The banshee and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The banshee and other poems

By John Todhunter

Todhunter, John (1839-1916)

[section]

[dedication]

THE BANSHEE.

THE DOOM OF THE CHILDREN OF LIR.

AGHADOE.

THE COFFIN-SHIP.

THE LAMENTATION FOR THE THREE SONS OF TURANN.

THE LAMENT OF AIDEEN FOR OSCAR.

EILEEN'S FAREWELL.

THE SHAN VAN VOCHT OF '87.

OTHER POEMS.

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TO STANDISH O'GRADY, WHOSE EPIC HISTORY OF IRELAND FIRST GAVE ME AN INTEREST IN OUR BARDIC TALES, I DEDICATE THESE POEMS.

THE BANSHEE.

1.

Green, in the wizard arms
Of the foam-bearded Atlantic,
An isle of old enchantment,
A melancholy isle,
Enchanted and dreaming lies;
And there, by Shannon's flowing,
In the moonlight, spectre-thin,
The spectre Erin sits.

2.

An aged desolation,
She sits by old Shannon's flowing,
A mother of many children,
Of children exiled and dead,

In her home, with bent head, homeless,
Clasping her knees she sits,
Keening, keening!

3.

And at her keene the fairy-grass
Trembles on dun and barrow;
Around the foot of her ancient crosses
The grave-grass shakes and the nettle swings;
In haunted glens the meadow-sweet
Flings to the night wind
Her mystic mournful perfume;
The sad spearmint by holy wells
Breathes melancholy balm.

4.

Sometimes she lifts her head,
With blue eyes tearless,
And gazes athwart the reek of night
Upon things long past,
Upon things to come.

5.

And sometimes, when the moon
Brings tempest upon the deep,
And roused Atlantic thunders from his caverns in the west,
The wolfhound at her feet
Springs up with a mighty bay,
And chords of mystery sound from the wild harp at her side,
Strung from the heart of poets;
And she flies on the wings of tempest
Around her shuddering isle,
With grey hair streaming:
A meteor of evil omen,
The spectre of hope forlorn,
Keening, keening!

6.

She keenes, and the strings of her wild harp shiver
On the gusts of night:

O'er the four waters she keenes—over Moyle she keenes,

Moyle is properly the Mull of Cantire; but the name is here used, as Moore has used it, for the sea between Ireland and Scotland.

O'er the Sea of Milith, and the Strait of Strongbow,
And the Ocean of Columbus.

7.

And the Fianna hear,

The Fianna Eirinn were the champions of the Fenian cycle of Finn and Ossian.

and the ghosts of her cloudy hovering heroes;
And the swan, Fianoula, wails o'er the waters of Inisfaii,
Chanting her song of destiny,
The rune of the weaving Fates.

8.

And the nations hear in the void and quaking time of night,
Sad unto dawning, dirges,
Solemn dirges,
And snatches of bardic song;
Their souls quake in the void and quaking time of night,

And they dream of the weird of kings,
And tyrannies moulting, sick
In the dreadful wind of change.

9.

Wail no more, lonely one, mother of exiles wail no more,
Banshee of the world—no more!
Thy sorrows are the world's, thou art no more alone;
Thy wrongs, the world's.

THE DOOM OF THE CHILDREN OF LIR.

The Tribe, or Tuath, of De Danaan was one of the great mythical races of invaders of Ireland. They defeated the Firbolgs at the battle of Moy Tura of the South, near Cong, but were themselves defeated at Tailtin, now Telltown, in Meath, by the Sons of Milith, or Milesians. After the battle they assumed the Faed fia, or veil of darkness, and retreated to their hills, where they continued to dwell, a divine race, invisible or appearing at will. They divided the north and west of Ireland between their chiefs, under Bov Derg, who was clected their High-King (Ard-Righ), as here told. Many of their heroes became divinities, Lir and his son Manannan being deities of the sea. Manannan, their Arch-Druid, had his dwelling in the Isle of Man, which took its name from him. There he taught many champions, both of the De Danaan and the Milesians, the arts of war and magic. Among the most famous of his pupils was Lugh Lamh-fhada (long-arm), whose vengeance on the Sons of Turann is the subject of the third “Sorrow of Story-telling.”

The Lir of this poem is the Lear of Shakspeare, and his name should be similarly pronounced. The o is long in such proper names as Bōv Derg, Angus Ōg, Mochaom Ōg, Carrigna-rōn, and the u is long in dūn.

THE TUNING OF THE HARP.

I tune the harp for my singing,
I sing the sorrow of Lir,
Sorrowful is my song.

1.

Sad were the men of De-Danaan,
Sad from the sword of the Sons of Milith,
In the fight of Tailtin,
In the fight for lordship of the streams of Erin.

2.

To the hosting of the chiefs
They drew together their war-sick banners,
And said: “Let one be Lord,
To the healing of us all.”

3.

Five were the chiefs who challenged
By their deeds the Over-Kingship,
Bov Derg, the Daghda's son, Ilbrac of Assaroe,
And Lir of the White Field in the plain of Emain Macha;
And after them stood up Midhir the proud, who reigned
Upon the hills of Bri,
Of Bri the loved of Liath, Bri of the broken heart;
And last was Angus Og; all these had many voices,
But for Bov Derg were most.

4.

Then all took sun and moon
For their sureties, to obey him,
Bov Derg, the holy King; save Lir and all his clan,
And Lir withdrew in ire.

5.

And marching from the tryst, his war-men at his back,
He seemed a thundercloud of wrath, frighting the peaceful day;
So passed to his own place, and sat him down in grief,
Brooding upon his wrong.

6.

But those about Bov Derg were wroth at Lir, and said:
“Give us the word, Bov Derg, and Lir shall be an heap,
Of bleaching bones, cast out and suddenly forgot.”
“Nay,” said Bov Derg: “Not so, Lir is a mighty name,
Greater in war than I, dear as my head to me.
Leave Lir, the dragon of our coasts, the lordship of himself,
To daunt Fomorian ships.”

The Fomorians were sea-rovers, who for centuries troubled successive rulers of Ireland by their raids upon the coasts.

7.

So Lir sat down, unharried, on his hill of the White Field
In anger many days. Then there went forth a cry
Of wail through all the north, and down the Shannon stream,
A wail in the west, a wail in the south: “The wife of Lir is dead,
And Lir like winter's frost that melts away in tears!”

8.

And Bov Derg heard that cry, and said: “This woe of Lir
Shall heal our breach;” and sent rich gifts to him, and said:
“Behold I have three maidens, fostered in my house,
Oichell of Arann bore them, fair as young hawthorn buds,
Sweeter than summer's breath: choose out the fairest now

Oova, or Oifa next, or, youngest of them all,
Eva. Choose thou; and peace be knit betwixt us twain.”

9.

Good seemed that word to Lir, and he hastened from his hill,
His chariots were three score, their wheels outshone the sun,
His fairy horsemen swift as hawks, splendid as dragonflies
In belted mail. He rode, and came beside Lough Derg,
There met Bov Derg, and there abode that day in peace.

10.

That night glad was Bov Derg, and made, for love of Lir,
A mighty feast, and there, at the High Queen's right hand,

Lir saw the maidens three, Oova, and Oifa next,
And, youngest of them all, Eva. “Choose,” said Bov Derg:
Lir looked, and sang this lay:

CHOOSING-SONG OF LIR.

1

Three things there be most beautiful
In the softness of their splendour:
The sun in the west, the moon on the water,
And the dawn-star's tremulous light.

2

Three are the maids before me,
All wonderful in beauty,
Oova, Oifa, Eva,
No man could choose between them.

3

And now I dare not wrong thee,
Oova, to pass thee over,
First-born shall be first-wed:
Be thou my heart's consoling!

11.

Thereat Bov Derg praised Lir, that righteous was his choice.
And mighty was the ale-feast at the wedding of that bride;
For they were wed that night, and the morn beheld the splendour
Of the bringing home of Oova, the wife of war-like Lir.

12.

And first a girl and boy she bore at one fair birth,
The sweet-voiced Fianoula, and Oodh with golden hair;
And next two sons she bore, twins of one fatal birth,
Fiachra and Conn; and died that hour she heard them cry.

13.

Thus Oova, bearing men, in honoured motherhood
Went piteously to death; and by the Shannon's stream

A wail went north and south: “The wife of Lir is dead!
And motherless his children, cold in the bed of Lir!”

14.

And Bov Derg heard that wail, and said: “Ochone for Lir!
Ochone for his young babes, cold is their bed this day!
Thee must he wed, Oifa, mother thy sister's babes.”
And cold went Oifa then to the cold house of Lir.

Sorrowful is my song,
The song of the sorrow of Lir,
The harp is tuned for my singing.

THE FIRST DUAN. THE DOOM OF THE CHILDREN OF LIR.

Sorrowful is my song,
Of songs most sorrowful,
The song of the doom of the Children of Lir.

1

So Oifa dwelt with Lir, as mother of his children,
One daughter and three sons, wide was their beauty's fame;
And Bov Derg loved them well, and when the daisy's gleam
Silvered the fields of spring, they dwelt with him in joy.

