolling step and slow,
And as they passed he heard them low.

He saw his father's furrowed face
At the table in the olden place,
And laughed to hear him utter grace.

He saw his mother in her chair;
He saw a child low kneeling there—
Himself—and heard him breathe a prayer.

“Our Father”—at the hallowed name
Remorse into his dark soul came,
And lit it with a melting flame.

Conscience awoke that long had slept;
Penitence into his bosom crept,
And the bearded pirate silent wept.

When the vessel touched the Spanish Main
His shipmates sought for the man in vain—
Ward Burton was not seen again.

113

Some said in a dungeon deep he lay;
Some said with a dame he fled away;
Some said he was slain in sudden fray.

But deep in the Western wilds there dwelt
One who at morn and even knelt
With a sense of guilt forever felt—

Dwelt alone for years and years,
Now raised by hopes, now sunk by fears—
One of old Morgan's buccaneers.

None knew from whence the hermit came,
And none discovered his race or name;
Yet his neighbors liked him all the same.

Nothing to harm would he ever bring,
Brute in the forest or bird on the wing;
He was gentle to every living thing.

But they said as they laid him down to rest,
The cold clay piled on his clay-cold breast,
That he loved the doves of all things best.

THE PHANTOM BARQUE.

We sailed one time a port to seek
In the sunny isle of Martinique;
And, sailing fast and sailing free,
We left Long Island on our lee,
And when the stars shone overhead,
Full fifty leagues our course had sped.

114

Then, suddenly looming through the dark
On our quarter came a stranger barque,
High of poop and of ancient build,
Her decks with a crowd of seamen filled,
Her rigging loose, and torn each sail,
As though she had fought with storm and gale.

Our skipper loud the stranger hailed—
“What ship is that?” but away she sailed.
No answer came from the stranger barque,
Which quickly vanished in the dark;
But we heard in the distance wailing low,
An eldritch laugh, and a shriek of woe.

“That fellow's a fool!” the skipper said;
But spin-yarn Ben, he shook his head—
Ben was an able-bodied tar,
And full of his yarns, as such folks are—
“He never replies to him who hails,
And evermore on he sails and sails.”

When the captain to his cabin had gone,
A circle round old Ben was drawn;
And we asked him then to tell the tale,
Who it was that must sail and sail;
What was the name of the ship, and why
To friendly hail it would never reply.

“Messmates,” said Ben, and cleared his throat,
And buttoned his jacket in lieu of coat,
And hitched his trousers, and looked quite wise,
And then, with a preface about his eyes,
He told us the story, doubtless true,
In the very language I give to you.

115

“In sixteen hundred and ninety-four
A brigantine left the English shore,
From Hull or London—I don't know where—
Bound for Boston. She never got there;
For she hugged the Florida coast each day,
Sighting each key in her course that lay.

“Her skipper had sailed on many a sea,
As wicked a pirate as there might be;
But in sacking a church on the Spanish Main,
The whole of his crew but five were slain,
And these were dead, so that none but he
The secret knew of the Phantom Key.

“To seek for the Key he sailed all day,
And to, at night, off the coast he lay,
Till the hard-worked sailors grew tired of the game,
And grumbled, and called it a burning shame,
That North and South they should go for his sport,
And never make sail for the proper port.

“Then he called the crew on the deck and said:
‘You don't know what's in your skipper's head.
I'm cruising around in hopes to see
A desolate spot called the Phantom Key,
The spot where we buried our treasures, which
When I find it again will make us rich.

“‘The spoils of a galleon won in fight,
The plunder of towns that we sacked by night,

116

The golden vessels from ravished shrines,
The bars of silver from Southern mines;
With diamonds bright and pearls so fail—
A countless treasure is buried there.

“‘A week we've searched, and I have not found
The landmarks showing our treasure-ground;
But be I living, or be I dead,
I shall sail forever,’ the captain said,
‘Till the Judgment Day, but I'll find that key!’
Then shouted the sailors: ‘So shall we!’

“‘I'll speak no vessel, whate'er her stress,
Till we land at our golden wilderness;
No port I make, nor in calm or gale
Shall I take in even an inch of sail;
But cruise till I find the Phantom Key!’
Loud shouted the sailors: ‘So shall we!’

“They sailed along; on that very day
They came where a vessel dismasted lay—
‘We're sinking! Help! or our lives are gone!’
They paid no heed, but they sailed right on;
And the hapless vessel sank in the sea,
But still they sailed for the Phantom Key.

“Upon that voyage they're going yet,
With every sail to their royals set:
And, as I have heard many sailors say,
They will sail and sail till the Judgment Day,
Till the dead shall rise from the earth and sea
They will search in vain for the Phantom Key.”

You may smile at the story if you please:
But are we not seeking for Phantom Keys?

117

For keys, where the treasure is wealth or fame
Or love—the purpose is much the same,
And we never shall reach the wished-for shore,
But be sailing, sailing for evermore.

“The Spanish Main”—i.e., the Spanish mainland; so called to distinguish it from the islands on the coast. The term originated with the buccaneers.

THAT ROYAL JAMES.

It happened once upon a time,
There came to France's sunny clime
A Scottish knight, of manner fair,
Gallant and gay and debonair,
With figure cast in perfect mould,
With ruddy cheeks and locks of gold,
With eyes like skies, and skin like milk—
Sir Nigel Kempstone of that ilk.
Ready upon the tilted plain,
Prompt at a lady's bridle-rein,
Foremost at feast and first at fray,
In battle fierce, at banquet gay,
At court, in joust, in hall, at chase,
Sir Nigel found a leading place,
And wielded sword or handled lance
With any gentleman of France;
And not a demoiselle but felt
Before his glance her coldness melt.
He might have chosen, did he care,
From many who were young and fair.
Less did the demoiselles admire
The handsome Scotsman's homely 'squire—
But one esquire attended him.
Tall in his stature, lank of limb,
With hair of sable, half unkempt,
Eyes set, as though he waking dreamt

118

And yet at times his glance was fire,
More knight in bearing than esquire.
Once chafed, so proud his looks and port,
There came a saying at the court:
“'Tis hard to read the riddle right,
Which is esquire, and which is knight.”
And then, ere long, a whisper ran
That o'er the master ruled the man;
And from some vow perchance, at night,
Withdrawn from others' prying sight,
The knight cast off his rank, and he
Served the esquire on bended knee;
Until at last the lords and dames
Nicknamed the 'squire, “that royal James.”

King Louis had a daughter young,
Whose charms by every minstrel sung,
Had spread her name so far and wide
That princes sought her for a bride.
Denmark and Burgundy and Spain,
Each sent an envoy with his train,
Who carried to the Frankish land
Fair offers for the lady's hand;
But, whole of heart, or hard to please,
The princess would have none of these.
And Louis said: “Let her refuse:
She has the power to freely choose.
Our kingdom stands abroad so high,
It needs not thus to gain ally;
And should our daughter change her state,
She shall select her proper mate;
Royal or noble, I reck not which,
Her dowry makes him passing rich.”
'Twas not the custom to allow
Such breadth of choice, nor is it now;

119

But Louis was a monarch known
For ways and manners of his own;
And some who closely viewed the thing,
And knew the favorite of the king
Was this Sir Nigel, thought him weak
Or not to woo, or not to speak.
So far from being first to press
A suit with eager tenderness,
The princess he avoided then,
Was less with dames and more with men,
And left his dark esquire to bear
Fitful commands of lady fair,
While he, at banquet or in chase,
Held more than ever foremost place.
And chiefly that esquire was seen
To serve the Princess Ysoline.
To her Sir Nigel was no more
Then stranger from a foreign shore,
While of esquires and pages round
Sir Nigel's only favor found;
And since she knew, or that she thought
He most of zeal to service brought,
Whene'er she rode abroad, her whim
Was to be cavaliered by him.

And now it chanced upon a day
When king and court had made their way
With men-at-arms and huntsmen good
To chase the wild boar in the wood,
They longed to let their ladies see
Their daring feats of venerie,
And so the dames on palfreys splendid,
By donzels and esquires attended,
Rode to a hillock whence they might
Keep many hunters in their sight.

120

The princess there dismounted; nigh her
Attending was Sir Nigel's 'squire,
Standing erect with bearing high,
Yet something tender in his eye
While gazing at the group, and there
Chatted the ladies young and fair.
They with their spirits gay and light,
Jested upon that gloomy wight,
Or listened to the coming sounds
Of winded horns and baying hounds,
Until a mot, three notes, no more,
Announced the starting of the boar.
Sudden that laughing group among,
From coppice dense a wild-boar sprung,
And passing others on the path,
Upon the princess charged in wrath.
Slain were the Princess Ysoline
But for the dark 'squire's falchion keen,
Which pierced the brute, but not before
The boar's tusks bathed themselves with gore,
And in the bold squire's body sent
Made in the flesh a ghastly rent,
And lay, within the princess' sight,
Slayer and slain a piteous plight.

The 'squire long languished, but at length
Leech-craft and care renewed his strength;
And then by royal order, he
Waited upon his majesty.
Attended by his court, the king
Stood centre of a glorious ring,
Nobles and knights of great renown,
Trusted and honored by the crown,
And high-born dames and demoiselles,
Whom Ysoline so far excels,

121

There standing by her father's throne,
That James sees only her alone.
Bowed the esquire, but never spoke—
King Louis first the silence broke—
“Courage is courage everywhere,
And should its crown of honor wear,
And though at home, and not afield,
Your service came, our thanks we yield.
Kneel down Esquire, arise Sir James;
Nor does that rank acquit your claims.
Ask what you will at our command,
Titles or honors, place or land,
Or aught our mandate may secure—
Speak bold and free, and hold it sure.”
Out spake Sir James, with conscious pride,
While drew Sir Nigel to his side:
“Titles and lands I do not seek,
Honors and place to me are weak;
Who saves a life may claim a hand—
For bride the princess I demand.”
A murmur went around; but ere
The words of men their anger bear,
The monarch waved his hand, and said:
“The princess may a sovereign wed,
A noble may become her lord—
Such was, in truth, our royal word—
But not a gentleman alone,
And he untitled and unknown.”
“Were I a peasant born, beau sire,”
Replied Sir James, devoid of fear,
“For justice I would scorn to creep;
His plighted word a king must keep.”
Silence a space, then sudden broke—
“Have your demand!” King Louis spoke;
“But portionless your bride shall be,

122

And banished with you o'er the sea,
Nor evermore while time goes on,
As daughter of our house be known.”
Loud laughed Sir James. “It seems,” quoth he,
“Consent is given unwillingly.
What says the princess?” She replied
By stealing timid to his side.
“King Louis,” cried Sir James, elate,
“The princess loses not in state.
Kempstone of Kempstone, belted earl;
See of thy master's crown the pearl;
A princess now, but more, I ween,
When she is crowned as Scotland's queen.”

THE FAIRY ISLAND.

Young Gitto Bach, Llewellyn's son,
Sat by the calm Llyn Glas,
Watching the shadows of the clouds
Across its surface pass.

His goats and kids amid the rocks
Roved frolicsome and free;
The summer sun looked smiling down;
Then why so sad was he?

Upon a little ten-year boy
What weighty trouble bore?
Object of parents' care and love,
What could he wish for more?

123

There in the placid llyn afar
A purple isle he saw,
With glittering towers that rose on high
Above the greenwood shaw.

There rainbow tints stole in and out,
Through a veil of purple mist,
That lilac was where touched by light,
In shadow, amethyst.

“And oh,” said Gitto, wistfully,
“That wondrous island fair,
A fairy-land of all delights,
If I were only there!”

He turned him to the cliff-side tall,
Where he had often been,
And saw what ne'er before he saw,
A door the rock within.

Down leading from the open door
He saw some steps of stone,
And curiously, and fearlessly,
He entered there alone.

The dimly lighted passage through
He made his tedious way,
Till, at the end, by steps again,
He found the light of day.

It opened in a bosky grove,
None fairer in the isle;
And there he found a hundred elves
Who met him with a smile.

124

They prisoned him with friendly hands
Within their fairy ring,
And then they bore him joyously
Before the elfin king.

The monarch sat upon his throne,
Within the royal hall,
Around him grouped in proud array,
His guards and courtiers all.

“And so we have a mortal child,
As guest,” exclaimed the king;
“We welcome him to every joy
The fairy isle can bring.

