 | From the Hills of Dream |  |
47
FOAM OF THE PAST
51
The Moon-Song of Cathal.
O yellow lamp of Ioua that is having a cold pale flame there,
Put thy honey-sheen upon me who am close-caverned with Death:
Sure it is little I see now who have seen too much and too little:
O moon, thy breast is softer and whiter than hers who burneth the day.
Put thy honey-sheen upon me who am close-caverned with Death:
Sure it is little I see now who have seen too much and too little:
O moon, thy breast is softer and whiter than hers who burneth the day.
Put thy white light on the grave where the dead man my father is,
And waken him, waken him, wake!
And put thy soft shining on the breast of the woman my mother,
So that she stir in her sleep and say to the viking beside her,
“Take up thy sword, and let it lap blood, for it thirsts with long thirst.”
And waken him, waken him, wake!
And put thy soft shining on the breast of the woman my mother,
So that she stir in her sleep and say to the viking beside her,
“Take up thy sword, and let it lap blood, for it thirsts with long thirst.”
And O Ioua, be as the sea-calm upon the hot heart of Ardanna, the girl:
Tell her that Cathal loves her, and that memory is sweeter than life.
I list her heart beating here in the dark and the silence,
And it is not lonely I am, because of that, and remembrance.
Tell her that Cathal loves her, and that memory is sweeter than life.
I list her heart beating here in the dark and the silence,
And it is not lonely I am, because of that, and remembrance.
O yellow flame of Ioua, be a spilling of blood out of the heart of Ecta,
So that he fall dead, inglorious, slain from within, as a greybeard;
And light a fire in the brain of Molios, so that he shall go moonstruck,
And men will jeer at him, and he will die at the last, idly laughing!
So that he fall dead, inglorious, slain from within, as a greybeard;
And light a fire in the brain of Molios, so that he shall go moonstruck,
And men will jeer at him, and he will die at the last, idly laughing!
52
For lo, I worship thee, Ioua; and if thou canst give my message to Neis,—
Neis the helot out of Iondu, that is in Iona, bondman to Colum,—
Tell him I hail thee as Bandia, as god-queen and mighty,
And that he had the wisdom and I was a fool with trickling ears of moss.
Neis the helot out of Iondu, that is in Iona, bondman to Colum,—
Tell him I hail thee as Bandia, as god-queen and mighty,
And that he had the wisdom and I was a fool with trickling ears of moss.
But grant me this, O goddess, a bitter moon-drinking for Colum!
May he have the moonsong in his brain, and in his heart the moonfire:
Flame take him to heart of flame, and may he wane as wax at the furnace,
And his soul drown in tears, and his body be a nothingness upon the sands!
May he have the moonsong in his brain, and in his heart the moonfire:
Flame take him to heart of flame, and may he wane as wax at the furnace,
And his soul drown in tears, and his body be a nothingness upon the sands!
53
The Sun-Chant of Cathal.
O hot yellow fire that streams out of the sky, sword-white and golden,
Be a flame upon the monks that are praying in their cells in Iona!
Be a fire in the veins of Colum, and the hell that he preacheth be his,
And be a torch to the men of Lochlin that they discover the isle and consume it!
Be a flame upon the monks that are praying in their cells in Iona!
Be a fire in the veins of Colum, and the hell that he preacheth be his,
And be a torch to the men of Lochlin that they discover the isle and consume it!
For I see this thing, that the old gods are the gods that die not:
All else is a seeming, a dream, a madness, a tide ever ebbing.
Glory to thee, O Grian, lord of life, first of the gods, Allfather,
Swords and spears are thy beams, thy breath a fire that consumeth!
All else is a seeming, a dream, a madness, a tide ever ebbing.
Glory to thee, O Grian, lord of life, first of the gods, Allfather,
Swords and spears are thy beams, thy breath a fire that consumeth!
And upon this isle of A-rinn send sorrow and death and disaster,
Upon one and all save Ardanna, who gave me her bosom,
Upon one and all send death, the curse of a death slow and swordless,
From Molios of the Cave to Mûrta and Diarmid my doomsmen!
Upon one and all save Ardanna, who gave me her bosom,
Upon one and all send death, the curse of a death slow and swordless,
From Molios of the Cave to Mûrta and Diarmid my doomsmen!