2

And there Fianoula sang, shaming the blackbird's flute,
And Oodh of the golden hair cast far his boyish spear,
And, leaping like a roe, flew Fiachra o'er the streams,
And Conn, the blue-eyed, roving with his sling, was busy too.

3

Great was the love of Lir for these, past love of fathers;
His heart went where they went, and never from their feet,
His feet for long were far, and still his face would turn
After them, east or west, as the daisy's after day.

4

And when the season fell for their coming home from Bov,
Glad grew the heart of Lir, as earth's at the kiss of spring.
By night he kept them near him, and oft ere dawn was grey
Hungry with love he rose, to lie down among his children.

5

But Oifa in her heart said: “I am but a nurse
For these my sister's children: I have no child: and I

Dwell here despised.” And sick she lay in bitter teen,
Dumb on her bed, a year, nursing her heart's cold snake.

6

Then pale she rose, and pale she drest in jewelled fire
Her beauty's baleful star, and said: “Lo, daisied spring
Kindles her emerald torch among the groves of Lir.
Bov Derg beholds, and dreams of rosy faces nigh.”

7

She flashed her charms on Lir, and Lir bade yoke the steeds,
And kissed his mounting sons, who laughed to go with her;
But long Fianoula clung round her grey father's neck,
Weeping to say farewell; and nigh her watched her doom.

8

So Oifa took the four, and fiercely driving came
Upon a place of Druids, and said: “Come, kill me now
This plague with some swift charm!” “Get hence!” the Druids cried,
“Thou art the plague, Oifa; fear thou the Druids' curse.”

9

Then she rode on in wrath, and reined beside a wood
Her foaming steeds, and took the children in her hands,
Muttering, to a deep glade; Fianoula weeping went,
For horror of the way, and boding of her doom.

10

Then Oifa drew her skeene, and would have slain them there;
But Conn looked wondering up: “Mother, what means that knife?”

And she cried out: “Wolves! wolves!” He whirled his tiny sling
And said: “Lo! we are here; no wolf shall do thee harm.”

11

And sick with a strange dread, fearing to see their blood,
She cast her skeene away, and led them wondering back,
Muttering: “The Druids' curse! I fear the Druids' curse.
I'll crave no charm of theirs, my magic serves as well.”

12

So they rode on, and came in the hot afternoon
To Derryvarragh Lough; she stared upon its water,
And said: “Go in and bathe!” And naked, in delight,
The children shouting ran, and plunged in the coo mere.

13

Then rose the witch, and muttering paced she upon the shore
A Druid's maze, and raised her witch-wand in her hand,
And with it smote the children, and they were seen no more,
But on the lake four Swans beheld their plumes, amazed.

THE WITCH-SONG OF OIFA.

Out, evil brood of Lir,
O'er the waters of your wailing;
Strange in his ear shall wail your tale
As the dumb cry of a bird.

FIANOULA'S ANSWER.

Witch-mother, thou bale of Lir,
On the waters of our wailing
Thou hast set us without a boat afloat,
In the nakedness of birds!

14

Then the four Swans swam near, and, huddled by the shore
Wept at the feet of Oifa; Fianoula weeping said:
“Cruel is thy deed, Oifa, to strike with causeless hate
Orphans, whose love smiled in thy face, things easy to be loved.

15

“Evil thy deed has been, evil shall be thy fate;
For those whose eyes look now for us, and long must look,
Have magic strong as thine. They will avenge the Swans;
Therefore assign some end of the ruin thou hast wrought.”

16

Fear in the witch's heart was gendering with her hate,
Seeing her evil thought grown to an evil deed,

Yet stern she cried: “The worse for asking be ye all!”
And pale with hate she sang the spell-song of their doom:

OIFA'S SONG OF DOOM.

1

The doom of the Children of Lir,
Thus Oifa dooms them,
Go pine in the feathers of swans
Till the North shall wed the South.

2

Three hundred years shall ye float
On the stillness of Derryvarragh:
On the tossing of Sruth-na-Moyle,

Struth-na-Moyle (the race of Moyle) was the tideway between Ireland and Scotland.

Unsheltered, three hundred years.

3

Three hundred years shall ye keene
With the curlews of Erris Domnann;

Erris Domnann (the head, or foreland, of Domnann) may have been Erris Head, in Mayo.

Till the bell rings in Inis Glory

Inis Glory of Brendan, was an island off the coast of Kerry.

I curse you: nine hundred years!

17

The four Swans heard their doom, and huddled by the shore
Wept at the feet of Oifa. Fianoula weeping said:

“This is a mighty curse, O mother of our tears!
Unmothered, comfortless, cold through the age-long night!”

FIANOULA'S PRAYER.

A boon, a boon, O mother,
For the sorrowful Children of Lir!
Sad is the voice of children
In the terrors of the night.

18

Fear in the witch's heart was gendering with her hate,
Seeing her evil thought grown to an evil deed;
And on her tongue was laid a spell more strong than hers,
In fear, not ruth, she spake this lightening of their doom:

OIFA'S ANSWER.

1

A boon, a boon I yield you,
Ye sorrowful Children of Lir!
Man's reason shall breed within you
Sweet words in the tongue of men.

2

Sweet, sweet be your voices,
Ye mournful Swans of Lir!
The sad, sweet moan of your music
Shall comfort the sick with sleep.

3

Sweet, sweet be your voices,
Ye sorrowful Swans of Lir!
Your song from the seas of Erin
Shall comfort the sorrows of men.

4

Sweet, sweet be your voices,
Ye magical Swans of Lir!
A nation's desolation
Shall witch the world in your song.

19

Then from the Swans went Oifa, and hasting from the shore
Fled from her brazen triumph, hate glutted; and the Swans,
Banished from hopes of men, and comfort of their kind
Swam in a knot forlorn into the clouds of doom.

This was the doom of the Children of Lir
Of dooms most doleful,
Sorrowful is my song.

THE SECOND DUAN. THE SWANS ON DERRYVARRAGH.

Sorrowful is my song
Of songs most sorrowful,
The song of the doom of the Children of Lir.

1

So from the Swans went Oifa, and cold slept in her heart
Revenge's glutted snake; and to Bov Derg she came.
Bov Derg beheld her coming, and starting from his place
Asked her: “Where are the children?” She softly smiling, said:

2

“Strange madness works in Lir: his brow grew black in wrath
When hither I would come. He loves not thee nor me.
He will not trust the children out of his jealous eye
With thee for ever more. I am weary, and would rest.”

3

Thereat amazed, Bov Derg laid ambush in his mind,
Marking the witch's eye that glittered like a snake's
With inward fire, and felt a lurking evil there;
And sent to Lir, seeking the children in their home.

4

Lir, when he heard, his wrath flaming from sudden dread,
Took horse for the hill of Bov, with visions by the way
Of Oifa's murderous mind; and schemed some vast revenge,
Rushing in flames of wrath by Derryvarragh Lake.

5

The Swans beheld afar, and with a human wail
Of song over the water, called on the name of Lir.
Pierced with their wistful sad melodious moan, sat Lir
Fumbling his rein, aghast, as wailing they drew nigh.

THE SONG OF THE SWANS.

Tarry, Lir, and hear
The song of the Swans!
Pity thy children, Lir,
The Swans forlorn, thy children!

6

Hearing that cry, ran Lir all trembling to the shore,
And bent in ruth to kiss the piteous feathery things
That sought him from the water, and on the weeping Swans
Full fast, in loving ruth, hot fell the tears of Lir!

7

And well each child he knew, sewn in its feathery shroud.
And stroked with passionate hand Oodh's o'er-snowed golden head,
And stroked Fianoula's neck, writhing to meet his touch,
And stroked his Fiachra's wings, and the downy crest of Conn.

8

Then burst in sobs his voice: “Oh, beggared in one day!
Whence are these swans for children? Whence falls this feathery blight:
This wrong unbearable, that vengeance cannot cure?
Oifa, is this thy deed?” Fianoula answered low:

SONG OF FIANOULA.

1

Hot are thy tears, O Lir,
On the feathers of the Swans;
But cold shall rain the rains
Long ages upon thy children.

2

Thou gavest us, O Lir,
A cruel witch to our mother!
Poor father! for thee I weep:
She has given thee Swans for children.

3

Three hundred years must we tread
Lake-water in Derryvarragh:
On the saltness of Sruth-na-Moyle
Must welter, three hundred years.

4

Three hundred years must we cleave
The billows of Erris Domnann:
Till the bell rings in Inis Glory
She cursed us—nine hundred years!

9

Great was the lamentation and the love between them there;
Loud was the Swans' lament, and loud the grief of Lir;
And with his children four he last lay down that night,
With the Swans he made his bed by the shores of Derryvarragh.

10

But when the dawn grew bright he hastened on his way
To the house of the High King. Oifa before Bov Derg
Was called, and to her face Lir told his piteous tale.
Wearily still she smiled: “I have done it—let me die!”

11

Stern rose Bov Derg in wrath: “I lay my Druid spell
On thy confessing tongue, to answer what vile shape
Is most abhorred by thee?” She writhed, compelled with pain,
Crying with a ghastly shriek: “A demon of the air!”