“All rare delights the Gwraigedd know,
Partaking day by day,
All precious things around to use,
But none to bear away.

“I give thee to my eldest son,
Companion good to be,
And near to him shall be thy state,
As his is near to me.”

What happy life had Gitto then,
With servitors at hand,
To serve him as they served the Prince,
The heir to all the land.

They clad him in the satin red,
And cloak of velvet blue,
With diamonds bright and rubies rare
To shine on cap and shoe.

125

His food was of the dead-ripe fruit
That hung at left and right;
His drink was of the honey-dew
From golden goblets bright.

And there it seemed for hour on hour
He played amid the flowers,
With tricksy elves at pleasant sports,
Through groves and rosy bowers.

They tossed a hollow golden ball
From hand to hand in play;
And when he caught it, mockingly,
From them he ran away.

He hid from them within the grove,
'Twas portion of the game;
And there he saw the downward steps
By which that morn he came.

The memory of his home came back,
In spite of present bliss;
He longed to hear his father's voice,
To taste his mother's kiss.

So on with golden ball in hand,
Ere those who sought him knew,
Adown the steps he made his way,
And thrid the passage through.

He stood upon the spot whereat
He left his goats before;
The goats had gone; he turned around,
But entrance found no more.

126

The door had vanished. Came a voice,
In accents stern and low:
“You took the golden ball away,
The theft shall bring you woe.”

Alarmed, he ran with tottering steps
To seek his father's cot,
But found it gone, a field of corn
Grew rankly on the spot.

He wandered till he met a man,
Old, worn and weak of limb,
Who stopped, and leaned upon his staff,
And wondering gazed at him.

“Now who be you,” the old man said,
“Who to the sight appears
No taller than a little boy,
Yet marked with sixty years?

“Deep seams and wrinkles on your face,
White locks upon your head,
A tottering gait; 'twould seem your life
Has very near been sped.”

Quoth Gitto: “I am but a boy,
Last birthday only ten;
I'm Gitto Bach; my father is
Llewellyn, of the Glen.”

“Heaven guard us well!” the old man cried,
“With fairies you have been;
'Tis fifty years since Gitto Bach
Was drowned within the llyn.

127

“At least his people lost him there;
He never more came back;
They sought him east, they sought him west,
But found no trace nor track.

“Llewellyn was a worthy man,
Well liked by people here;
But he, and Betti Rhys, his wife,
Are dead for many a year.”

“I've only been short time away,”
Cried Gitto, “'twas no sin;
And stayed to play awhile with gwraigs,
Out yonder in the llyn.

“In proof, behold the golden ball,
And they have many such”—
He showed it, 'twas a puff-ball now,
And crumbled at the touch.

“Your face has old Llewellyn's look,”
Trembling, the old man said;
“The gwraigs have held you in their thrall,
While all believed you dead.”

Soon were the neighbors gathered round
The withered dwarf to scan,
And kindly hands to roof and board
Led off the little man.

It was not long; the following day,
“It was my fault,” he cried;
“Woe's me! I stole the golden ball!”
And with these words he died.

128

THE THREE BLOWS.

A fair domain was Castle Rhys,
Gained both by gold and sword,
Ere wanton waste those acres broad
Had parted from their lord:
But now all friendless from the pile
Where first his race began,
Sir Powel Rhys, when twilight fell,
Walked forth a ruined man.

On Coldwell Rocks he stood, and gazed
Upon the winding Wye,
That, shrunk from swell of spring-time floods,
Went creeping slowly by;
And saw within a golden boat
That crossed his startled view,
A lady fair in yellow hair,
And robe of samite blue.

And through the weir, and from the shore,
And o'er the waters still,
She steered the boat with silver oar
Hither and thither at will.
And then the saying crossed his mind
Of the fay of Owen's Weir—
“Who wins her from her boat of gold,
No want through life may fear.”

Sir Powel sought the river-shore,
And gazed upon her face;
And thought no maid the wide world o'er
Could match her looks and grace.

129

“O lady sweet!” he wildly cried,
“Whate'er thy race may be,
Without thy smile, without thy love,
The world is dark to me!”

The lady listened as he spake,
Then with a blush replied—
“Much risks the sprite from fairy-land
To be a mortal's bride.
For woe to you, and grief to both,
When wedded wife I be,
If moved by passion thrice you lay
Unkindly hand on me.”

And then the lady stepped on shore,
And nestled at his side,
And hearkened favoring to the words
That wooed her for his bride.
And arm in arm they sought the priest
At kirk, who made them one;
And then returned to Castle Rhys
When holy rites were done.

Sir Powel left, in going forth,
One lackey in his hall,
A single cow in paddock there,
One horse within the stall;
But, coming back with bride on arm,
A herd o'erspread the meads,
There met him fifty serving-men,
The stalls had fifty steeds.

So ere three twelvemonths rolled away,
He gained of wealth untold,
His lands grew wide on every side,
His coffers filled with gold.

130

His sweet wife's fondness grew the more,
And still at will or whim,
The lovely Lady Gladys strove
To love and honor him.

It chanced one day the twain were bid
A bridal feast to share,
The groom, a lord of fourscore years,
The bride both young and fair.
But when the Lady Gladys came,
Her looks were filled with woe,
And, seated at the festal board,
She let the tears down flow.

Shuddered the bride, the bridegroom frowned,
But still the lady wept,
Her husband chid her angrily,
As to his side she crept.
“Pardon!” she said—“I weep to see
The ruin in their path—”
With that Sir Powel grasped her arm
And thrust her back in wrath.

A year passed on: a child had died,
A babe of tender years;
The mother moaned, and all around
Dissolved in pitying tears;
But Lady Gladys loudly laughed,
And through the burial day
To her it seemed a festival,
So light her words and gay.

The guests in whispers spoke of her;
She said—“And why be sad?
I see it with the angels there,
And therefore I am glad.”

131

Her husband dragged her from the place,
And turning in his track,
In answer to her loving smile,
He pushed her rudely back.

Another year—a christening feast,
And honored guests were they;
It was a neighbor's first-born son,
And all were blithe and gay.
But slowly Lady Gladys made
Her way among her peers,
And o'er her sudden-pallid cheeks
Rolled floods of bitter tears.

“What folly this?” Sir Powel cried;
“Alas! my lord,” quoth she—
“This sweet child in its winding-sheet
A year from this I see.”
“This passes patience!” cried her lord,
And in a wrathful mood,
He seized her with a sudden grasp,
And shook her where she stood.

The lady grew like marble pale,
Her tears the faster fell,
She gazed a moment in his face,
And then she sobbed—“Farewell!”
She turned and sought the river-side,
He followed to the shore;
But into naught the golden boat
The vanished lady bore.

And ere a twelvemonth passed away,
Sir Powel's wealth had fled,
A murrain slew his thousand kine,
His steeds in stall were dead.

132

His monarch seized his lands in fee,
And filled with grief and moan,
In foreign lands, a banished man,
Sir Powel died, alone.

THE VISIT OF LLEWELLYN.

A WELSH LEGEND.

[_]

The English peasant, with simple frankness, speaks of “the fairies”; but those of Keltic origin treat such supernatural beings with more respect. The Irish style them Daoine Maith—“the good people,” and the Welsh, y Tylwyth Teg—“the fair folk.” The Welsh fairies differ from those of the Irish, and are in greater variety. At times, they array themselves gorgeously and admit mortals to their revels. But the man who gets into the charmed circle finds it difficult to escape, unless he be expelled by some fault, as in the legend, which is didactic as well as fantastic, and teaches an obvious lesson. This legend, it will be seen, is a variant of “Fionn and the Fairies,” but the Welsh ending is gloomier than the Irish.

Llewellyn stood on Frennisach
Upon a summer day,
And raised his eyes to Frennifawr,
That mountain bare and grey;
And there upon the summit saw,
Within the noonday light,
Dancing like spattering water-drops,
Some pigmy creatures bright—
“Y Tylwyth Teg!” he murmured low,
Astounded at the sight.

He slowly climbed the mountain-side
And gained the circle where
Moved merrily a thousand elves,
And each seemed young and fair;
He saw them turn and leap and prance,
And yet no music sweet

133

Smote on his ear with melody,
Though they, with tiny feet,
Moved in the windings of the dance
As though to measured beat.

Soon losing all the hesitance
That filled his heart at first,
He stepped within the ring, and lo!
What music on him burst—
The harmony of fairy harps
That thrilled his spirit through;
While round him crowded eagerly
The joyous elfin crew,
Some clad in robes of linen white,
And some in red or blue.

They clung to and caressed him much,
They welcomed him with joy,
With every blandishment that love
And kindness could employ.
They led him to a palace hall
Bedecked with pearls and gold,
Lined on all sides with malachite
And silks in heavy fold,
With sapphires studded overhead,
And diamonds untold.

And there he saw, upon his throne,
Crowned with a laurel wreath,
His golden scepter in his hand,
The potent Gwin ap Neeth,
Who towered, in all his majesty,
His pigmy subjects o'er;

134

For none of these were three feet six,
While he was over four;
And well both height and kingly state
The gentle monarch bore.

“Llewellyn, free thou art,” he said,
“To roam our realm at will;
With every joy our vassals know
Thy every sense to thrill.
One thing alone forbidden. Mark!
The fountain in yon square,
Which throws aloft its glittering jet
That breaks to gems in air,
Drink not from that; thrust not thy hand
Within the water there.”

Naught cared Llewellyn for such drink,
While for his thirst they brought
The rarest wines in golden cups,
With curious work enwrought.
What was a water draught to him
Who had such precious wine?
Who longs for coarse and homely fare
When fed on dainties fine?
Who sighs for berries wild, amid
The orange, fig and pine?

Served by the fairest demoiselles
Alive at beck and nod,
Accompanied by all respect
Whatever path he trod,
Llewellyn soon forgot his home,
The humble cot which lay
Down in the peaceful Pembroke dell
That seemed so far away—

135

Its slated roof, its casements low,
Its rough walls mossed and grey.

His bounding goats, his lowing kine—
Why, what were these to him?
His wife, and children at their play—
A something vague and dim,
A mist that spread before his eyes
Below the enchanted heights;
And so he passed the pleasant days,
And slept refreshing nights,
To wake when rose each morning sun,
And bask in fresh delights.

At last the pleasure wearied him;
He sighed for something more—
Men thus may tire of happiness
When once its flush is o'er.
He lingered at the fountain side,
And watched there, day by day,
The many-colored fishes that
Within the basin lay,
Or darted hither and thither in
Their wild and frolic play.

At last a raging thirst he felt—
If he could only drink
A little of the limpid draught
There at the basin's brink!
His hand within the water clear
He thrust with eager haste;
The fishes vanished from his sight;
The elves his arm enlaced
With theirs and strove to draw it back,
And pleaded not to taste.

136

Too strong his thirst! He only plunged
His hand the further in,
And raised it to his lips. Arose
A wild and eldritch din.
He heeded not the uproar wild;
The phantoms strange and weird
That flitted near, and shrieked and cried,
He neither saw nor feared;
He drank. Elves, fountain, palace, all
Forever disappeared.

On Frennisach and Frennifawr
The sun again grew bright;
Llewellyn, bent to earth with age,
Descended from the height;
He sought his home; the spot was changed,
Another look it bore;
Gone was his dwelling-place, whose porch
Green vines had clambered o'er;
And there a stately mansion stood,
Llewellyn's cot no more.

He rapped. A lackey came. He asked:
“Llewellyn's cot stood here?”
“Why, yes,” the footman said, “it did,
But not for many a year.
Llewellyn, fifty years ago,
I 've heard old people tell,
Was by the fairies borne away;
His people left the dell—”
He shrank in dread. Llewellyn's form
Crumbled to dust, and fell.

Gwyn ap Nudd. So spelled, but pronounced as in the text. This potentate is also King of Annwn, a place whose English name is not mentioned in cultured society.

137

THE MILK-WHITE COW.