60
War-Chant of the Islesmen.
O'tis a good song the sea makes when blood is on the wave,And a good song the wave makes when its crest o'foam is red!
For the rovers out of Lochlin the sea is a good grave,
And the bards will sing to-night to the sea-moan of the dead!
Yo-ho—a-h'eily—a-yo, eily, ayah, a yo!
Sword and Spear and Battle-Axe sing the Song of Woe:
Ayah, eily, a yo!
Eily, ayah, a yo!
62
The Laughter of the Sword.
Oh 'tis a good thing the red blood, by Odin his word!
And a good thing it is to hear it bubbling deep.
And when we hear the laughter of the Sword,
Oh, the corbies croak, and the old wail, and the women weep!
And a good thing it is to hear it bubbling deep.
And when we hear the laughter of the Sword,
Oh, the corbies croak, and the old wail, and the women weep!
And busy will she be there where she stands,
Washing the red out of the sins of all this slaying horde;
And trampling the bones of them into white powdery sands,
And laughing low at the thirst of her thirsty sword—
The Washer of the Ford!
Washing the red out of the sins of all this slaying horde;
And trampling the bones of them into white powdery sands,
And laughing low at the thirst of her thirsty sword—
The Washer of the Ford!
63
The Death Shadow.
Oh, death of Fergus, that is lying in the boat here,
Betwixt the man of the red hair and him of the black beard,
Rise now, and out of thy cold white eyes take out the fear,
And let Fergus mac Art mhic Fheargus see his weird!
Betwixt the man of the red hair and him of the black beard,
Rise now, and out of thy cold white eyes take out the fear,
And let Fergus mac Art mhic Fheargus see his weird!
Sure, now, it's a blind man I am, but I'm thinking I see
The shadow of you crawling across the dead.
Soon you will twine your arm around his shaking knee,
And be whispering your silence into his listless head.
The shadow of you crawling across the dead.
Soon you will twine your arm around his shaking knee,
And be whispering your silence into his listless head.
64
The Ford of Death.
Where the winds gather
The souls of the dead,
O Torcall, my father,
My soul is led!
The souls of the dead,
O Torcall, my father,
My soul is led!
In Hildyr-mead
I was thrown, I was sown:
Out of thy seed
I am sprung, I am blown!
I was thrown, I was sown:
Out of thy seed
I am sprung, I am blown!
But where is the way
For Hildyr and me,
By the hill-moss grey
Or the grey sea?
For Hildyr and me,
By the hill-moss grey
Or the grey sea?
For a river is here,
And a whirling Sword—
And a Woman washing
By a Ford!
And a whirling Sword—
And a Woman washing
By a Ford!
65
The Washer of Souls.
Glory to the great Gods, it is no Sword I am seeing:
Nor do I see aught but the flowing of a river.
And I see shadows on the flow that are ever fleeing,
And I see a Woman washing shrouds for ever and ever.
Nor do I see aught but the flowing of a river.
And I see shadows on the flow that are ever fleeing,
And I see a Woman washing shrouds for ever and ever.
“Glory to God on high, and to Mary, Mother of Jesus,
Here am I washing away the sins of the shriven,
O Torcall of Lochlin, throw off the red sins that ye cherish
And I will be giving you the washen shroud that they wear in Heaven.”
Here am I washing away the sins of the shriven,
O Torcall of Lochlin, throw off the red sins that ye cherish
And I will be giving you the washen shroud that they wear in Heaven.”
O well it is I am seeing, Woman of the Shrouds,
That you have not for me any whirling of the Sword:
I have lost my gods, O woman, so what will the name be
Of thee and thy gods, O woman that art Washer of the Ford?
That you have not for me any whirling of the Sword:
I have lost my gods, O woman, so what will the name be
Of thee and thy gods, O woman that art Washer of the Ford?
“It is Mary Magdalene my name is, and I loved Christ,
And Christ is the Son of God, and of Mary the Mother of Heaven.
And this river is the river of death, and the shadows
Are the fleeing souls that are lost if they be not shriven.”
And Christ is the Son of God, and of Mary the Mother of Heaven.
And this river is the river of death, and the shadows
Are the fleeing souls that are lost if they be not shriven.”
| From the Hills of Dream | |