12

“Take then that shape,” he said, and smote her with his wand;
And her blue eyes grew white as dazzling leprosy,
Her hideous body seemed the snake-fiend of her heart
Burst forth on dragon wings. And Bov Derg spoke her doom:

THE DOOM OF OIFA.

1

From the tribes of men fly Oifa,
Pale outlaw of the air,
Till the wind shall cease to wail
For Erin and her woes!

2

Go howl on the blast, howl Oifa
O'er the land where the Banshee cries:
In the shade of thy dragon wings
Fall horror of brooding fate.

3

Abhorred of men, howl Oifa
O'er the mountains of Inisfail:
The Swans of Lir shall have comfort
Long ere thy end of woes.

13

So howling on the blast fled from the face of men
Oifa, for evermore. But Bov Derg went with Lir
Back to the gentle Swans for solace of their song;
And with them by the lake they dwelt three hundred years.

14

And there dwelt peace: there came, by septs, the Tuatha,
And there the Sons of Milith sat down with them in peace;

For all men loved the Swans, for comfort of their song.
And peace with all her arts reigned there three hundred years.

15

Then said Fianoula: “Ah, sweet brothers, know ye not
Our age is ended here? To-night our flight must be.”
Then sorrow for their fate fell on the sons of Lir,
“We were still men,” they said, “here dwelling with our kin.”

FLITTING-SONG OF THE SWANS.

1

Our beautiful feathers
Must we drench in salt surges,
No night brine-unbittered
For the Children of Lir!

2

Farewell, Derryvarragh,
Farewell, friendly faces,
To the gulls and the curlews
Fly the Children of Lir.

16

Loud was the Swans' lament, and loud the grief of Lir
And great the lamentation and the love between them there.
Then the four Swans soared high, and swiftly to the north
Flew from the eyes of Lir, and lit on Sruth-na-Moyle.

This is the song of the flitting of the Swans,
Of songs most mournful,
Sorrowful is my song!

THE THIRD DUAN. THE SWANS ON SRUTH-NA-MOYLE.

Sorrowful is my song,
Of songs most sorrowful,
The song of the doom of the Children of Lir.

1

Now sang the shrill sea-wind through the feathers of the Swans,
And cold round their white breasts the brine of Sruth-na-Moyle

Boiled in the bitter surge; and bitter was their lot,
Tossing unsheltered on the tides of Sruth-na-Moyle.

2

And once, ere sunset, fell a darkness on the deep,
And sharp Fianoula cried: “Ochone for us this night!
Bad is our preparation! the storm is in our wings
To drive us four apart on seas unknown to-night.

3

“Forlorn this night shall be our bed in the black waters,
Forlorn our lonely sailing on seas without a star;
Sharing no more together the comfort of our wings,
Sad must we walk to-night the waves of Sruth-na-Moyle!

4

“Tell me then, where shall be the trysting of the Swans,
If life be left in us to see the storm go down?”

“Be it the Rock of the Seals, Carrig-na-Ron,” they cried,
‘Carrig-na-Ron's the word! May we all see it soon!”

5

Ere midnight swooped the storm, and scowling o'er the deep
They saw the eyes of Oifa, and heard her in the blast
Howling, as they were driven apart on the wild sea.
None knew his brother's path all night, nor saw his own.

6

For all night long the storm dashed them about the deep
In blinding spray and freezing rain; and the lightning's glare
Showed them but heaving mountains, black on the gleaming sea;
So all night long they fought for life with the rude waves.

7

With night fled the fierce wind. They knew the east, and steered
O'er seas of separation, while rosily in the dawn
Gleamed their subsiding crests. But the four were far apart,
And lonely came Fianoula first to the Rock of Seals.

8

To the rock she fluttered; there, with wings too weak for flight,
Stared on the waste of waters thundering about her feet;
And many a foamy crest, white on the lowering grey,
Her anxious eyes believed a swan—that never came.

FIANOULA'S LAMENTATION ON THE ROCK.

1

Bad is life in my state,
My wings droop at my sides,
The furious blast hath shattered
The heart in my breast for Oodh.

2

Three hundred years as a swan
On the waters of Derryvarragh
I was shut from my human shape;
But worse is one night like this!

3

Belov'd the three, oh, belov'd the three
Who nestled beneath my wings!
Till the dead come to meet the living
I shall meet them never more.

4

No sign of Oodh nor Fiachra!
Of Conn the comely no news!
Have pity for me who live, ye dead,
In misery bad is life!

9

There sat she till night fell, and through that night forlorn,
Till the rising of the day, blind with her dazzling watch.
At last there came a swan—young Conn, with drooping head
And feathers drenched in brine. Then joy sang in her heart.

10

And Conn she comforted beneath her wings, that glowed
With the new glow of her heart; and then came Fiachra, cold,
Half dead, a drifting waif; and word he could not speak,
For hardship of the sea. Him too she cheered with life.

11

And the third night the three together on the rock
Nestled, and sighed for Oodh. And, with the rising sun,
Came Oodh, his glorious head high-held, his feathers preened,
And flew to them, and brought the sun upon his wings.

12

Then on the Swans the sun shone, and a rush of joy
Startled the tide of life in the bosom of the four;

And heartily Fianoula welcomed Oodh, her missing one,
Heartily Conn and Fiachra their brother from the deep.

13

And Oodh Fianoula warmed with the feathers of her breast;
And over Fiachra spread her right wing; and her left,
The wing of her heart, o'er Conn. “Bitter these days” she said,
“But worse will come to pinch the wandering Swans of Lir.”

14

There dwelt they, with the seals, the human-hearted seals,
That loved the Swans, and far followed with sad soft eyes,
Doglike, in sleek brown troops, their singing, o'er the sea;
So for their music yearned the nations of the seals.

15

And there they sorely learned the hardship of the sea,
The misery of the birds, their penury and toil.
Summer passed, winter came, and nipt them with a night
The like of which, for cold, they had never felt before.

16

That January night upon the rock they lay,
One heap of feathery snow, their inmost feathers cold
As fleeces filled with frost. One huddling heap they lay
Cold in the windy tent of their sun-loving wings.

17

Hoarse o'er the hissing waves howled Oifa in the blast,
And dreadful through the night the chill glare of her eyes

Gleamed in the dazzling snow; and through the Swans the surf
Shot arrows, burning cold, barbed by the stinging frost.

18

Thus they endured that night, close-huddled to keep warm
Life's embers in them. There late morning found them, fast
Frozen to their cold bed. They roused their ebbing powers,
And grimly, with wild pain, at length tore themselves free.

19

But on the frozen rock their bed was flaked with blood,
Bent quills, and bloody down, and broken plumes; for there
They left the skin of their breasts, they left the skin of their feet,
And half the soaring strength of their sun-loving wings.

FIANOULA'S LAMENTATION IN THE COLD.

1

Ochone for the Swans left bare
Of the warm fleece of their feathers!
Ochone for the feet that bleed
On the rough teeth of the rocks!

2

False, false was our mother,
When she drove us with Druid's craft
Adrift on the roaring waters,
In the outlawry of birds.

3

For happy home she gave us
The fleeting surge of the sea,
For share of the lordly ale-feast
The loathing of bitter brine.

4

One daughter, and three sons,
Behold us, Lir, on the rocks,
Featherless, comfortless, cold,
We print our steps in blood.

20

Then, with their bleeding wounds, they plunged in Sruth-na-Moyle,
For painful was their path on the limpet-studded rocks:
There on the wandering tides they made their patient bed,
Until their wounds were whole, their wings bold on the blast.

This is the song of the hardship of the Swans,
Of songs most mournful,
Sorrowful is my song.

THE FOURTH DUAN. THE SWANS IN THE BANNA.

Sorrowful is my song,
Of songs most sorrowful,
The song of the doom of the Children of Lir.

1

Then day by day, the Swans, new winged, in sounding strength
Far-soaring, north and south, twixt Erin and Albain,

Alba or Albain was Scotland. Albain, like Erin, is a genitive case, used as a nominative.

Would visit in his isle their brother Manannan,
Grey wizard of the sea; much solace found they there.

2

Wizard to wizard, oft, Time in his cloudy cave
He met; and he could spell some rune of things to come.
And in Fianoula's ear his mild prophetic word
Breathed shell-like thunders dim from coming tides of death.

3

But ever to the rock the Swans flew back at night,
As was their doom. And well the happy coasts they knew,
Barred from their landing; and in sunny bays full oft
Wept in the murmuring wind, sad for its inland voice.

4

And once when they had sailed from the unresting sea
Far up, by Banna's mouth, to the green heart of the hills,
They saw a moving light gleam snakelike down a vale,
Mocking the sun for splendour, and greatening as they gazed.

5

And Conn cried: “Lo where shine the Faery Chivalry,

The champions of the Tuatha De Danaan. In the old legends the word fairy does not imply the diminutive stature which we attribute to the “good people,” but denotes a race endowed with supernatural powers.

Like dragons of the sun! White are their steeds, and there
March the stout Sons of Milith, and borne aloft I see
Banners, wherein we live blazoned—the Swans of Lir!”

6

Great joy was there, forsooth, when the Swans met their friends,
The stalwart sons of Bov: one band Oodh Sharp-wit led,

Fergus the Wizard, one; and breast-deep in the sea
They plunged to greet the Swans, sought for a hundred years.