[_]

The Welsh are of the Keltic race (the Keltoi and Galloi of the Greeks) and of the same branch as the Armoricans of Brittany. They may be considered to be brothers of the Manxmen and Cornishmen. But the two main divisions, the Cwmry and Gael, differ somewhat in customs and folk-lore. The Welsh fairies exist in greater variety than the Irish, and have the national passion for music and cheese. The merror, or mermaid of the Irish coast, does not appear in Wales. In place of her there is the gwraig, or gwrag, a lake fairy, who is not fishy in the lower extremities, but a good-looking gentlewoman, who sometimes marries, to the prosperity of the bridegroom, with a mortal. The gwragedd generally appear clad in green and are attended by white hounds. They possess a breed of milk-white, hornless cattle, who come up now and then from the lake and feed on the meadows at the side. The legend that follows, simple as it is, is not without its obvious moral. One variation of the story has it that one of the cows remained, turned black and became the ancestress of the present race of Welsh cattle.

[Llyn is Welsh for “lake.”—Author.]

Than Llyn Barfog no fairer lake
Lies placidly to tribute take
From crystal springs and trickling rills,
Amid Caermathen's rocky hills.
Bordered with crag and bush and tree,
Its surface glistens glassily,
While here and there on either side
Slope grassy meadows, green and wide.

At times from out this lake at morn,
A milk-white herd, devoid of horn,
Of elfin cattle, quick emerge,
And to the shore their hoofsteps urge.
They scatter o'er the meadows wide,
And ceaseless graze till eventide,
Then, when the twilight crowns the day,
Beneath the waters sink away.

138

Once near this lake lived Rowli Pugh,
No poorer swain the country through;
Fortune, to others kind, to him
Presented aspect harsh and grim.
So when his neighbors brought him word
His meadow held the elfin herd—
“That might be best for some,” quoth he;
“The visit bodes no good to me.”

But when at night the shrill-toned call
Brought Rowli's two lean kine to stall,
The wondering milkmaid found a third
Was added to that little herd,
Silken of coat, and mild of eye,
Who chewed the cud the others by,
And pail on pail of creamy spoil
Give to reward the milker's toil.

From that time forth began a change
In Rowli's fortune, kind and strange,
And when some thirty years had passed
His herds (her progeny) were vast;
His acres grew, and for his needs
Spread far around his fertile meads;
While where was once his cottage rude
A farmhouse, half a palace, stood.

But avarice, so declares the sage,
Is evermore the vice of age.
The cow grew old. The master said—
“This useless brute is costly fed.
She breeds no more; no milk she gives;
A drain on purse while here she lives,
Profit remains not with the cow;
We'll fatten her for slaughter now.”

139

Well fed in stall the cow remained,
And wondrous was the weight she gained;
And soon so sleek and fat was she,
Crowds came the wondrous brute to see.
Amid them all some few there were
Who said that Pugh her life should spare;
'Twas only greed of gain, they thought,
To slay the cow who wealth had brought.

They led her forth. Her gentle eyes
Looked on the butcher with surprise,
She seemed to know; her pleading look
The spirit of her doomster shook.
She licked his hand, then bent her head
And gently lowed. The butcher said—
“The gentle creature fawns on you;
Shall I not spare her?” “Strike!” cried Pugh.

The man his pole-ax raised on high
And struck. There came a sob and cry.
The blow had only smote the air;
The smitten brute had vanished—where?
And at the lakeside, on a crag,
There stood a stately, fair gwrag,
Who loudly cried, “Come to the Llyn,
Ye milk-white kine, and join your kin!”

From stall, from byre, from field and mead,
Rushed forth the kine of elfin breed;
They crossed the paths, they leapt the close,
They trampled all who dared oppose,
They climbed the crag, they pierced the brake,
They headlong plunged within the lake,
And as Pugh stood in wild amaze
Farmhouse and barns burst into blaze.

140

From thence the tide of fortune turned:
To ashes barns and farmhouse burned;
The corn was blasted in the ear;
The grass was withered far and near;
The land refused its fruits to bear;
The spot all men avoided there;
And underneath the elfin ban
Went Rowli Pugh, a beggared man.

THE RESCUE OF ALBRET.

When Count d'Albrét had passed away, he left no son as heir;
And so his many seignories fell to his daughter fair;
To keep the name alive he willed that on her wedding-day
The mate she chose should take the arms and title of Albrét.

She dwelt within her castle old, this noble demoiselle,
Almost as much from life apart as in the convent cell;
Ten men-at-arms the place to guard; ten servants at her call,
A white-haired priest, a saucy page, four maidens—these were all.

But many a needy gentleman bethought him of the prize,
For him who favor found within the noble lady's eyes,
And waited with impatience till, a twelvemonth being o'er
At court the Countess Isoline would show herself once more.

141

The free companion, John Lanceplaine, a soldier basely bred,
Heard of it, too, and thought: “Methinks 'tis time that I were wed.
A lady passing fair is much, and more the fertile land,
But most of all, nobility. I'll win the maiden's hand.

“I am not one to sue and court, am all devoid of grace,
Advanced in years and grey of beard, with scarred and wrinkled face;
I may not woo with courtly phrase, as might some silken lord.
My winning shall my wooing be; I'll gain her by my sword.

“She bides at home, my spies report, not twenty miles away;
They say she has ten men-at-arms, no more, to guard Albrét.
The dwellers in the village near, I little reck for those,
We'll brush them off like trifling gnats when we the hold enclose.”

He called around his men-at-arms—a base and cruel band,
Part of the scum that overflowed that time the hapless land—
And said: “At daybreak forth we ride to storm a castled hold,
Its walls contain a wife for me, for you, rich store of gold.”

A motley troop before the place next day drew bridle-rein—
Two hundred ruffians, at their head the grisly John Lanceplaine,
Rode through the town with oath and jest, and camping on the field,
Sent message to the chatelaine, and summoned her to yield.

142

“We mean,” 'twas said, “but courtesy; we promise treatment fair;
But woe to those in leaguered hold who may resistance dare.”
The countess showed no craven fear; she sent defiance back,
And waited with the garrison the robber-knaves' attack.

It was not long to wait: they come with confidence elate
With scaling-ladders for the walls, and rams to force the gate.
It was not long before they found their frantic efforts vain,
With twenty sorely wounded men, and five among them slain.

“We'll spare more loss,” cried John Lanceplaine; “of food they have no store;
Famine shall do the work for us before a week be o'er.”
And so he ordered watch and ward, while careless, day by day,
The ruffians, sure to win at last, before the castle lay.

When bread fell short, Girard Beaujeu, the page, he eager said:
“My great and noble lady, thus our fate must sure be sped.
Give me to seek a mode by which an exit may be made
To find some gallant gentleman whose arms may give us aid.”

“Go forth, Girard,” the lady said, “go forth, for yet perchance
May be some knights who keep afield, and wield the sword and lance;

143

Go forth, and if your eager search bring succor in our need,
Honors and lands, as well as thanks, shall surely be your meed.”

From postern gate, at dead of night, with sword in hand, he steals;
Now creeps by bush, now crawls by stone, now stoops half bent, now kneels;
He finds the sentinels asleep, and makes his way to where
The horses of the losel knaves lie in the open air.

He saddles one and bridles one, and slowly leads him down
The grassy slope and o'er the road, and past the sleeping town;
Then mounts with care, and cautious rides, till from all hearing passed,
Then urges on the wakened steed, and gallops hard and fast.

Sir Hugh d'Espaign, with nine his friends, were holding revel fair
Within a little hostelry, “Le Lion Rouge,” at Aire;
In burst Girard, and said to him: “If honor you essay,
Come where a rabble rout besiege my lady of Albrét.”

Sir Hugh gave ear to tale he told, and to the others then
He said: “There are two hundred there, and here we are but ten.
Why, that is but a score apiece; 'twill heighten the mellay;
Let's mount at once, fair friends, and reach the spot ere break of day.”

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They armed themselves, they mounted fast; Sir Hugh was in the lead;
And as they neared the robbers' camp they checked their horses' speed;
Slowly along the road they made in silentness their way,
Until they came where, through the dark, loomed sullenly Albrét.

Asleep Lanceplaine and all his men, the sentries nodding there—
The castle guard more watchful were, for succor making prayer—
When came the sound of thundering hoofs, a rush of horse, pell-mell,
And thrust of lance and stroke of sword, on coat and cuirass fell.

Awake, Lanceplaine, from pleasant dreams of lands and lady fair!
He dreams no more; Sir Hugh's good lance has slain him then and there.
Awake the rest, to fight and fall, for well the wretches know
A shriftless cord shall be his fate, who 'scapes the thrust and blow.

In peril dire, Girard, the page; two knaves had set on him;
His was a slender build, and they were tall and stout of limb.
But steady blows he gives and takes, nor stays for help to call,
And from the castle as they gaze, they see his foemen fall.

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Wave kerchiefs from the battlements; the field is lost and won;
A joyous shout of triumph goes to greet the rising sun,
And welcomed by the countess fair, the champions brave, who brought
Swift rescue to beleagured ones, and well on robbers wrought.

And thus it was, Sir Hugh d'Espaign won lands and lady sweet;
And thus it was Girard Beaujeu won guerdon, fair and meet.
And poets sing, throughout the land, in many a pleasant lay,
The doings of the knights who rode to the rescue of Albrét.

THE DIAMOND'S STORY.

Gems that on the brow of beauty, in their splendor flash and glow,
From whose sunlight-smitten centres liquid rainbows ever flow,
These could many a tale of wonder tell to eager-listening ears—
Tales made up of joy and sorrow, hope, depression, smiles and tears;
Tales of passion quick and fiery; tales of avarice slow and cold;
Such as sang the Wander-singers in the wondrous days of old.

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This my story—mine. He found me, on a morning calm and still—
He, a thick-lipped, ebon bondman—in the sands of the Brazil.
High he leapt, and loud he shouted, “'Tis a twenty carat stone!
How it glitters! Blessed Mother! now my manhood is my own!”
For the finding broke his shackles, and my purity and size,
By the custom of the miners, brought his freedom as a prize.

I was carried thence to Holland, where a workman wan and grey
Gave back beauty for the fragments that his wheel-rim wore away;
There the dealers came to view me, and the burghers, young and old,
And the high-born dames and stately, till one morning I was sold—
Sold unto a proud French noble, old in vice, in years a boy,
And he sent me to an actress, as he might have sent a toy.

Much the laughing beauty loved me, showed me to admiring dames:
Sat alone and gazed upon me, calling me endearing names;
More she loved me than the giver, as it took no seer to see;
While his gifts she craved, her fancy sought a lower man than he—
Sought a workman strong and rugged, all devoid of courtly grace,
With the muscles of a wrestler, and a lion's grimly face.

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Rose the long down-trodden masses—cap of wool against the crown—
Heaved the earthquake of a people, toppling fane and palace down;
Seed of wrong sown broadcast, growing, threw up many a blossoming shoot,
Coming up to plague the sowers with a crop of bloody fruit;
Day and night at horrid revel, fiends in shape of man were seen;
Day and night were hapless victims wedded to the guillotine.

Fell my mistress: ere they slew her, to her swarthy lover she
Sent—his death in turn awaiting—as a parting token, me;
He, ere dying, to a comrade, for a draught of brandy, gave
What were ransom for a monarch, then went drunken to his grave;
And that comrade would have followed in a little fortnight more,
Had not Robespierre's bitter ending opened wide the prison door.

Me he looked at and remembered as the gem he'd given away
Long before he hid from hunters but to later be their prey;
Some he thought of earlier pleasure, ere he used his limbs for hire,
Ere his wealth was snatched by spoilers, ere his castles fell by fire;
But he merely shrugged his shoulders, then he sold me gold to gain
That would bear him o'er the mountains to a shelter safe in Spain.

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When Napoleon's star of glory blazing to its zenith rose,
When he stood, self-made, a monarch, over abject kings, his foes,
I was bought, and set with others on the crown imperial's rim—
On the crown whose inches never added stature unto him—
Him who never sought for jewels, lustre to his deeds to lend;
Him who ever spurned such baubles, save as means to reach an end.

Monarchs four since then have worn me—what care I for such as they?
What showed they to match in glory aught in great Napoleon's day?
One a gross, good-natured creature, lazily lolling on his throne;
One a senseless bigot, losing power by folly of his own;
One a money-changer selfish, with a head shaped like a pear;
One a cross of fox and jackal, sitting in a lion's lair.

I have seen, while here in Paris, two great emperors and their train
Rise and fall; two monarchs hunted, and another caged and slain;
Two republics sink and perish, and a third in peril thrown—
War and revolution round me—I unchanged, unhurt, alone.
Now to-day the foe surrounds us; busily spin the sisters three;
At the gate I hear the Prussian—whose to-morrow shall I be?