7

And at their kiss the Swans trembled and wept for joy,
Asking a thousand things, dreading some tale of change:
“How goes it with Bov Derg, and with our father Lir?
Rest still those veteran oaks in peace upon their hills?”

8

Answered the sons of Bov: “Gently the snows of time
Sink on the head of Lir, and on the head of Bov.
Together in Lir's house they keep the Feast of Age,
Merrily as they may, remembering still your song.

9

“How fare ye in the sea?” Fianoula sighing said:
“Not to be told our life, for misery, not to be told!
Nor to be told our penury with the toiling tribes of birds!
We in whose train should wait the shining sons of kings!

10

“For beds of down, long years our breasts rub down the rock,
For honey-coloured mead we drink the hissing surge;
Happy this night lie down the well-clad thralls of Lir,
But cold in a cold house the children of their king!”

11

Then sundered from their friends, the Swans to their cold sea
Swam back in sorrow. Back rode, sundered from the Swans,

The Faery Chivalry, and told their tale to Lir;
And Lir for love and ruth shed softly tears of age.

12

“They live?” he sighed, “'tis good!” and pledged with Bov, the Swans.
“What can we do?” they said. “We cannot change their doom.”
Then o'er their chess

The game here called chess was probably rather more like our draughts. It was, however, the royal game.

once more their hoary age they bent,
And lone flew back the Swans to their lair in Sruth-na-Moyle.

13

Thus did the Swans fly-back to bide in Sruth-na-Moyle
Their full three hundred years; the hardship of the sea
Suffering with gulls and terns, they bode three hundred years.
Then said Fianoula: “Swans, your flitting-time is come.”

FLITTING-SONG OF THE SWANS.

1

Ochone for our dreary flitting!
Woe to us wandering away
From the coasts and bays that have sheltered
Our sorrows three hundred years!

2

To the world's end in western Erris,
Ochone for our dreary flitting!
The warmth of our wings must comfort
The bleak wild wind of the west.

3

Far, far we fly from thy soothing,
Manannàn, thou soft sooth-sayer,
Ochone for our dreary flitting,
To the sea without a shore!

4

Out of the world, ay, out of the world
The curse of a witch outcasts us,
Shelterless, friendless, nameless,
Ochone for our dreary flitting!

14

Sore was the Swans' lament, and deep sighed Manannàn,
Sweet was the lamentation, and the love between them there.
Then the four Swans soared high, and swiftly to the west
Flew from the wizard's eye, and lit in the vast sea.

This is the song of the loneliness of the Swans,
Of songs most mournful,
Sorrowful is my song!

THE FIFTH DUAN. THE SWANS IN ERRIS DOMNANN.

Sorrowful is my song,
Of songs most sorrowful
The song of the doom of the Children of Lir!

1

And there, by Erris Domnann they dwelt. There first they knew
The ocean without shore; and in their ears all night

Boomed on with solemn sound the thunder of its waves.
And answering to that sound, their minds were changed for awe.

2

There, day on boundless day, wonders were in their eye,
Wonders of the great deep. Blue rolled the unresting waves
And white the boiling surge smote the unflinching rocks.
And, answering to that sight, their minds grew great in awe.

3

But want they felt, and cold; and pity wrung their breast
For the sea-faring tribes. And many a dreadful storm
Smote them, the wrath whereof they had never felt before,
Seeking in land-locked bays what shelter they might win.

4

But once, when glowing noon slept on the murmuring waves
And the brown basking rocks, an odorous inland breeze
Wafted them o'er the sea faint pulsings of a harp's
Lamenting tones, where lived memories of their own dead songs.

5

Then wondering rose the Swans, and sought on sounding wing
That echo of their woes. And there, upon the rocks,
They found a harper, grey, with wistful eyes. His harp
Fell as he cried: “At last! Are these the Swans of Lir?”

6

They questioned of his name. “Ævric,” he said, “grown grey
Seeking the Swans. Your tale saddened my dreaming youth,

Waifs of your song, like pools by some forgotten stream
Left lonely on the hills, haunt still this land of sighs.

7

“I drank, and thirsted still, and am become a cloud
Wandering the world to seek the fountains of the dew.
Oh, fill my thirsting soul with music! Swans I have loved,
Slay me not with your sight, unsolaced by your song!”

8

Wan was his face, o'erflowed by the rivers of his eyes,
And pale the pleading hands stretched to them o'er the sea.
Then the four Swans swam near, and Ævric in the brine
Plunged in, breast-deep, to touch the feathers of the four.

9

Sweet was their salutation; and soon between them there
Kindled a mighty love, not soon to cease; for there
Ævric abode, and long shared with the Swans his food,
And from his hand once more they knew the taste of bread.

10

Sweet were the songs they taught him, and made him with their lore
First of the bards of Erin. Then, feeling death draw near,
He said: “My time is come: hence must I, and sing your songs
In youthful ears, to keep the heart of Erin green.”

11

Sorrowing he went; through tears their eyes looked after him:
Desolate stood his hut, a spectre on the rocks;

Cold as the coffin where their happy days lay dead,
And yet they loved the spot where they had lost a friend.

12

But Ævric made the heart of Erin bud with song,
Dying when he had made the story of the Swans;
While for a hundred years the Swans in the great sea
Abode by Erris Domnann, in hardships ever new.

13

Then came a winter night, the like of which for frost
They had never felt before. Breathless above the sea
The frozen air stood still: its billows hushed in awe,
Freezing without a sound, still stood the mighty deep.

14

There, beautiful in heaven, throned in her splendour, Night,
An awful presence, dwelt. Awfully on the sea

The moon looked silent down. Cold through the icy air
Awfully flamed the stars, alive with deadly light.

15

Silent, remorseless, swift, blurring the torpid surge,
The flag of ice advanced; dense round the moving Swans
The thin sea-water grew; meshed in its creeping net
They moved no more. “Death spurs his fated hour,” said Conn.

16

“Nay, see,” Fianoula said, “still is the frozen air—
That stillness guards our life. Howled Oifa on the blast,
The wind's keen fangs to-night had nipt our hearts indeed.
But stark she crouches, cowed by heaven's frosty eyes.”

FIANOULA'S SONG IN THE FROZEN SEA.

1

Oh! who shall comfort the Swans?
The sea, the sea hath betrayed us!
The frost's white wand on thy waters,
We perish by thee, O Sea!

2

For the freedom of the waves
Brisk, buoyant under our bodies,
Pent here in thy crystal prison,
We pine to be free, O Sea!

3

Great art Thou, God of heaven!
In the trance of the wind and the waters
Thy love walks o'er the sea,
This night is Thy shield reveal'd.

4

Dread Framer of earth and heaven,
Chastise the strong till they pity,
Give ease to Thy suffering tribes,
Our souls be set free, by Thee!

17

“Brothers,” she cried, “believe in the great God of heaven!”
“We do believe,” they said; and straightway on their hearts
Fell peace; and fear was quelled by awe; and a new song
Grew on their golden tongues, hymning the God of heaven:

THE SWANS' SONG OF PRAISE.

FIANOULA.
Great is the God of heaven!

THE THREE BROTHERS.
And wonderful His works!

FIANOULA.
Great is the God of heaven!

THE THREE BROTHERS.
And greatly to be praised!

FIANOULA AND OODH.
In the glorious lights of heaven
His eyes behold our weakness.

FIACHRA AND CONN.
He hath paven the sea with crystal
For the footsteps of His love.

THE FOUR SWANS.
O God, most mighty,
We praise Thee out of the waters!
O King of Consolation,
Thy wings are over all!

18

Even as they sang the north, far o'er the crystal sea
Budded with phantom fire. Pale flames, with rays of gloom,
Streamed to the zenith flickering; and dying, quickening still,
Made, as the low moon dipt, all heaven one throbbing rose.

19

Fianoula saw, and cried: “Terrible saints advance
To the purging of the earth: to the conquering of the nations
Terrible kings advance! Ghostlike our banners flee

The ancient divinities are here represented as experiencing a mysterious change at the coming of Christianity in Western Europe; and Fianoula's speech corresponds to the cry, “Great Pan is dead!”

To the wan fairy fields. Oh! where is Lir to-night?”

20

With morning came the sun and the warm wind of the west;
And split the groaning ice. Free swam the Swans once more,
Unharmed, on the brisk tide, and on their clanging wings
Soared o'er the churning ice, to their own sheltering bay.

21

So from that day they dwelt, free in their ocean home,
Knowing both heat and cold; but in hardship or in ease

Over them like a tent was spread the peace of God.
And there they dwelt in peace for still one hundred years.

22

Then said Fianoula: “Come, our cruel mother's curse
Withers upon the waters and on the fields of air,
And we are free to fly home to the halls of Lir.
How fares it with our father—does he still see the sun?”

23

So the four Swans soared high, and swiftly to the east
Under the eyes of dawn, flew home to the halls of Lir;
And found them but a heap, and desolation there
Dwelt, and a tongueless grief, as of a harp unstrung.

24

Sadly his children four by Lir's forgotten hearth
In silence sat them down; and memories in dim troop,
Orphans of days long dead, stole from their weedy lair
To gaze with wistful eyes upon the orphans four.