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THE LADY OF MONTFORT'S RAID.

BRITTANY, A.D. 1342.

What time to Nantes one pleasant day the Count of Montfort came,
And all our burghers welcomed him, and most his lovely dame;
Not one amid that shouting throng could ever have foretold
The timid woman at his side would prove a warrior bold;
And when her lord in prison died would make the fight alone,
To place her son in Brittany upon the ducal throne.

The courage of a man was hers. She felt no craven fear;
She waged a fight for her young son's right, and has for many a year;
She kept the town of Hennebon safe, that other had been lost,
Till now Sir Walter Manny's troops the English sea have crossed;
And well, a woman though she be, she wielded axe and blade,
And led her knights and men-at-arms upon a gallant raid.

It was when Charles of Blois, who claimed the duchy as his right,
Had brought his force to Hennebon, and besieged it day and night,

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And raised a tower for breaching, and attempt at storming made,
Our lady, who the battle at the barriers had surveyed,
Cried to her knights, as there she stood, all steel-clad cap-a-pie:
“Their rich camp lies unguarded! who will dare to follow me?”

Sir Oliver of Vendel and Sir Hugh of Monlinverde,
With thrice a hundred men-at-arms, stood forward at her word;
And, sallying through the rearmost gate, they made a circuit round,
And speedily the foemen's tents, and stores and baggage found,
Where hangings rich and velvet cloaks and silken stuffs they saw—
The bravery of the gentlemen who followed Charles of Blois.

They cut and slashed to ribbons there these braveries so fine;
They burst the bags of wheaten flour and bilged the casks of wine;
They slew the knaves of armorers, and then, with hammer stroke,
They shattered casques and corslets, and great sheaves of arrows broke;
They hacked the gay pavilions, and they plundered at desire,
And piled the stuff on broken wains, and set the camp on fire.

As from the tents and wains arose the clouds of smoke and flame,
The startled foe the barriers left, and furiously they came.

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“Fair gentlemen,” the countess said, “these gallants mean no play;
They've placed a thousand men-at-arms to bar our homeward way;
We're far too few their force to fight; a safe retreat is best;
Now for a race, with the dogs in chase, to the castled hold of Brest.”

The countess, with her raiders, spurred, and so the race began;
The angry foemen followed her—Lord Charles was in the van.
Sir John of Brie his fellows passed, and merrily cried he:
“Let those who will pursue the knights—the lady fair for me!
But as at horse's head he strove to grasp her bridle-rein,
The lady raised her battle-axe and sank it in his brain.

His 'squire dismounted where he fell, and gazed upon his face;
Some reined their steeds a moment there, and then kept on the chase;
And all who passed were wroth of soul that by a woman's hand
Should fall the gallant John of Brie, the flower of all the land;
Yet no one wished the lady ill, for well each rider knew
It was a deed of fair defence, if not of derring-do.

Our lady, she was mounted well; her palfrey strong and fleet
Bore her away that stirring day on never-tiring feet;

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And light she laughed at those behind, who made pursuit too late,
As she and hers right cheerfully rode through the castle gate;
While Charles of Blois in wrath exclaimed: “I swear before all men,
To draw the fangs of this she-wolf if she ever come back again!”

But, tarrying not too long in Brest, she sought the field once more,
And with six hundred men-at-arms who keen-edged weapons bore,
Before the dawn had cleared the sky she started on her way,
And, circling past where on the ground her tentless foemen lay,
She entered Hennebon, where the shouts taught braggart Charles of Blois
That, came she back as come she had, her teeth he might not draw.

She is a valiant dame and fair, and hard for year on year
Her troops have fought her foes of France, and held the country here;
And soon shall pass the hope of Charles our Brittany to seize
With rogues from Spain and knaves from France, and scum of Genoese;
For England's king hath succor sent to aid her in the fight,
And England's king hath sworn an oath her son shall have his right.

153

DESERTED.

THE LEGEND OF RABENSTEIN.

On the Raven's Rock a ruin stands,
Seen plainly from the lower lands.
Weeds grow thickly in the fosse;
Buttress and barbican hide in moss;
The hall is roofless, the chambers bare;
Ranpike trees in the court-yard there;
And over the riven and crumbling walls
The hungry ivy creeps and crawls.
Where knights and dames of high degree
Once moved with a lofty courtesy,
And minnesingers chanted free,
The toad and bat hold revelry;
And the tongues those blackened stones within
Speak less what is than what has been;
But over the gateway men may see,
Cut from the stone with chisel free,
In bold relief a knightly shield,
With a sable raven on silver field,
And a legend carved in a single line—
“True to the House of Rabenstein.”

The root whence grew a noble stem,
Sir Armeric von Heidenhemm,
Who gold and fame in the wars had won,
Came hither with his wife and son;
And once, when hunting on this rock,
A robber met in deadly lock—
A giant the knave, and brave and strong—
And the angry pair contended long.

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The knight was stout, and never yet
One more his match than this had met,
And would his doom that day have found,
Had not a raven who hovered round—
His favorite for a year or so—
Driven his beak in the eyes of his foe,
Whose grip relaxed through sudden pain:
The knight was saved, the robber slain.
No wight more grateful was, they say
Than good Sir Armeric on that day.
He called the rock “The Raven Stone”;
He took that name in lieu of his own;
And there he built a castle tall,
With deep-cut moat and massive wall;
And wore a raven on his shield,
The sole device on its silver field;
And for his motto took the line—
“True to the House of Rabenstein.”

For he said—“If adverse fate assail,
Our house for lack of heirs should fail,
The Kaiser resume again his fee,
And our castle in ruins deserted be,
Forever through the varying year
One being of life shall linger here,
The sable symbol of our line
To guard the name of Rabenstein.”

Sir Armeric lived as live the just;
Sir Armeric's body passed to dust,
And his soul to heaven, all good men trust.
But from his loins there sprang a brood
Of knights and nobles stout and good;
And these through all the ages long
Found higher titles round them throng;

155

A thousand vassals at their call
Attended them in field or hall;
To them the base-born sons of toil
Paid rent-gold for the fertile soil
Extending widely on the Rhine,
And held in fee of their lordly line.
A noble race it was and proud,
And haughty to the common crowd;
But when the reigning counts rode out,
And with them rode their vassals stout,
Or sought the tourney's dangerous sport,
Or visited the Kaiser's court,
Or sat as guests at banquet splendid,
A tame black raven still attended;
And what a hawk or hound might be,
As favorite or companion free,
To others sprung from lordly stem,
That sable raven was to them.
Men still agreed that naught of base,
Or mean, or cruel marked the race;
But woe betide the scoffer heard
To jeer the black and awkward bird.
To other words they paid no heed—
Too proud to notice such indeed;
But he who held that raven light,
Upon their honor did despite;
And he who held that raven low,
Proclaimed himself the master's foe;
And on the offender fell condign
Wrath of the House of Rabenstein.

So past the years. At last there came
One godless noble of the name,
Truthless and ruthless, wild and grim,
A hundred vices met in him—

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Rupert the Reckless—last of his line,
Cause of the fall of Rabenstein.

With boon companions left and right
Count Rupert reveled long one night;
With ribald jest and jeer profane,
The red wine firing blood and brain,
They shouted and screamed like madmen all,
Till the rafters shook in the oaken hall.
At length, in a frenzy, Rupert there
The raven seized that sat on the chair—
For such the custom of the line,
When its chief sat down to meat or wine—
And, wringing the helpless creature's neck,
Exclaimed—“With a thousand serfs at beck
To work our will or back our deed,
A better sign than this we need.
The raven's a loathly bird, we know,
Its voice is harsh, its habits low;
Too long it has been the baleful sign
That brought disgrace on a lordly line,
To every soaring thought a bar:
The eagle's a better bird by far.
We'll give him a place upon our shield—
An eagle shall soar on an azure field.
Fill your beakers with good red wine,
And toss them off, boon friends of mine,
To the new-made symbol of our line.
To Adlerstein we'll change our name,
Discard the raven and his shame—
Let the black bird elsewhere flutter and flit;
An eagle in his stead shall sit.
Fill high! drink deep, dear friends of mine,
A long farewell to Rabenstein.”

157

Three heavy knocks on the portals rang,
The great gates opened with a clang,
And a figure clad in links of steel,
In chain-cloth armed from head to heel,
Stalked to the head of the table where
Count Rupert shrank in his gilded chair.
The guests arose and fled, for they
Dared not with the dead at revel to stay;
And here were the first and last of the line,
The two dead counts of Rabenstein.

The body of Rupert rest has found
But not in consecrated ground;
Far in the forest where human eyes
So rarely rest, he mouldering lies;
While the stately home of his lordly race
Is the lizard's and bat's abiding-place;
And lest his fault forgotten be,
Or his name should pass from memory,
About the ruins by night and day
The race's raven is doomed to stay;
From stone to stone he hops and flits,
Or on some leafless limb he sits.
No one has ever heard him speak;
No one has known him to flesh his beak;
Mate of his kind he has never known—
In the ruined pile he dwells alone.
The hunter or boor who passes there
Signs the sign of the cross in the air;
For well he remembers the tale he heard
In early youth of the mystic bird;
And knows till the terrible Judgment Day,
The raven will haunt the place alway,
By day or night, through cloud or shine,
“True to the House of Rabenstein.”

158

THE GREY KNIGHT.

The lands of Otto, the Ritter Grau,
Prince-count of Heidenstein,
Spread many miles from the barren peaks
To the swiftly-flowing Rhine.
As a lion old in his safe stronghold,
He sits in his castle grey,
Holding the power of life and death
O'er all who own his sway;
Sole male survivor of his race,
With him his family fails,
And the grand old line of Heidenstein
Expires for want of males.

The grim old count had once a son,
But he has no son to-day;
'Tis more than five-and-twenty years
Since he drove the boy away.
So Konrad died in foreign lands,
And now the Grey Knight grim,
The daughter of his sister's son
Has only left to him.
And she is a maiden fair to see,
Though a very child in years,
And the old man thinks her heart is free
From loving hopes and fears.

There is a boy, half page, half groom,
In the Countess Klara's train,
Who follows the lady's will and whim,
And tends her bridle-rein.

159

A hag had brought him years before,
But his birth she would not tell;
And he had been taught to wield a blade,
And back a war-horse well;
And as in years his age increased
His graces greater grew,
And he loved and served his mistress well,
As all the vassals knew.

The Baron of Stahlberg held a fee
Just next to Heidenstein;
He was a knight of courage stout,
And came of a noble line.
He wooed the Lady Klara there,
But though he gave much heed,
His suit proceeded tardily,
His wooing had no speed.
“She never,” so the Baron said
To the Grey Knight, “ says me nay;
She will not let me plead—methinks
Yon page is in the way.”

Then to the page Count Otto spake:
“Fortune too oft defers
Her favors till men's locks are white;
To-day you win your spurs.
The robber Ruprecht has been seen
Heading his felon band;
Take Streichel and his men-at-arms,
And scour the lower land.
Who dares high flight needs pinions strong,
As a falcon young must learn:
Go then; from midnight here till dawn
I'll wait for thy return.”

160

The page went forth; he deemed the skies
Were tinged with rosy red;
And the Prince-count for Fritz Streichel sent,
And these were the words he said:
“The servant hears and then obeys,
But his own voice is dumb:
Should Ruediger return alive,
Thou hadst not better come.”
With that he turned, and Streichel went
With the rest to join the page;
And the force rode out with spirit stout
On Ruprecht war to wage.

That night a priest to the castle came:
“O, great Prince-count,” said he,
“I shrived a dying one to-day,
And this was her tale to me:
She was nurse to the child of your only son,
Born far beyond the tide;
And stood by the couch of the noble pair
When both on one day died;
And long years since she brought the boy,
And here to the castle came,
And gave him to you to train as page,
And Ruediger his name.”

The old Grey Knight said never a word,
If the news were ill or good;
But strode through the gate to the open air
And there on the terrace stood.
Then silently the men-at-arms
Rode up, and Streichel said:
“I am sorry to tell the noble Count
That the page is behind us—dead.”

161

A shriek from the oriel just above—
Quoth the Count: “His spurs to earn
Our niece's page went forth; we'll wait
Till dawn for his return.”