THE SWANS' LAMENT FOR THE DESOLATION OF LIR.

1

A lost dream to us now is our home
Ullagone! Ochone-a-rie!
Gall to our heart! Oh, gall to our heart!
Ullagone! Ochone-a-rie!

2

A hearthless home, without fire, without joy,
Without a harp, without a hound!
No talk, no laughter, no sound of song,
Ullagone for the halls of Lir!

3

Where now are the prosperous kings?
Where are the women? Where is the love?
The kiss of welcome warm on our cheeks?
The loving tongue of hounds on our hands?

4

Oh! the greatness of our mishap!
Oh! the length of our evil day!
Bitter to toss between sea and sea,
But worse the taste of a loveless home.

5

Children we left it, swans we return.
To a strange place, strangers. None lives to say:
“These are the Children of Lir.” A dream,
In a dream forgotten are we this night!

6

Is this the place of music we knew,
Where howls the wolf through the halls of Lir?
Where mirth in the drinking-horn was born,
Chill falls the rain on the hearth of Lir.

7

Ullagone! Ochone-a-rie!
Gall to our hearts is that sight to night,
Ullagone! Ochone-a-rie!
A lost dream to us now is our home!

25

So sang they. “Let us go,” Fianoula said, “for here
We have no more a home; back to the breezy west
Our flight must be. Now Lir wandering in Fairyland,
Beholds a phantom sun.” So spake she, and back they flew.

This is the song of the desola'ion of Lir,
Of songs most mournful,
Sorrowful is my song!

THE SIXTH DUAN. THE COMING OF THE FAITH.

A changing song is my song,
Of songs most wondrous,
The song of the doom of the Children of Lir.

1

So did the Swans fly back from the ruined halls of Lir
To the wild western sea, and, veering southward, came
To Inis Glory of Brendan; and there they made their home,
Waiting in patient peace the coming of the Faith.

2

And all the tribes of birds were gathered to them there,
And with sweet fairy singing there in the Lake of Birds
They taught the airy tribes, and comforted their woes;
Till, as the seals, they loved the singing of the Swans.

3

Far was their flight by day; along the wild west coast
They roamed to feed, as far as Achill, and at night
Flew back to Inis Glory; and wheresoe'er they moved
Thick waved the following wings of loving flocks of birds.

4

And there they dwelt in peace till the coming of the Faith,
Till holy Patrick's feet blest Erin's faithless fields;
And then to Inis Glory a priest came, sent of God,
He dreamed not for what end, but came there sent of God.

5

That priest was Mochaom Og; and sorrowful of heart
He came to Inis Glory, and there six days he toiled,

No man to help, and built, serving the Lord, a church;
And resting the seventh day, he hallowed it to Christ.

6

Marvellous was his work; for great strength in his hands
God put; and there by night, no shelter for his head,
But sheltering as he might the Church's holy things,
He laid him down to sleep, wet with the rain and the dew.

7

And like the birds he lived, no better than the birds.
Toiling, yet keeping still, matins, and nones, and primes.
Then by God's finished house he built himself a hut,
Where like the birds he lived, no better than the birds.

8

Yet heavy was his mood; questioning God he thought:
“Why am I wasted, thus; from the world's throbbing heart
Aloof, in peaceless peace, God's battles at my back?
Shall I feed the fish with praise, birds with the bread of God?”

9

But steadfast in his deeds, not scanting prayer nor praise,
He toiled; and the seventh day, in blessed bread and wine,
Christ came to win the West. That grace the sacring bell
To wondering land and sea proclaimed with silver sound.

10

And the Swans heard, far, faint, from some dim alien world,
The bell's mysterious tone; and on the brothers three

Strange terror fell, and wild they dashed through the clear waves,
Till, at Fianoula's call, they waited on her word.

11

“What ails you thus to fly?” she said. “What have ye heard?”
And they: “We know not what—a faint and fearful voice
Thrills in the shuddering air!” “That is God's bell,” said she,
“The bell that brings us ease. Blest be the name of God!”

FIANOULA'S SONG OF DELIVERANCE.

1

Hark to the Cleric's bell,
Ye sorrowful Swans of Lir!
Give thanks to God for its voice
Calling your souls to rest.

2

Lift up your hearts in gladness,
Ye sorrowful Swans of Lir!
On the wings of the wind your wings
Lift up to the gates of heaven!

3

Hark to the Cleric's bell,
Ye comely Children of Lir!
Redeemed from the scorn of tempests,
And the fury of the rocks.

4

Redeemed from the terror of life,
And icy deserts of death,
Redeemed from earth's enchantment,
Turn to the Cleric's bell!

12

Then on their sounding wings the Swans their latest flight
Took from the unresting sea, to find the rest of God;
And on the Lake of Birds they lit, and through the night
Praised with sweet fairy music the great God of heaven.

13

Afar heard Mochaom Og the singing of the Swans,
And trembled for strange awe, and wondering prayed that God
Would show him what wild things those were that praised His name.
And it was shown him straight: “These are the Swans of Lir.”

14

Then glad was Mochaom Og, and penitential tears
Wept before God, and cried: “A sinful man, O Lord!
Not worthy of this grace, am I, that unto me
Thou hast sent these prisoned souls to loose from their long woe.”

15

With dawn he rose, and ran, and standing by the lake,
Called through the mists of morning: “Are ye the Swans of Lir?”

The Swans heard him, and came, and wept beside the shore:
“Waiting release we live, the charmed Children of Lir.”

16

“Blessed be God!” said he. “For this God sent me hither,
To save you out of sin. Put all your trust in God.”
He kissed the weeping Swans, and took them to his place,
And there they dwelt with him, four weary things at rest.

17

Hearing the mass they dwelt, and there with Mochaom Og
Kept the canonical hours. And great content and joy
The Cleric had of them, his heart soared at their song;
And trouble dashed no more the spirit of the Swans.

This is the song of the coming of the Faith,
Of songs most wondrous,
A changed song is my song.

THE SEVENTH DUAN.

THE SWANS' DELIVERANCE.

Wonderful is my song,
Of songs most wonderful,
The song of the peace of the Chi'dren of Lir.

1

There to that isle of peace, in the world's dark seas of woe,
As birds flock to be fed, the heathen of the wilds
Flocked at the Cleric's bell, wondering to hear the Swans,
And barbarous hearts were turned to Christ in that fair spot.

2

Then said the Cleric: “Swans, ye are made the birds of Christ,
'Tis meet ye bear His yoke.” Fair silver chains he wrought,

And chained them, two and two, Fianoula paired with Oodh,
Fiachra with Conn. And ease it seemed that yoke to bear.

3

But now was come the day of their accomplished doom,
When the north should wed the south; for Lairgnen, Colman's son,
The King of Connaught, took the daughter of a King,
Finghin of Munster's child, Deoch, to be his wife.

4

Soon Deoch heard the fame of the magic singing Swans,
And envy gnawed her heart to have them for her own.
No peace could Lairgnen find, putting her off with words;
For fierce was her desire to make their fame her own.

5

“Art thou a king,” she said, “and dar'st not take these birds
To give me my desire? Empty shall be thy bed,
Empty thy house of me until I have the Swans.
Seek me to-night, and cold the comfort thou shalt find.”

6

Ere night, in sooth, she fled, seeking her father's dun;
But Lairgnen followed her, hot on her fiery track,
Caught her at Kill Dalua, and swearing by the Swans
That she should have her will, brought her, still sullen, home.

7

Then the king sent in haste a kerne to Mochaom Og,
Asking him for the Swans; but soon with empty hands

The messenger came back. And Deoch laughed in scorn,
And hot grew Lairgnen's cheek at the taunting of her eyes.

8

Then Lairgnen rose in wrath, and caught her by the wrist,
Crying: “To horse, woman, and thou shalt have the birds!”
So forth in haste they flung, and all on fire they rode
To Inis Glory, and there drew rein before the church.

9

In the door stood Mochaom Og, and Lairgnen, loud in wrath,
Cried to him: “Is this true, thou hast refused the Swans?”
But calm the Cleric spoke: “These are the birds of God.
Kneel thou before His cross, for pardon and for peace.”

10

But Lairgnen, pushing by, strode to the altar straight,
And seized the shuddering Swans, and by their silver chains,
A pair in either hand, he dragged them from the church,
Crying, with a fierce laugh: “Here, woman, take thy birds!”

11

But lo! a wondrous thing: suddenly from the Swans
Slack fell their feathery coats, and there once more they stood,
Children; yet weird with age, weird with nine hundred years
Of woe: four wistful ghosts from childhood's daisied field!

12

Four children there they stood, naked as when in glee
They plunged into the lough. And Mochaom Og in haste

Clad them in spotless fair white robes of choristers.
But Lairgnen curst he loud, with Deoch, for their sin.

13

Then, curst by Mochaom Og, curst with the curse of God,
Fled Lairgnen from that spot, with Deoch, curst of God:
And in their ears that curse on the white lips of fear
Muttered for ever, till their lives had fearful end.

14

But sad was Mochaom Og, for his dear comrades the Swans;
“And sad,” Fianoula said, “this day for us and thee.
Our parting hour is come, when death must give us peace,
Haste with the water now that makes us one with Christ!