When the raven sits on the withered limb,
And croaks to the peaceful Rhine,
And the moonlight deepens the shadows brown
Of the ruins of Heidenstein,
At the midnight hour, when the elves have power,
The Grey Knight gaunt and grim
Paces the crumbling terrace there,
And all men shrink from him;
For every night when the bell strikes twelve,
He comes from his grave below,
And, till the cock crows thrice at dawn,
Moves wearily to and fro.

THE BALLAD OF ADLERSTEIN.

Rode forth the Countess Ermintrude, at dawning of the day,
With waiting-maids and men-at-arms, to wildwood making way.
With hawk and hound fair gentlemen were there on either hand
To pay their court to her who was the fairest in the land.

From Erlendorf to Aarchenberg, from Gruenwald to the Rhine,
Extended far the fair domains of Aarch and Adlerstein;

162

Heiress of both the damosel, and who her lord should be,
Seignior of Aarch, Count Adlerstein, would hold those lands in fee.

What wonder, then, from every part such eager suitors came
To win a count's estate and rank and gain a lovely dame?
But though she smiled on all alike and bade them welcome there,
They sped but little in their suit who wooed that maiden fair.

Upon that summer morn they rode through bosky nook and glade,
And laugh and jest and bay of hound rang through the woodland shade,
When lo! the deer-hounds pricked their ears and shrank in terror back
As came, drawn by a stag of ten, a chariot in their track.

The chariot was of burnished gold, its wheels of silver white,
And from it, as it halted there, stepped forth an armèd knight—
A knight of fair and shapely form, and air of noble grace;
And then the stag the chariot turned and scurried from the place.

The knight approached the wondering group, who sat in silence there
And louted him full courteously, yet with a haughty air,
And said: “God save thee, lady sweet; God save ye, gentles here!
Come ye to breathe the woodland air or hunt the dappled deer?”

163

Spake out the Countess Ermintrude—a fearless maiden she—
“Welcome, fair sir, but let us know your name and your degree.”
And he replied: “I am a knight of lineage old and high;
My castle stands in Thoulè land, Sir Rolph von Hirschen I.”

The knight that day who strangely came within the woodland shade,
And walked beside her palfrey white, her guest the maiden made;
And from that day all those around their praise on him bestowed,
As in the chase, or at the tilt, the foremost knight he rode.

Now, ere a twelvemonth passed away, Sir Rolph successful sued,
And won the heart and then the hand of Lady Ermintrude;
From her he took the wide domains from Gruenwald to the Rhine;
Through her became the Lord of Aarch and Count of Adlerstein.

But to his bride, fair Ermintrude, the day that they were wed,
From church returned, these warning words the knightly bridegroom said:
“Sweet, never how I came to thee in woodland shade recall,
Or, we must part, and ruin fierce upon our house will fall.”

Now, five-and-twenty years have gone since they were man and wife,
A stalwart son and daughter fair had crowned their wedded life,

164

When, on a summer eve, went forth the Countess Ermintrude,
Count Rolph, her husband, at her side, to stroll within the wood.

There said the countess to her lord: “'Tis five-and-twenty years
Since I became your loving dame—how short the time appears!
Our feet since then on roses tread; no strife between us two;
Upon our heads, from year to year, new blessings fall like dew.

“Our little Rolph has grown a knight, sung in the minstrel's rhyme;
Our daughter Ermie is the bride of princely Ardenheim.
What current smooth of wedded bliss has flowed for you and me
Since first the stag your chariot drew here in the woodland free!”

Count Rolph embraced his lovely dame, but not a word could speak;
He kissed her lips right tenderly, and tears fell on his cheek.
A shadow darkened o'er her heart, a thrilling terror then,
For there the golden chariot stood, and there the stag of ten.

He stopped not at her frantic cry, he stayed not at her prayer;
Into the chariot straight he leapt, then vanished into air.

165

The summer past, the winter came; succeeding o'er and o'er,
The seasons all returned again; the count came nevermore.

The lady sought the castle straight, and summoned all her men
To search the woods, and scour the plains, and seek through nook and glen;
And all night long, and all next day, they sought and then came back;
No print of hoof on earth was seen; the chariot left no track.

In came a messenger next day, and knelt, and faltering said:
“I bring sad news, most noble dame: the count, your son, is—dead.
The sharp lance of a stranger knight in tilt-yard pierced him through—
Heaven rest the soul of young Count Rolph! he was both brave and true!”

In came another messenger, and knelt with mournful look;
The countess gazed upon him while her frame in anguish shook.
“No words it needs of thine,” she spake, “thy manner tells instead;
I know the Princess Ardenheim, thy master's wife, is dead.”

That week the Countess Ermintrude in mould of churchyard lay,
And fire destroyed the castled pile upon the funeral day.
The Adler lands, the fief of Aarch, went to another line;
The brown bat flits, the grey owl sits, in ruined Adlerstein.

166

THE ROBBER CHIEF.

Conrad, our mighty emperor,
High nobles gathered round,
Seated at board with meat and wine,
For trouble solace found.
“Let's feast,” he said, “since in our realm
Justice exists for all;
Throughout the land the weak are strong
When on the law they call.”

Loud plaudits from the nobles broke;
But soon, in accents low,
Spake Rupert, Count of Ingelheim—
“Alas! my liege! not so.
Count Rauberstein this motto flaunts
Plain in the sight of all:
‘The strong may take, the strong may hold,
The weak go to the wall.’

“Well do his deeds agree with words,
As in his stronghold grey,
With men-at-arms and vassals stout,
He waits to grasp his prey.
Burgher or merchant, priest or clown,
Who journeys by the Rhine,
Must pay his toll of goods or gold
To Rolf of Rauberstein.

“So for a twelvemonth has been done,
Your edict stern despite,
And none as yet has raised his arm
To do the wronged ones right.

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The robber noble holds in scorn
The emperor's decree.”
Said Conrad, “Let us feast to-night;
To-morrow we shall see.”

Next morn Count Rolf in castle sat
When came a vassal in—
“My lord, a train within the vale
Gives hope of spoils to win.
One knight at head in sable mail—”
Said Rolf, in humor grim:
“Strike at the train the men-at-arms,
And I'll attend to him.”

In haste they armed and out they poured
Of men-at-arms a score:
And vassals of the baser sort
More than as many more;
And down the rocks they hurried fast,
Then gazed the road upon
Where, headed by a tall Black Knight,
A train came slowly on.

On palfreys, fifty hooded monks
Rode, each in friar's gown;
And after these stout burghers came,
All clad in jerkins brown;
And these led fifty sumpter mules,
That, doubtless, carried store;
And after these came men on foot
Who led as many more.

“Here's store of plunder!” Rolf exclaimed;
“Assail them left and right!
Strike down the monks, should they resist;
I'll deal upon the knight!”

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When, lo! the monks shed hoods and gowns,
And fifty knights there were;
The men in jerkins axes showed—
The wolves were in the snare!

Shedding their covers from the mules,
Sprang men-at-arms to ground;
And stricken here, and stricken there,
The knaves no mercy found.
Count Rolf before the Black Knight's lance
Was borne to earth and slain—
Through bars and vizor there the point
Pierced to the felon's brain.

The black-mailed emperor doffed his helm,
And there his will made known,
To raze the castle to the ground
From roof to corner-stone.
One portion there he bade them spare,
And write upon the wall—
“Throughout the land the weak are strong
When on the law they call.”

Conrad and all with him are dust;
Dead are the robber bands,
And there the hold of Rauberstein
A heap of ruins stands.
On crumbling stones the grey owl roosts,
The lizards crawl below;
But on the tower, untouched by time,
The carven letters show.

169

THE GNOME-KING'S BRIDE.

Where shadows brown forever sleep
Within the woodland dark and deep,
Miles distant from the travelled way,
There stood a cabin old and grey,
Where dwelt a woodman, Franz his name—
Franz Rupp—with Elisabeth his dame.

Hard toiler Franz, from morn till night,
And ever poor in toil's despite,
He bore without complaint his life,
And cherished well his buxom wife,
And loved his daughter young and fair—
Sweet Bertha of the sunlight hair.

Near by the cabin, from the ground
There rose a green and treeless mound;
Who raised it there no mortal knew,
But on it flowers and herbage grew,
And oft the story round was told
That gnomes beneath it stored their gold.

Few dared too near that mound approach;
None dared within its bounds encroach;
Although 'twas said who there would delve,
When night was on the stroke of twelve,
And silently his labors speed,
Would gain great riches for his meed.

170

Now spread a sickness far and wide,
And half of those it seized on died;
And who escaped its fatal stroke
Rose from their beds with spirit broke
And forms enfeebled with disease—
And poor Franz Rupp was one of these.

Worst of all troubles hunger is,
And hunger came to him and his;
Till, desperate with the famine grim,
That in his cabin glared at him,
He sought at night the gnome-king's mound,
And dug within the enchanted ground.

His spade and mattock there he plied
In silence at the midnight tide;
But ere a dozen strokes he dealt
A presence in the place he felt,
And words, in accents loud and clear,
Fell thus upon his awe-struck ear:

“Nothing for nothing; here is store
Of dearworth coin from yellow ore;
This chest contains the treasure which
Shall make its owner wondrous rich—
Something for something; this be thine
Thy daughter Bertha's hand be mine.

“Take it, or leave it; if you leave,
An orphan Bertha soon will grieve.
Take it, or leave it; if you take,
A promise to the gnome you make,
And in a twelvemonth and a day
He comes to bear his bride away.”

171

A moated castle, tall and stout,
Looked o'er the country round about;
Great fields of wheat, and meadows wide,
And orchards vast on either side;
Of all the rich—no meagre host—
Franz Rupp of Ruppenheim had most.

Men envied much his wealth and state,
And wondered at the happy fate
Of him, the year before a boor
Cribbed in a cabin, sick and poor,
Who, through a kinsman's strange devise,
(So ran the story) thus had rise.

But Franz himself grew wan and pale;
Health, spirit, hope began to fail
As slipt the allotted term away,
Space of a twelvemonth and a day,
At close of which the gnome would stand
To claim the gentle Bertha's hand.

Where Iser pierces Linden Wood,
Six leagues away a convent stood,
And Franz sought Father Boniface,
The good superior of the place,
And soon to him the tale he told
How Bertha's hand was pledged for gold.

Long mused the abbot. “Son,” he said,
“No Christian with a gnome should wed;
No priest such couple may unite
With blessed ring and holy rite;
But having made a promise, you
Must keep it to the letter true.

172

“With you this missal take, and bide
What time the gnome will seek his bride;
And then let Bertha utter prayer
And sign the Holy Cross in air,
And with this Blessed Book in hands,
Thrice kiss the gnome-king where he stands.

“No demon, if the gnome be such,
This Blessed Book may dare to touch;
If he should be a thing of good,
He will not turn before the Rood;
If he be evil, as he may,
At kisses three he'll flee away.”

Yet something more the abbot said,
How men with fortune on them shed
To Holy Church some gold should spare—
“The convent chapel needs repair—”
And then, to lighten Franz's woe,
With book and blessing bade him go.

With steady step the night came on,
And long the light had past and gone,
When in his sad and splendid home
Sat Franz, woe-watching for the gnome—
Franz and his dame, and, trembling there,
Sweet Bertha with the rippling hair.

Ah! could the bargain be undone,
Scattered the wealth the promise won,
And, for the horror of that day,
Take back the cottage thatched and grey!
Something for something: hope not so;
The gnome will not his claim forego.

173

Ten strokes! eleven—twelve! and now
The luckless three in terror bow;
For howls the angry wind without,
Sweep storm and tempest round about,
And sounds a voice above the din:
“Open, and let the bridegroom in!”

Start bolts, fall bars, and open flies
The oaken door. Before their eyes
The gnome-king with his elfish train,
His black locks flaked with storm and rain,
And wet his robes of cramoisie,
Short, swart and full of wrath is he.

With frowning brow he mutters low:
“Is't thus you pay the debt you owe?
And would you dare to-night refuse
All that I claim as rightful dues?
Speak! must I right myself, or take
Freely this maid for honor's sake?

The holy sign the maiden made—
The gnome was not thereby dismayed;
She bore aloft the Blessed Book—
The gnome nor fled, nor shrunk, nor shook;
She looked within his eyes so bright,
And kissed him on his forehead white.

She kissed him once—he said no word;
She kissed him twice—he never stirred;
She kissed him thrice—what change befell!
Good saints and angels, guard us well!
The dwarfish gnomes dissolved in air;
A prince, with nobles round, stood there.

174

Ring, silvern bells in spire and tower—
The prince escapes the eldrich power;
Let song and feasting round us be—
They break the spell, those kisses three;
Weave garlands brave of white and green—
The gnome's bride is the Saxon queen.

THE STORY OF THE SWORD.

“Sabre, hanging on the wall
Of this silent German hall,
(Hilt of gold and sheath of leather—
Strange these two should mate together!)
On your scabbard there is dust,
On your blade are spots of rust;
Tell me how and why and when
You were felt and used by men.
Tell of battles lost and won;
Tell your story, lightning's son!”

“Stranger, wandering in this hall,
Thus I answer to your call;
Thus my voice recites the story
Of my one day's battle, gory;
Why I slumber in the dust;
When my blade was marked by rust;
How I flashed in keen-edged wrath
On my owner's devious path,
In one terrible conflict borne,
Never since by mortals worn.

“By the flame begot on ore,
Born within the furnace roar,

175

Forged with ave, rolled with credo,
Came my metal to Toledo.
There they fashioned well my blade;
There my hilt and sheath were made;
There an old and proud grandee,
From my fellows choosing me,
Sent me with a friendly line
To the Prince von Dietrichstein.

“Said the Prince, when me he saw:
‘'Tis a blade without a flaw,
Decked too fine for age to wear it,
And I have no son to bear it.
Death is coming sure and swift;
Mine is dole and prayer and shrift
From my soul its sins to purge,
Here upon the next world's verge.
Take this weapon to the hall;
Hang it high upon the wall.’

“Little thought the Prince that he
Soon in fight should brandish me,
Knowing not that God disposes
Otherwise than man proposes.
Even as he spoke, the blare
Of a trumpet stirred the air,
And a rider came to say,
Scarce a dozen leagues away,
Full a thousand men in force
Were the Magyars, foot and horse.

“‘What!’ he cried. ‘and would they dare
Track the old wolf to his lair.
Deeming he may safe be hunted.
Now with age his fangs are blunted?

176

Clang the great bell! Summon here
What of vassals may be near!
Man the walls and let them see
Dietrich's banner floating free!
Let them know that Dietrich's rock
Well abides the rudest shock!’

“Seven days the Magyars plied
Force in vain on every side;
Seven days their cannon thundered;
On the eighth the leagured wondered
As they saw the Magyar foe
Off in headlong hurry go.
They had heard the Archduke John
Was in force their track upon,
And, though brave, they dared not stay
When grim John was on the way.

“‘Out!’ cried Dietrichstein, ‘for these
Ne'er from hence must ride in ease.
Saddle horses, bare your sabres,
Hot pursue the fleeing stabbers.
Spanish sword, you now may show
If your steel be good or no.
To my hand your hilt be wed,
As my vassals here I head.
Forward! charge! and let them feel
Rain of lead and storm of steel!’

“Then the sound of hoofs was heard;
Then the air with strife was stirred;
Then the sight of sabres flashing;
Then the sound of sabres clashing.
Here ran many a riderless horse,
Here lay many a soulless corse;

177

Curses mixed with deadly blows;
None asked quarter from his foes,
As upon the shattered line
Smote the men of Dietrichstein.

“Coolly through the din and jar
Rode a giant-like huszar.
Marked he well those white locks flowing,
And my bright blade ever going.
Scorning others in the fray
Blocked he there the Prince's way.
‘Ah!’ he cried, ‘old man, at length
Rank is front to front with strength;
Here the strongest arm is lord—
Vengeance lies within my sword!’

“Glared the Prince; a tremor came,
Not with fear, across his frame.
‘Still alive?’ he asked. ‘His brother?
No! a suckling with thy mother
When the block its victim won.
Who then art thou, man?’ ‘His son!
I am he whose sire your hate
Bore to undeservèd fate.
Son of him your anger slew,
I am his avenger, too!’

“Crossed their sabres. One was old
The story of the sword is told.
Failed for want of males the line
Of the princely Dietrichstein.”

178

THE BALLAD OF NARVAEZ.

Narvaez, the magnanimous,
Our bitter foeman he,
And yet our Moorish nobles
Applaud his chivalry;
Our poets all recite his deeds,
Our maidens bless his name,
And through our whole Granada
He hath a happy fame;
Though Christian he, and we are Moors,
Our homage he hath won,
For what he did for Yussef,
Our great Alcade's son.

The Spaniard planned to strike a blow
As fitted warrior stout,
But first, to scour the country,
Sent fifty lances out—
Sent fifty gallant men-at-arms,
Who lance and falchion bore,
Under the brave Don Ramon,
The knight of Peñaflor;
And these returning from their search,
Fruitless for many a mile,
Meet with a Moorish rider
Within a deep defile.

He was a gallant cavalier
With mood and bearing high;
But he was one to fifty—
'Twas only yield or die:

179

A young and handsome cavalier
Who gallantly was dressed
In velvet, trimmed with silver,
And azure satin vest,
Diamonds and rubies on the hilt
Of the falchion at his side—
He looked the gay young bridegroom
Gone forth to meet his bride.

They brought him to Narvaez then,
Who asked him his degree.
“My father rules in Ronda,
Alcalde there,” said he;
And then he burst in bitter tears.
Said the Spaniard, “By my beard,
A stranger sight before me
Hath never yet appeared!
Thy father is a warrior stout,
Of fearless port and brow;
His son in tears, and bearded!
What kind of man art thou?”

“'Tis not,” replied the cavalier,
“That in these bonds I be;
Nor fetters, nor the torture
Could wring these tears from me;
But when your force o'erwhelmed me, I
Was making eager way
To meet my dear Zorayda,
To fix our wedding-day.
She never failed her promise yet,
And now I be not there,
The maid may hold me faithless—
So judge of my despair.”

180

“Nay,” cried Narvaez, “it were shame
A noble cavalier,
Whose word is pledged to woman,
Should meet with hindrance here.
A grace of four-and-twenty hours
I freely give to thee;
Go thou and meet the damsel,
And then return to me.”
And Yussef promised gratefully
Before them every one,
To render him a captive,
Ere sank the morrow's sun.

Then Yussef to the trysting-place,
His jaded courser spurred,
And there he told Zorayda
How he had given his word
To thrall to speedily return,
And how he might remain
Through many a weary twelvemonth
To drag a captive's chain;
And from her promise, lest it cloud
Her life, he set her free;
To which replied Zorayda,
“That, Yussef, may not be.

“It is not that thou lovest me less,
My love thou wouldst refuse;
Thou fearest if I follow,
My freedom I shall lose.
Think'st thou I am less generous?
Beside thee let me be;
Where love is, there is freedom;
Where thou art, I am free.

181

Behold this casket filled with gems;
With these a sum we gain
Enough to pay thy ransom,
Or both as slaves maintain.”

Narvaez learned Zorayda's words:—
“Certes it seems,” said he,
“Devoted is this maiden,
This youth all chivalry.
Let me within the casket place
More jewels rich and rare,
To add unto the ornaments
Beseeming one so fair;
Then mount the pair on milk-white steeds
Caparisoned in state,
And, with a noble escort,
Send them to Ronda straight.”

Narvaez, the magnanimous,
Our bitter foe is he,
And yet our Moorish nobles
Applaud his courtesy;
Our minstrels sing his nobleness,
Our maidens bless his name,
And rings through wide Granada
His honor and his fame.
Praise to the champion of Castile,
Our homage he hath won,
By what he did for Yussef,
Our great Alcalde's son.

182

THE GAME KNUT PLAYED.

A page who seemed of low degree,
And bore the name of Knut, was he;
The high-born Princess Hilga she.

And that the youth had served her long,
Being quick at errands, skilled in song,
To jest with him she thought no wrong.

And so it chanced one summer day,
At chess, to while the time away,
The page and princess sat at play.

At length she said, “To play for naught
Is only sport to labor brought,
So let a wager guerdon thought.”

He answered, “Lady, naught have I
Whose worth might tempt a princess high
Her uttermost of skill to try.”

“And yet this ruby ring,” she said,
“I'll risk against the bonnet red
With snow-white plume that crowns thy head.

“And should I win, do not forget,
Or should I lose, whichever yet,
I'll take my due, or pay my debt.”

And so they played, as sank the sun;
But when the game they played was done,
The page's cap the princess won.

183

“My diamond necklace,” then she cried,
“I'll match against thy greatest pride,
The brand held pendant at thy side.”

“Not so,” he said—“that tempered glaive,
Borne oft by noble hands and brave,
To me my dying father gave.

“Fit only for a true man's touch,
I hold it dear and prize it much—
No diamond necklace mates with such.

“But, though my father's ghost be wroth,
I'll risk the weapon, nothing loth,
Against thy love and virgin troth.”

Reddened her cheeks at this in ire,
This daughter of a royal sire,
And flashed those eyes of hers like fire.

“Thy words, bold youth, shall work thee ill:
Thou canst not win against my skill,
But I can punish at my will.

“Begin the game; that hilt so fine
Shall nevermore kiss hand of thine,
Nor thou again be page of mine!”

Answered the page: “Do not forget,
Or win or lose, whichever yet,
I'll take my due, or pay my debt.

“And let this truth the end record:
I risk to-day my father's sword
To be no more thy page, but lord.”

184

Down sat the pair to play once more,
Hope in his bosom brimming o'er,
And hers with pride and anger sore.

From square to square the bishops crept,
The agile knights eccentric leapt,
The castles onward stately swept.

Pawns fell in combat, one by one;
Knights, rooks and bishops could not shun
Their fate before that game was done.

Well fought the battle was, I ween,
Until two castles and a queen
Guarding the kings alone were seen.

“Check!” cried the princess, all elate;
“Check!” cried the page, and sealed the fate
Of her beleaguered king with “mate!”

The princess smiled, and said, “I lose,
Nor can I well to pay refuse;
From my possessions pick and choose.

“Or costly robes to feed thy pride,
Or coursers such as monarchs ride,
Or castles tall, or manors wide—

“These may be thine to have and hold;
Or diamonds bright, or chests of gold,
Or strings of pearls of wealth untold.

“Any or all of such be thine;
But, save he spring from royal line,
No husband ever can be mine.”

185

“Nor jewels rich, nor lands in fee,
Steeds, robes, nor castles pleasure me;
Thy love and troth be mine,” said he.

“Nor shalt thou lack of state and pride
When seated crowned thy lord beside,
As Knut, the King of Denmark's bride!”

Ring marriage-bells from sun to sun,
And tell the gossips, as they run,
How Sweden's princess has been won.

THE HUNTER.

At noonday a hunter made wearisome way
Over rocks and through woodland, one bright summer day,
His face flushed and brown with the fierce-blazing sun,
No game in his pouch for his recompense won;
And there at the door of Giovanni's old mill
He sought for a draught from the swift-flowing rill.
Giovanni laughed loud at the civil request
For a cup, that was made by his dust-covered guest.
“A cup to get water in! Signor, not so;
The water belongs to my mill-wheel, you know;
But here is a cup of the rich, ruddy wine
That was pressed from the grapes in this vineyard of mine.
Sit down in the shade of the arbor with me,
And, taking our nooning like comrades so free,
Our glasses shall clink and our voices shall ring,
As we drink to the health of the brave-man king,
Victor Emanuel.”

186

The hunter his strap from his shoulder unslung,
Pouch and knife on the ground there before him he flung,
Leaned his gun on a stool ere the grape-juice he quaffed,
Bowed his thanks, and then drained the whole cup at a draught;
While Giovanni's sole daughter, a damsel of nine,
Who had brought to her father the pitcher of wine,
Said: “'Tis better to sit in the shade here, and drink,
Than to work and get naught in the sunlight, I think.”
At the wisdom she uttered the tired traveller smiled,
And drew to him gently the olive-skinned child.
“While you,” he said, “maiden, do nothing but play.”
“I do a great deal,” she replied, “every day.
I turn out the goats to the hills in the morn;
I chase off the sparrows that come for the corn;
I sweep and I knit, and quite often I sing
A ditty in praise of the brave-man king,
Victor Emanuel.”