15

“And Cleric, chaste and dear, friend of our faltering hopes,
Gate of our glory, pray for our sinful passing souls,
And give us, of thy love, God's oil upon our heads,
God's bread between our lips, that we may win thy heaven.”

FIANOULA'S DEATH-SONG.

1

A grave, a grave is my craving,
And the reach of my desire:
A grave for the Children of Lir—
Long suffered, long loved the Children!

2

Together we lived, together
Shall hold us, hoping for heaven,
One sister and three brothers,
The grave of the Children of Lir!

3

Thus, friend, shalt thou lay us,
One sister and three brothers,
At my right hand Fiachra, and Conn by my heart,
And Oodh, Oodh, in my bosom.

4

Great was thy love unto us,
O father of our souls!
And great the love thou wilt bury
In the grave of the Children of Lir!

16

Then were the four baptised, and with the blessed host
Comforted. Houseled then the first time and the last,
And praising God, that night they sang their souls away,
In the sure hope of heaven. But sad was Mochaom Og.

17

And in one grave he laid, keeping Fianoula's word,
The four Children of Lir; and masses for their souls

He said, and wrote their names in Ogham on their stone;
And in the church he hung the four white shapes of swans.

Sung is the song of the Children of Lir,
Of songs most wonderful:
Wonderful is my song!

AGHADOE.

1

There's a glade in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe,
There's a green and silent glade in Aghadoe,
Where we met, my love and I, love's fair planet in the sky,
O'er that sweet and silent glade in Aghadoe.

2

There's a glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe,
There's a deep and secret glen in Aghadoe,
Where I hid him from the eyes of the red-coats and their spies,
That year the trouble came to Aghadoe.

3

Oh! my curse on one black heart in Aghadoe, Aghadoe,
On Shaun Dhuv, my mother's son, in Aghadoe!
When your throat fries in hell's drouth, salt the flame be in your mouth,
For the treachery you did in Aghadoe!

4

For they tracked me to that glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe,
When the price was on his head in Aghadoe,
O'er the mountain, by the wood, as I stole to him with food,
Where in hiding lone he lay in Aghadoe.

5

But they never took him living in Aghadoe, Aghadoe;
With the bullets in his heart in Aghadoe,
There he lay—the head my breast feels the warmth of, where 'twould rest,
Gone, to win the traitor's gold, from Aghadoe!

6

I walked to Mallow town from Aghadoe, Aghadoe,
Brought his head from the gaol's gate to Aghadoe,
Then I covered him with fern, and I piled on him the cairn,
Like an Irish king he sleeps in Aghadoe.

7

Oh! to creep into that cairn in Aghadoe, Aghadoe!
There to rest upon his breast in Aghadoe,
Sure your dog for you could die with no truer heart than I,
Your own love, cold on your cairn, in Aghadoe.

THE COFFIN-SHIP.

“Coffin-ship” was the expressive name given by the peasantry to the wretched worn-out emigrant-ships in which they were sent to America after the great evictions in the famine time. The scene of the poem is on the coast of Clare, where in a storm the waves break over the cliffs with tremendous force, and far from the sea the air is filled with dense driving spray.

1.

Storm, and the moon like a waif,
Homeless, the baffled phantom of hope,
In a smother of hurrying rack:
Pale, with a few dim stars
Fighting the scud for a blink, a peep,
Then wanly, a visage of woe,
Searching the sea with her light.

2.

At the base of a westward-looking cliff,
Grim bastion of life o'er the ocean's long rage,
Thunder: a hell of waters, a frenzy of foam,
Black rocks, to the very fish of the deep

Perdition to-night. Inshore,
Back from the crest of the cliff
Where faint moon rainbows flicker and pale,
Stands one, by a gleaming pool
Salt from the send of the sea,
With strong heart long a-breaking,
And a cry under the stars!

3.

Mad, in the storm, her grey hair dank with the wind-blown spray,
Her homespun gown soaked round her, heavy with brine
As her heart with tears—alone,
A woman stands by the pool,
And wrings her hands, and thuds her shuddering breast
With bruising blows; then scans the face of the pool,
And tosses her arms aloft, and sends through the night
A moaning heart-breaking cry:

4.

“Norah ahoy! Kathleen ahoy!
Dhrops o' me heart, come back to me! Cushla machree
Norah, come back to me! look at me here alone!
Come back from the say, come back from that Coffin-Ship—
The rats is lavin' her. Whisht! do yous hear the wind
Keenin', keenin'? Whisht! Don't yous hear? When it blows
This-a-way, thro' and thro' me, the hunger le'ps in my heart.
The hunger's on me for yous to night. I want yous, I do.
I'm lonely, childre', I'm lonely. Your father stuck to the soil—
Why couldn't the' make short work, evict us into the say?
The Big House got him at last, the faver, the yalla hole,

The pauper's grave; an' me down; and Patsy under the sod;
An' Shemus—I disremimber where is he at all. Ochone,
I'm lonely, childhre', I'm lonely! Norah, don't lave me, asthore,
Come to me, Kathleen, aroo!”

5.

She turns to the pool, and gazes
At the petty wrath of its waters
Vexed by the wind-flaws; then shrill
Raves she against the blast,
Matching her quavering cry with the ceaseless roar of the sea.
She spits in the face of the storm, and threatens with arm benumbed
The raging, thundering surge.

6.

“Oh, wather, wather! for all you're quiet an' small,
Sure you're a slip o' the say—the say wid its landlord's heart

That never heeds for a cry, th' ould slaughtherin' absentee
Ragin' an' roarin' beyant. Aw, whisht! I owe you no rint,
Ould disolation; your rint is waitin'—the Coffin-Ship,
Take her this night, an' welcome; but Christians isn't your due!”

7.

She kneels by the pool and paddles
With weak hand in the water,
Flattering with vague caresses
Its chill evasive face.
She pleads with the pool; she blarneys its heedless ear with wild words;
She pleads with sobs and sighs for its favour and its aid.

8.

“But you, wather avic, that hould there quiet an' fair
Your dacent small bit o' ground, sure you'll spake up for me now?

You that can hear me, spake, for God's love spake to him now,
Bid him give up the childre'—sure he's no law for this!
He has no call at all to my childre'! Norah, come back!
Bring Kathleen home!”

9.

Then, even as one at last stabbed with the sudden word
Killing a hope long sick, she starts with a wailing shriek,
Back from the brink of the pool, and crouched on the sodden grass,
Rocks herself to and fro.

10.

“Mother of mercy, it's thrue—it's thrue, then! O God in heaven!
Dhrownded, dhrownded, gone down, gone down in the Coffin-Ship!

An' is it your ghosts I seen, my darlints, there by the shore,
Walkin' an' smilin,' an' ch'atin' my poor ould eyes wid the light
O' your two sweet innocent faces—the same as ever, the same—
An' I here callin' yous home!”

11.

Then rising at last, she goes from her station with fitful feet,
Moaning, away through the storm.

12.

“Dhrownded, dhrownded, an' gone from me, Nora gone,
An' Kathleen gone—the pair o' yous gone this night,
An' gone for ever. Ochone, ochone for my heart!
Ochone for the poor this night!”

13.

O land, sister of sighs!
O land of love with the longing in your heart!
Is this your cry that I hear?
Is this your fetch I see wandering,
Mad, in the night?

THE LAMENTATION FOR THE THREE SONS OF TURANN.

WHICH TURANN, THEIR FATHER, MADE OVER THEIR GRAVE.

The Tuatha De Danaan suffered much from Fomorian sea-rovers, who forced them to pay a heavy annual tribute. From this tribute Lugh Lamh-fhada, son of Cian by a Fomorian princess, arose to deliver his father's race, slaying his own grandfather, Balor of the Baleful Eye, King of the Fomorians, and routing his host at the battle of Northern Moy Tura, near Sligo. Before this, Lugh had sent his father, Cian, to raise the country against the Fomorians, and while performing this duty Cian was wantonly slain by the three sons of Turann—Brian, Iuchar, and Iucharba. For this crime Lugh laid upon them the eight-fold eric or blood-fine alluded to in the poem.

The Sons of Turann obtained, by their valour and their craft, the first six parts of the eric; but Lugh then laid upon them a Druid spell, which caused them to long for Ireland and forget his last two demands. They returned without the cooking-spit of the Women of the Sea, and without having given three shouts on the hill of Miochan. This hill was in Lochlann (Norway), where Lugh's father, Cian, had been bred with Miochan, whose geis, or champion's vow, made it shameful for him to suffer any one to shout upon his hill.

Lugh, having craftily got the most important part of the eric into his hands, sent the Sons of Turann back to complete it. They fulfilled their task, but returned mortally wounded by the sons of Miochan; and Lugh refused them the skin of the Sow of Tuis, which would have healed them. They died on the plain of Tara, and their father, having made a lamentation over their bodies, fell dead himself beside them.

The following Lamentation is not based upon any existing Celtic poem: its division into elegiac strophes is suggested by the form of the Ulster Keene, given in Bunting's Irish Music.

THE LITTLE LAMENTATION.

1

Low lie your heads this day,
My sons! my sons!
Make wide the grave, for I hasten
To lie down among my sons.