Said the miller: “She's right; you had hard luck to-day;
No game in your pouch; that's all work, and no pay;
But I'll give you a chance. There's a wolf lurks around,
And no one his hiding-place dreamed of, or found,
Till this morning at dawn, as I looked from the mill,
I saw the rogue enter yon cave on the hill.
'Tis perilous rather to pierce to his den;
But you seem a bold-hearted fellow, and then,
Should you kill him, my thanks, and a scudo beside—”
“'Tis a bargain; I'll do it!” the hunter replied,
And, grasping his gun, he strode whistling away
In search of the wolf and that scudo of pay;
While Giovanni said, watching the man's sturdy walk:
“By my faith! that's a chap of more action than talk!
What a soldier he'd make! how his rifle would ring
In some fight for the land and the brave-man king,
Victor Emanuel!”

187

There, watching the hunter, the mill-people stood,
And saw him pass vineyard, and cornfield, and wood,
And then in the mouth of the cave disappear,
And waited the sound of his firelock to hear.
“The wolf has escaped!” cried the miller; but, no!
There's a shot in the cave that sounds muffled and low.
He comes—what is that which the hunter has found?
He approaches, and throws a dark mass on the ground.
“You wanted the wolf? Well, I bring you his head!”
“And there is your scudo,” Giovanni he said.
“That rascal has carried off many a kid,
And till now he has managed to keep himself hid.
You'll be welcome, my friend, as the guest of the mill,
And as friend to the neighborhood, come when you will;
The service you've done through the country shall ring—
It may yet reach the ears of the brave-man king,
Victor Emanuel.”

The hunter he looked at the scudo and laughed.
“I've earned it,” he said, “and beside that a draught
Of the wine that I drank but a little while since;
'Twas of very good vintage, and fit for a prince.
Here, miller, your health; many thanks for the sport,
To say naught of this scudo, your wages paid for't.
And, thanks for your wine; I'll return that you see,
If you come to the town, and drink Chianti with me.
Tie my hand, little maiden; his sharp teeth went through
Ere my knife did the work which my gun failed to do.
And bring you this little one—that do not miss;
I've some ribbons to spare in return for a kiss.”
“We'll come,” said the miller, “Bianca and I,
And to find you among all those people we'll try;
But I haven't your name, friend; we're strangers, you know;
So whom shall I ask for, and where shall I go,

188

When little Bianca to see you, I bring?”
“Go straight to the Palace, and ask for the king,
Victor Emanuel.”

A LEGEND OF PHRYGIA.

Zeus, greatest of immortals
Who on Olympos sit, their ivory brows
With ichor sprinkled, beings who carouse
In halls whose rainbow portals
Are closed to those of mortal birth—
Zeus, tired of incense that had failed to please,
Weary of prayers of men, and bended knees,
With Hermes for attendant, came to earth.

The Thunderer doffed his glory,
His port majestic laid aside, his crown
Changed for a cap, and dropping noiseless down
To Phrygia—so the story—
Put on a beggar's seeming then;
White-haired, and blind, and suffering much,
And led by Hermes, who assumed a crutch,
The blind and lame asked charity from men.

Where shepherds flocks attended,
Or in the vales, or on the grassy sides
Of hills that gently rose where swiftly glides
The Sangaris silvery splendid—
Not of the boors, but of each lord
Who, in the palaces that lofty rose
On tree-decked knolls, took comfort and repose—
Coin, food, or shelter, humbly they implored.

189

Through fertile valleys wending
Their tedious journey, at each palace-gate
Their suit presenting to the rich and great,
In abject manner bending,
But still repulsed with gibe and scorn,
Nor food nor shelter finding on their road,
And not an obolus on them bestowed,
The nightfall found them hungered and forlorn.

At length of travel weary,
They came to where a shepherd poor and old,
Having penned his fleecy charge within the fold,
Sought, with a spirit cheery,
His hut, low-walled, low-roofed, low-doored—
Philemon named; he pitied much the twain
Who seemed to drag their way with grief and pain,
And sought relief which he could ill afford.

Yet, with a welcome glowing,
He bade them enter, made his Baukis stir,
And food prepare for them, and him, and her,
Such as he had bestowing;
Then when the frugal meal was o'er,
Talked cheerfully before the crackling fire,
And when for rest his guests expressed desire,
Gave them the only bed, and sought the floor.

That night a tempest raging
Shook the mean hut until it trembled to
Its poor foundation; fiercer yet it blew,
As though the winds were waging
A battle over hill and plain;
Flashes of lightning there continuous blazed,
And peal on peal of thunder men amazed,
While poured in one unceasing flood the rain.

190

Philemon, restless pacing
The earthen floor, but gently lest he'd rouse
His wearied guests who slept with placid brows
Whereon there showed no tracing
Of aught save still and dreamless sleep,
Said there to Baukis, “These good men must be
Who slumber so profound and dreamlessly,
When all the winds this hurly-burly keep.”

Next morn the sun rose blazing,
And with the sun both hosts and guests arose,
And these prepared the morning meal for those,
When lo! a sight amazing!
Where hills and valleys stood before
A stretch of water spread in wide expanse—
A grass-framed lake of silver met the glance,
Meadow, and vale, and forest, there no more.

The wrath of Zeus swift falling
Had overwhelmed the heartless in a night;
The shepherd pair stood trembling at the sight
Mysterious, appalling;
When lo! in air the roof uprose,
The mean room widened to a spacious hall,
To lofty height aspired the cottage-wall,
And ice-like fretwork on the ceiling froze.

The wide hall brightening,
Celestial glory on the place was shed:
Zeus stood revealed; around his sovereign head
Tresses of waving lightning;
And then the god, with look benign,
Spake, as with reverent awe they bent the knee—
“This one-time hut my temple hence shall be,
And ye remain the guardians of the shrine.

191

“If otherwise your needing,
A life of quiet ease and riches great,
Or doubtful honors of a high estate,
Or length of years exceeding,
Freely demand it now of me.”
Answered Philemon, “Toil, not ease, is best,—
But grant we pass together to our rest.”
Zeus, vanishing, replied, “So let it be!”

Long years the couple tended
The temple grand, and kept the fire alight
Upon the inner altar, till one night
Their labor was suspended.
They disappeared, and ne'er were traced;
But at the temple-door there sudden grew
Two gnarly, mossy, grey-barked trees of yew,—
With boughs and branches closely interlaced.—

AKERATOS.

To Argos, after Troia fell, there came,
Seeking for alms and ease, one sunny day,
A soldier, battle-scarred and old and grey—
Akeratos his name.

He would not beg without amends for alms:
So with a lyre the passers-by he stopped,
Hoping thereby to see some silver dropped
From givers' willing palms.

In early days his skill was well maintained;
But rough campaigns had robbed him of his power;
And so he stood there twanging, hour on hour,
Without one lepton gained.

192

At length, all wearied, hungered and athirst,
He ceased and leaned against a pillar there,
And thought himself, so utter his despair,
Forsaken and accurst.

Then came a stranger where he leaned, and said,
“Why not play on, old man, and strive to please
The passing crowd? You, who won victories,
Might now perchance win bread.”

Akeratos looked up. His eyes were filled
With weakling tears; again he bowed his head—
That once proud soldier—and he humbly said,
“I am no longer skilled.”

“Then,” said the stranger, in a pleasant way,
“Why not to me a thing so usless hire?
Here's a didrachmon: give me now the lyre:
For one hour let me play.”

The soldier smiled. “My lord,” he said, “the sum
Would buy three lyres like this of mine, mayhap.”
“It is a bargain, then. Hold out your cap;
Be motionless and dumb.”

The stranger took the lyre and swept the chords,
And through the air a startling prelude rang;
Then with a clear and stirring voice he sang—
Voice like the clang of swords—

How Hektor perished, slain by Achilleus;
How Herakles fair Hippolute slew;
How Zeus the mighty Titans overthrew—
The sire-dethroning Zeus;

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The rush of chariots and the clash of blades;
O'er beaten earth the ring of iron hoofs;
The crackling roar of flames from burning roofs;
The screams of frighted maids;

The curses of the priests of plundered fanes;
The dying groan upon the bloody field
Of some stout warrior, pillowed on his shield,
Life ebbing through his veins.

And as he sang the people stopped to hear,
And crowds from every quarter gathered round,
Breathless and eager, swallowing every sound
With rapt, attentive ear;

And when the song was o'er the people filled
The soldier's cap with golden coins, and cried,
“O singer! silver-tongued and fiery-eyed,
Whose tones our souls have thrilled—

“Singer, whose voice from sirens on the shore
Has sure been borrowed, and whose fingers rain
Such music on the strings, oh, sing again—
Sing us a song once more!”

And once again that wondrous voice was heard:
This time it sang not of affairs of arms,
But of the sea-foam's daughter and her charms,
Till all men's hearts were stirred.

A purple vapor seemed to fill the place;
Fragrance and light and music in the air—
Each man majestic and each woman fair—
One, dignity; one, grace;

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Till, in their joy, before that soldier old
Not coins alone they cast, but silvery bands
And rings and bracelets, gems from foreign lands,
And ornaments of gold;

And when the heap had to its utmost grown,
Making the soldier rich in all men's sight,
Around the singer's form a blaze of light
In dazzling glory shone.

The men of Argos stood in hushed surprise,
As there the god of poetry and song,
Phoibos Apollon, from the awe-struck throng. ...
Ascended to the skies.

THE PARROT OF RUMI.

Here looking at the purple clouds
That wrap the closing day,
My thoughts go back to Rumi's tale
About the parrot grey.

A merchant ere his journey,
To his parrot thus said he:
“I go from hence to the parrot-land,
Where wondrous things there be.

“What shall I bring to please my bird
From distant climes afar,
Where the rose it grows and the spice-wind blows,
And the pearls and diamonds are?

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“Shall I bring you a ruby necklace,
And a cage of gold so fine,
Or a cup from a single amethyst
To hold your bread and wine?”

Then answered him the mournful bird:
“For these I have no care;
But when you reach the parrot-land,
This message safely bear.

“I pine all day upon my perch,
And they at pleasure rove;
I beat my wings against the bars,
They flutter through the grove.

“Though white my bread and red my wine,
These are not sweet to me;
Then let my brothers send me word
How best I may be free.”

The merchant heard and left the bird,
And went by steel and star,
Till he came to the beautiful parrot-land,
In the southern climes afar.

And there the parrots of every kind
And every hue he saw,
The green and grey, with the paroquet gay,
And the spiteful, bright macaw.

He summoned them all to hear the tale
That he was bidden to tell;
And he used the very words that from
The beak of his parrot fell.

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And when he had closed, an ash-grey bird
Which sat another beside,
Heaved its breast and fluttered its wings,
And fell from its perch and died.

And a parrot whose head was marked with red,
And body was apple-green,
Cried out, “Go back and tell your bird
The sight which you have seen.”

“Ah me!” the sorrowing merchant said,
“That was my parrot's mate,
Who died with grief to hear from me
Her old companion's state.”

The parrots gathered round the bird
That on the greensward lay;
And sad at heart to see their woe,
The merchant turned away.

He left behind the scented vines,
And the grove of cinnamon trees,
And spread his vessel's yellow sails
To catch the homeward breeze.

First to the east and then to the west
He sailed a month or more,
And then he travelled a week on land
To reach his open door.

He kissed his wife and his children all;
Gay gifts around he flung,
And then he sought the garden, where
The parrot's cage was hung.

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To and fro the cage was swinging
From the limb of a citron tree;
And the parrot was swinging in the cage,
And gayly chatted he.

“Fair welcome back, good master mine!”
The parrot voice was clear—
“Have you been to the beautiful parrot-land,—
And what did you see and hear?”

“I have been to the parrot-land afar,
Your message there I bore
To parrots grey and parrots green,
Who think of you no more.

“Of those but two remember you;
One, sitting its mate beside,
So grieved to hear the tale I brought
It fell to earth and died.

“The other sat on a bough above,
And plumed its feathers green,
And bade me back and tell you what
My eyes that day had seen.”

The parrot made no answer then,
Its breast began to swell;
It gasped for breath, it closed its eyes,
And from its perch it fell.

“Ah me!” the merchant sorrowing said,
“That I should have such woe,
To lose in death the beautiful bird
Whose talking pleased me so.

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“I'll dig it a grave both wide and deep,
And o'er it plant a rose,
And think upon the bird I loved,
Whene'er the leaves unclose.”

Then from the cage the lifeless bird
With careful hand he drew,
When it opened its eyes and spread its wings,
And up in the air it flew.

And with it flew another bird—
The merchant knew it well
As that which in the parrot-land
From the bough of cinnamon fell.

Off to the land of spice and gems,
The couple flew away;
And never more the merchant's eyes
Beheld the parrot grey.

ABD'S LESSON.

Down in an eastern valley where
The herbage was both short and rare,
And where alone from earnest toil
Came profit from the grudging soil,
Dwelt one of life laborious, which,
With thrift, had made him passing rich.
He tilled his fields in quiet peace,
Beheld his flocks and herds increase,
His purse grew full of silver coin,
New acres to his acres join;

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And while the proud effendis round
In chase or revel pleasure found,
Let them their way of life pursue,
And, following his, the richer grew.

But never yet was mortal known
To let the well-enough alone,
And Abd-ul-Assis, though no fool,
Made no exception to the rule.
He fretted at his growing store,
And, having much, he wanted more;
Sighed for the honors and the state
Attending movements of the great;
And, ere his life was half-way spent
Felt envy move, and discontent.
He envied much the life of those
Whose stately mansions round him rose;
And most of all the grand vizier,
Whose summer palace standing near
Rose from a park of trees and flowers,
Studded with minarets and towers.

“The palm,” said Abd, “its shadow throws
Upon the small and lowly rose:
How lordly that, how humble this!
Nature has done her work amiss.
That stands in leafy glory where
Its plumy top adorns the air;
This scarcely shows of life a sign
Beneath the other's shade malign.
As to the shrub the lofty tree,
So is the grand vizier to me.
Why have not I as proud a fate?
Why am not I among the great?

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I'll sell my herds; I'll sell my land;
I'll make my way to Samarcand.
Who knows but, in a wider sphere,
I may not rise to be vizier?”

That night, reposing on his bed,
Bright visions flitted through his head.
Far from his native vale he dwelt,
Where wondering crowds before him knelt,
Bey, then pacha, and sultan last,
Reigning assured o'er countries vast,
Imposing on the mass his yoke,
He made viziers from meaner folk,
And found his highest hopes were gained,
And all his heart desired, attained.

While Abd was wrapt in fearless sleep,
A storm had risen the vale to sweep,
So when he rose, his vision found
Wrecks from the tempest scattered round.
The palm he much admired before
Lay prostrate at his cottage door;
But, blooming in its beauty fair,
The rose, erect, refreshed, was there.

Just then a neighbor neared the place,
And stopped, a story in his face.
“Great news,” he said, “you needs must hear—
Ill-fortune to the grand vizier.
His towering pride his place has cost;
His master's favor has been lost;
His wealth is gone; in dungeon grim
The fatal bowstring waits for him.
How lucky, Abd, are you and I,
Who never reached such station high.

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We are not subject to the fate
That seems the noble to await;
The storm the palm-tree overthrows,
But kindly spares the humble rose;
The wrath that struck the proud vizier
Has left unscathed us peasants here.”

The neighbor passed; Abd closed the door,
Sat down to think, and dreamed no more.
Henceforth he worked with busy hand,
And fed his flocks, and tilled his land;
And gave his thanks to Allah, since
He was nor bey, pacha, nor prince;
But just a man whom kindly fate
Had given a safe and low estate.

THE BALLAD OF BABETTE.

Babette, the peasant maiden,
The guileless, graceful child,
To gather nuts and berries,
Went to the copsewood wild.

And glancing in the fountain,
Beneath the shadows brown,
She saw her comely features
And russet-linsey gown.

“Fine birds come from fine feathers,”
The little maiden said—
“Had I crown of rubies
To wear upon my head;

202

“If this poor gown were silken,
And I among the girls
Had maidens four to serve me,
And a necklace made of pearls;

“And I had silvern slippers
Upon these little feet,
A prince would come to woo me,
And call me fair and sweet.”

Then suddenly before her
A wounded dove was seen,
With drops of blood down falling
Upon the leaves of green.

It trembled when she touched it,
But had no power to fly;
And in her face looked upward
With scared and piteous eye.

She washed the red drops gently,
That started from the wound,
And the weary bird lay quiet,
As though content it found.

Then when her hand was opened,
It made a plaintive coo,
And rising slowly upward,
Far in the distance flew.

Then on the maiden wandered
Till, by a hazel there,
Escaped from cruel hunters,
She saw a panting hare.

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Her words of loving kindness
It did not seem to hear,
Till from her quivering eyelids
Dropped on it many a tear.

When lo! it rose and trembled,
Its eyes grew full of light,
And through the briers and hazels
It bounded out of sight.

And throbbed the maiden's bosom
With pleasing, painful start,
And happy thrills of gladness
Made music in her heart.

When lo! on purple pinions,
A flock of doves there came;
The first one bore a ruby,
And each one had the same.

And still came flying, flying,
The doves on pinions fleet;
And rubies there on rubies
They laid before her feet.

And they made her a crown of rubies,
Of rubies bright and red,
And they made her a crown of rubies,
And placed it on her head.

And next of hares, a hundred
Came from the north and south,
And each in coming carried
A great pearl in his mouth.

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And still came running, running,
More hares, with motion fleet,
And pearls, in countless number,
They laid before her feet.

And they made her a lovely necklace
Of pearls without a speck,
And they made her a lovely necklace
And placed it on her neck.

Was it the poor dove's life-blood
That now in rubies burned?
And from Babette's kind weeping
Had tears to pearls been turned?

And then the doves flew over,
And cooed with voices sweet,
And a pair of silvern slippers
She found upon her feet.

And then the hares ran round her,
And her skin grew white as milk,
And her gown of russet-linsey
Was changed to one of silk.

And lo! there came four maidens
To wait on her, forsooth!
Simplicity, and Pity,
And Innocence, and Truth.

And the dove became a fairy,
And touched her with her wand;
And the hare became Prince Charming,
And he was young and fond.

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And a train of lords and ladies,
The little maiden met;
And the Prince, he walked beside her,
The downcast-eyed Babette.

And never in the copsewood
Was the little maiden seen,
For she dwells all time in Elf-land,
As the good King Charming's queen.

THE BELL OF JUSTICE.

O'er Thoulè, in the olden day,
A wise and mighty king held sway,
Who, after storms of war had past,
Peacefully ruled dominion vast,
And, in a castle strong and tall,
With lofty towers and massive wall,
By men-at-arms and knights attended,
Dwelt in a state assured and splendid.
Beloved this gentle king because
So kind his sway, so mild his laws;
Justice he dealt throughout his State,
Not merely to the rich and great,
But patient heard, and judged with care,
As well the poor man's humble prayer.
The lowest peasant in the land
Might seek the throne of Aldobrand;
And all, though mean, or even bad,
Strict right and rigid justice had.
Judges in every town he set
Wherein injustice might be met,

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That fraud and crime might be controlled,
And justice given to all, not sold.
But yet he kept, lest wrong ensue,
The power all cases to review;
And on his castle high there hung
A silver bell with iron tongue,
A silken cord for ringing which
Was at the gateway in a niche;
And he, defrauded of his right,
Might freely come, by day or night,
And there the Bell of Justice ring,
And so have audience of the king.
But as the judges all were just,
The bell grew black, its tongue had rust;
Right so in all that land abounded
That none had ever heard it sounded;
And to its rope that useless hung
An unpruned grapevine climbed and clung.—

One day it chanced at banquet there,
The king reclining in his chair,
Meats had been taken from the board,
And generous wine for all outpoured,
And when for minstrel, harp in hand,
Who sang the deeds of Aldobrand,
Throughout the hall loud plaudits rang,
There came in air a sudden clang;
The Bell of Justice, silent long,
Pealed out in fitful notes and strong,
And nobles, ranged that board around,
Were startled at the unwonted sound.
“Learn,” said the king, “who asks our ear,—
And bring the injured suppliant here.
Gentle or simple, man or brute—
At once we'll hear, and judge his suit.”

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The seneschal, with wand in hand,
Obedient to the king's command,
Went forth, but soon returned and bowed,
And said unto the king aloud:
“I have not dared to bring, beau sire,
The suppliant, as you bade me, here.
An old white steed, so gaunt, so lean,
The crows esteem his meat too mean,
Turned out to die, it so befell,
Cropping the vine-leaves, rang the bell.”
“Well,” said the king, “the horse had need,
What if he be a sorry steed—
Old, gaunt, weak, friendless and forlorn?
Faithful his owner he has borne;
And now, with youth and strength gone by,
Is heartlessly turned out to die.
Who thus has recompensed the brute,
Shall answer to this suitor mute.
Find me his master; bring me both;
To judge the case I'm nothing loth.”

It was not long ere in the hall
A white-haired man, grim, lean and tall,
Ragged of dress, yet proud of port,
Appeared before the king and court;
And then they brought the courser white,
Who whinnied at his master's sight,
And placed his head with fondest air
Upon the old man's shoulder there.
“Speak,” said the king, “and answer me,
Why this unkind neglect of thee
Of such a fond and faithful steed?”
“O king!” he answered, “'tis from need!
Freely I gave my arms and truth,
To middle life from early youth,

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To one who, when I older grew,
His favor from me then withdrew,
Ill-fared the twain, my steed and I,
Both in old age turned out to die.”

“Now, by my faith as crownèd king,”
The monarch said, “I'll mend this thing.
If in my realm the man shall be
Who brought this twain to misery,
Their honest service to requite,
He shall be forced to do them right.
Give me thy name and his, and he
Shall make amends to thine and thee,
Or find scant mercy at my hand.”
“My name is Rolph: his, Aldobrand.
When years agone this mighty realm
The Keltic hordes would overwhelm,
And give it o'er to blood and wrack,
I led the force that drove them back,
Pierced singly all their legions through,
And on the field their leader slew.
But old, dismissed from service, since
No longer needed by my prince,
The rags that cover me attest
Whose deeds are fairest, fares not best;
And if this steed of noble strain
Drags to his end, in want and pain,
Not mine the fault that, worn and scarred,
His age is wretched, life is hard.”
The monarch bit his lips, and said,
“They brought me word Sir Rolph was dead.
Their words shall not be false—what ho!
Guards, there! let not this couple go!
Thy worn-out war-horse in this ring,
Asks justice on thee from thy king.

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Perish, Sir Rolph; but from thy knee,
Rise as the Count of Campanie;
Castles and lands and honors fair
Be thine, and velvet robes to wear;
But as thou hast, with swelling port,
Reproached thy monarch in his court,
As punishment well due thy guilt,
Be thou my guest whene'er thou wilt;
My palace to thy entrance free,
Come when or how thou mayst to me;
And ever welcome to the stall
As is his master to the hall,
The steed who served thy purpose well
What time he rang the silver bell.”

THE CITY OF THE PLAIN.

There was a city once, the rabbins teach,
Whereto there came one day to seek for alms,
One of those needy wights with whining speech,
Who for your dole extend their earnest palms.

Each generous citizen who heard him sue,
Gave him a coin which bore the giver's name;
To bear these gifts he had enough to do—
But lo! how soon his joy to sorrow came!

Not one in all the place would give him food,
Not one in all the place a crumb would sell;
Famished, though rich in coin, the beggar stood—
He could not even steal—they watched too well.

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With hunger weak he tottered up and down,
The jeering crowd gave way on either side;
No food, no drink for him, within the town;
And there, with all his gold upon him, died.

Then, each, devoid of shame, when as he lay,
And, eager from the dead man's store to draw,
The coin that had his name on bore away—
Then left the carcass for the dogs to gnaw.

“Ah, piteous deed!” I hear a voice complain—
“A stricken man to such a fate to doom;
Well did the fire from Heaven finally rain
Upon the town such wretches to consume.”

But stay! have we no City of the Plain?
Will not our land the same reproaches bear?
When sons of genius ask, do they not gain
That empty laud which only proves a snare?

Marked with our names we give the coin of praise;
We load them with our gifts of idle breath,
Which buy no comfort for their weary days,
Nor yet preserve them from a beggar's death.

They live in wretchedness and starving die;
For bread our empty honors will not pay;
And then, as in their wooden house they lie,
The praise we gave we fain would take away.

There disappointment checks our base desire;
We cannot rob the dead one of his fame;
That kindles at our efforts into fire,
Consuming those who strive to quench its flame.

University of Virginia Library

LEGENDS AND LAYS.

KALLIMAIS.

I.

II.