2

Bad is life to the father
In the house without a son,
Fallen is the House of Turann,
And with it I lie low.

THE FIRST SORROW.

1

The staff of my age is broken!
Three pines I reared in Dun-Turann,
Brian, Iuchar, Iucharba,
Three props of my house they were.

2

They slew a man to their wounding,
In the fierceness of their youth!
For Cian, the son of Caintè,
Their comely heads lie low.

3

A dreadful deed was your doing,
My sons! my sons!
No counsel ye took with me
When ye slew the son of Caintè.

4

A bad war with your hands
Ye made upon Innisfail,
A bad feud on your heads
Ye drew when ye slew no stranger.

5

And cruel was the blood-fine.
That Lugh of the outstretched arm,
The avenging son of Cian,
Laid on you for his father.

6

Three apples he claimed, a sow-skin,
A spear, two steeds and a war-car,
Seven swine, and a staghound's whelp,
A spit, three shouts on a mountain.

100

7

A little eric it seemed
For the blood of Dè-Danaan,
A paltry eric and foolish,
Yet there was death for the three!

THE SECOND SORROW.

1

Crafty was Lugh, when he laid
That fine on the sons of Turann,
And pale we grew when we fathomed.
The mind of the son of Cian.

2

Three apples of gold ye brought him
From the far Hesperian garden;
Ye slew the King of Greece
For the skin that heals all wounds.

101

3

Ye took from the King of Persia
The spear more deadly than dragons;
It keeps the world in danger
With the venom of its blade.

4

Ye won from the King of Sicil
His horses and his war-car,
The fleetness of wings their fleetness,
Their highway the land and the sea.

5

The King of the Golden Pillars
Yielded the swine to your challenge,
Each night they smoked at the banquet,
Each morning they lived again.

102

6

Ye took from the King of Iceland
His hound like the sun for splendour,
Ye won by your hands of valour
Those wonders, and brought them home.

7

But short was the eric of Lugh
When your hearts grew hungry for Turann;
For Lugh had laid upon you
Forgetfulness by his craft.

THE GREAT LAMENTATION.

1

Death to the sons of Turann
Had Lugh in his crafty mind:
“Yet lacks of my lawful eric
The spit, three shouts on the mountain.”

103

2

The strength of a babe was left us
At the hearing of that word,
Brian, Iuchar, Iucharba,
Like dead men they fell down.

3

But Brian your courage kindled,
My sons! my sons!
For the Island of Finchory
A year long they searched the seas.

4

Then Brian set the clearness
Of crystal upon his forehead,
And, his water-dress around him,
Dived through the waves' green gloom.

104

5

Days twice-seven was he treading
The silent gloom of the deep,
His lanterns the silver salmon
To the sea-sunk Isle of Finchory.

6

Soft shone the moony splendour
Of the magic lamps of Finchory.
There sat in their hall of crystal
The red-haired ocean-wraiths.

7

Twice-fifty they sat and broidered
With pearls their sea-green mantles;
But Brian strode to their kitchen
And seized a spit from the rack.

105

8

Soft rippled their silvery laughter,
Like laughter of summer wavelets
“Strong is the son of Turann,
But stronger the weakest here.

9

“And now, should we withstand thee,
No more shouldst thou see thy brothers;
Yet keep the spit for thy daring,
Brian, we love the bold.”

10

Then glad ye sailed away,
My sons! my sons!
To the Hill of Shouts in Lochlànn,
To the Mountain of Miochan.

106

11

There met them the friends of Cian,
Sword-mates of the son of Caintè,
Guarding the mount, they stood,
Miochan and his three stout sons.

12

Oh! bitter were your battles
In Greece, in Spain, and in Persia,
But bitterer far that fight
On the Mountain of Miochan!

13

A dead man ye left Miochan,
Thrust through by the spear of Brian,
Dead men ye left his sons,
Corc, Conn, and Oodh, dead men.

107

14

But bored were your three fair bodies,
My sons! my sons!
Bored through by the spears of the sons
Of Miochan of the Mountain.

15

The sun could shine through their wounds,
The swallows fly through their bodies,
When Brian raised his brothers
To give three shouts on that Mountain.

16

Ye raised your manly voices,
My sons! my sons!
More blood came from you than breath
When ye gave your shouts on that Mountain.

108

17

Bleeding, down to the ship
Led Brian his bleeding brothers:
“Our lives, with the Skin of Healing,
Fooled Lugh from our hands!” they said.

18

Then softly in the ship
Laid Brian his fainting brothers;
By courage he kept his life
To bring them alive to land.

19

“I see the hills of Dun-Turann,
And Tara of the Kings!”
Glad and sad were the three
When they saw Ben-Edar above them.

109

20

A joyful man was your father,
To greet you living, my sons!
A sorrowful man was I
When I saw your deadly wounds.

21

In Tara of the Kings
I bent before Lugh, I humbled
Before him this hoary head:
“Full eric we bring thee, Lugh!”

22

“A great eric, Lugh,
My sons have paid for thy father,
Heal now with the Skin of Healing
The weakness of their wounds!”

110

23

“Bring then thy sons before me!”
Said Lugh; and we came before him:
Two eyes were dry in all Tara
To see them, shrunk with their wounds!

24

Said Lugh: “I take from your hands
The eric, ye Sons of Turann;
No bond is on me this day
To yield you the Skin of Healing.”

25

Then burst o'er Tara's Green
A groan from the hosted kings,
As Brian raised his brothers
To look in the face of Lugh.

111

26

Said Brian: “I slew thy father,
But now I bring thee a blood-fine,
The greatest that man on man
E'er laid since the sun was born.

27

“I slew thy father: full eric
I bring thee—yet let me die;
But heal with the Skin of Healing
My brothers, to be thy men.”

28

“Nay,” said Iuchar and Iucharba,
“Our blood be cast in the eric,
The best the sun sees for valour
Is Brian—save him alone!”

112

29

“No mercy ye showed my father,”
Said Lugh, “when his hands of pleading
Ye scorned. No hurt or no healing
I owe you: your fine is paid.”

30

Hard-eyed, to the dun of Tara
He turned his feet from your succour.
Ye won him the world's High-Kingship,
He left you with your wounds!

31

Then faint ye sank by your father,
My sons! my sons!
Said Brian: “Unjust, O Lugh,
Is the justice of thy craft!

113

32

“No wrong like our wrong, O father!
No sorrow like thy sorrow!
We blent no fraud with our valour,
Nor gave him guile for his guile.

33

“Great were the deeds we did
In Spain, in Greece, and in Persia;
But base and black is the deed
Of Lugh to us three in Tara.”

34

Ah! pale were your lips that kissed me,
My sons! my sons!
Heart-sick, the three lay down
To die on the Green of Tara.

114

35

Dim stared their eyes for the sky,
Their faint hands groped for each other,
Last hope of the House of Turann,
My sons lay down in death.

THE DEATH-SONG OF TURANN.

1

Low lie your heads this day,
My sons! my sons!
The strong in their pride go by me,
Saying: “Where are thy sons?”

2

They spit on my grief, they sully
The snows of my age upon me,
Sonless I stand in Tara,
A laughter, a lonely shame.

115

3

How shall I walk in strength
In the gathering of the chiefs?
A shaking leaf is my valour,
Wanting your spears about me.

4

How shall I sit in honour
In the counsel of the kings?
My beard of wisdom the scorner
Shall pluck, with none to defend me.

5

Happy the dead lie down,
Not knowing the loss of children:
My life in your grave lies dead,
And I go down to my children.

116

6

Without you, my hoary age
Is a faltering of the feet.
Without you, my knees that tremble
Go stumbling down to the grave.

7

Bad is life to the father
In the house without a son,
Fallen is the House of Turann,
And with it I lie low!

117

THE LAMENT OF AIDEEN FOR OSCAR.

Oscar, son of Oisin, the champion of the Fianna Eirinn, or Fenians, was slain at the battle of Gabhra (pronounced Gowra), near Tara, in Meath. His wife, Aideen, daughter of Angus of Ben-Edar (Howth), died of grief, and was buried in the cromlech on Howth, celebrated in Sir Samuel Ferguson's poem, “Aideen's Grave”.

[_]

(Air: “The Gaol of Clonmel.”)

1

The sere woods are quailing
In the wind of their sorrow,
Their keene they might borrow
From the voice of my wailing.
My bed's the cold stone
By the dark-flowing river:
Ochone-a-rie! Ochone!
Thou art gone, and for ever!

2

Ah! why didst thou love me
But to leave me despairing,
My anguish out-staring
The bleak heavens above me?

118

I lie all alone
Where hope's morning comes never:
Ochone-a-rie! Ochone!
I have lost thee for ever!

3

The dumb grave mocks my raving.
From the dead comes no token,
Where thy good sword lies broken
Thou art cold to my craving.
We may lie down and moan,
But our champion wakes never:
Ochone-a-rie! Ochone!
We are fallen for ever!

119

EILEEN'S FAREWELL.

[_]

(To an Irish Air.)

1

Ring out my knell,
Ye walls and towers of Neil Dhuv!
Farewell, oh, farewell
Evermore to the fields that I love!
For the world, the world is dreary,
Let me lie with my baby alone:
The heart that is weary
Rests only under the stone.

2

Think on my doom,
And weep for pity, Neil Dhuv!
On the slab of my tomb
No name be graven but Love.

120

With the winds, in places lonely,
My name of sorrow shall dwell,
And I sigh to them only
To waft thee Eileen's farewell.

121

THE SHAN VAN VOCHT OF '87.

1

There's a spirit in the air,
Says the Shan van Vocht,

The Shan van Vocht, or Poor Old Woman, is a popular type of Ireland.

And her voice is everywhere,
Says the Shan van Vocht;
Though her eyes be full of care,
Even as Hope's, born of Despair,
Her sweet face looks young and fair,
Says the Shan van Vocht.

2

And she bears a sword of flame,
Says the Shan van Vocht,
And its flash makes tyrants tame,
Says the Shan van Vocht,
For she comes old rights to claim,
And old wrongs burn up in shame:
And 'tis Justice is her name,
Says the Shan van Vocht.

122

3

There's a land I've loved of old,
Says the Shan van Vocht,
For her tameless heart of gold,
Says the Shan van Vocht.
In her sorrows unconsoled,
With her thousand hearths made cold;
But that tale of shame is told,
Says the Shan van Vocht.

4

For a thing shall come to pass,
Says the Shan van Vocht,
Though her foes wear fronts of brass,
Says the Shan van Vocht,
They turn pale, they quake—alas!
They have seen the Bodach-glas,

The Bodach-glas (grey goblin), a phantom appearing to the doomed.

And they wither like the grass,
Says the Shan van Vocht.

123

OTHER POEMS.

125

IN MEMORIAM.

EDWARD WILLIAM GODWIN.

Obiit. Oct. 1886.

A man of men, born to be genial king,
By frank election, of the artist kind,
Attempting all things, and on everything
Setting the signet of a master mind.
What others dreamed amiss, he did aright:
His dreams were visions of art's golden age:
Yet, self-betrayed, he fell in Fortune's spite,
His royal birthright sold for scanty wage.
The best of comrades, winning old and young
With keen audacious charm, dandling the fool
That pleased his humour, but with scathing tongue
For blatant pedants of the bungler school.
They tell me he had faults—I know of one:
Dying too soon, he left his best undone.

126

ON A PERFORMANCE OF

THE FAITHFULL SHEPHERDESSE

BY THE “PASTORAL PLAYERS” AT COOMBE HOUSE.

If, from the Elysian haunt of Poets dead,
Honey-tongued Fletcher, ever thou dost look
On this world's change, sad for some wasted nook
Or sylvan glade familiar to thy tread;
Jovially now, bending thy laurelled head,
Smile: at thy song, great Pan, who in wrath forsook
Our woods, is come again; the pastoral crook
Leads in Arcadia, toil with beauty wed.
O shepherds blithe, fleet nymphs, whose linkèd glee
Sisters Victoria with Elizabeth,
Dance on immortal in our mortal sun:
The hymns ye move to have no note of death,
Ye shine, life's golden victories yet unwon—
The unfulfilled fair dreams of poesy!

127

SONG.

1

Lead forth into the morning, lead me forth,
Child with a gleam of morning in thine eyes;
For the dawn kindles, and the hawthorn-buds
Breathe now their earliest orisons of joy.

2

Thou leadest me, like joy, with wingèd feet,
Child with delight of sunshine in thine eyes,
Where wake the larks in meadows drenched with dawn,
To meet Love, led by Day, upon the hills.

128

BACCHIC DAY.

A day of many days, a day supreme,
When, in mid May, young Summer like a child,
Sits in the lap of Spring! A nightingale,
Preluding low in the dim, dripping woods,
Makes morn acquainted with the heart of Night,
Of sad voluptuous Night, who loves to keep
Her state within these thickets of the Spring.

But now Day triumphs, and in dewy paths
Where rhododendrons trim their orient lamps
Of pale exotic fire, to homage him,
Glows like the Indian Bacchus. Every brake,
Stirred by the fluttering of some weak-winged thrush
Yet young in the world, is all ablaze with him;
In odorous flame his golden presence walks,
Glad, through the bushes burning unconsumed,

129

And through the antlered bracken, that will soon
Shadow the withering bluebells—fainting now
At the first kiss of Summer.

Day the god,
Come conquering from the east, invades my spirit,
Which dwelt abandoned, in a sullen gloom,
The mate of desolation, stretched vain arms
After a traitor hope; and now leaps up
To clasp a sudden and imperious joy.

130

HAVELOCK THE GULL.

PART FIRST.

1

The brown spring tide came frothing up the strand,
Under the scourge of a gale. I watched the fleet
Remorseless waves eat up the shrinking sand,
When something fluttered seaward from my feet.

2

Twas a young gull—a wild and startled thing;
By some deep instinct of man's cruelty
Driven to seek, with rash half-plumèd wing,
Refuge and kinship in the unquiet sea.

131

3

A valorous heart beat in that bosom white:
Breaker on breaker cleaving, as he sought
The freedom of the deep, a gallant fight
That baby sea-bird with old Ocean fought.

4

In vain! His oary feet what boots him ply?
Short voyage might he make for all his pain;
For when his hard-won victory seemed most nigh
The bursting surge would hurl him back again.

5

Poor heap of sand-smircht plumes, with dauntless eye,
What wildness of the sea was in the shriek
With which it rose, for dearest liberty
To fight my capturing hand with wings and beak!

132

6

I took my foundling home, beguiled each mood
Of fierce defiant fear, or sullen gloom,
Till from our fingers he would snatch the food,
And flap his wings, and preen his draggled plume.

7

We called him Havelock, from the noble Dane,
“Saved from the sea,” my wee girl said, “like him;”
For she had spelt the story out with pain
That very morn: “And, father, you're his Grim.”

8

Then rested, feasted, warmed, we bore him back,
And left him there in ease with liberty,
Snug in the bents, above the shingle black,
To sleep, and dream of his beloved sea.

133

PART SECOND.

1

Next morn we rose, the child to save our scraps
For Havelock's breakfast, chattering: “He'll grow tame,
Because he'll see we love him; and perhaps
He'll soon come flying when we call his name.

2

“And then, when we are leaving in the train,
Oh! wouldn't it be nice if he should fly
In from the sea, and peck the window-pane,
And scream? That's how a bird would say ‘Good-bye!’”

3

I went to seek him o'er the gusty beach,
And marked the strow of upcast things the surge
Had marvellously sifted each from each,
Sand here, stones there, drift on the weedy verge.

134

4

But when at length I came to Havelock's lair
I found a fragment of his last night's meal,
And one poor feather; but no Havelock there;
Nor sight nor sign to hint his woe or weal;

5

Save a fresh tracklet in the drifted sand
Below the bents, lost in the gravel soon,
Which told how, boldly making for the strand,
He had slipt and fluttered down the tiny dune.

6

That morn the tide, roaring perpetually,
Nigher and nigher, roused him from his bed:
The creature heard the calling of the sea,
And sought its ancient bosom without dread.

135

7

Where was he now? I hoped him safely steered
Through the wild surf, his feathery kin to seek;
And yet I feared the sea, and more I feared
The thousand foes that war against the weak.

8

And so I wandered on in dreamy mood,
And picked up shells, and mused of other things,
Till, on a spit the churning surge bestrewed
With flickering foam,—was that the flap of wings?

9

Yes, it was he; the worrying waves awhile
Had left him spent in the spent foam. Alack!
He had fought the breakers all a weary mile,
And there he lay, flung baffled on his back.

136

10

Ah, my poor Havelock! stranded just alive,
Too late I came, too late to succour thee!
How bravely the world's beaten things may strive!
What waifs abide the sifting of the sea!

11

I took him up—too weak, poor bird, to peck
The hands that held him; and with piteous stare
He seemed to gaze for light; with stiffening neck
Updrawn into his breast, to strain for air.

12

A few great gasps with his wide-gaping bill,
And then he gasped no more; his gallant head
Drooped, and for aye his dauntless heart stood still,
The damp chill-feathered thing I bore was dead.

137

13

We dug a grave next morning by the shore,
With wooden spade we dug it mournfully,
And there we laid our Havelock, and once more
Left him to sleep by his beloved sea.

138

THREE WITCHES.

Methought I saw three sexless things of storm
Like Macbèth's witches; creatures of the curse
That broods, the nightmare of the universe,
Over the womb and mortal birth of form;
And, cloudlike in their train, a vampyre swarm
Of hovering ills, each than the other worse,
Lecheries and hates that make the world a hearse
Wherein the infant Life is coffined warm.
Said the first Witch: “I am Lust, the worm that feeds
Upon the buds of love.” The second said:
“I am the tyrant's tyrant, cruel Fear.”
The third: “I am the blight of evil deeds,
The murrain of sick souls;” and in my ear
Whispered a name of paralysing dread.

139

TO SLEEP.

“SLEEP THAT KNITS UP THE RAVELLED SLEAVE OF CARE.”

Come, gentle Sleep, who to the shores of life
Walk'st o'er the waters of death's pulseless deep,
Come, with thy poppies drowse my fluttering brain!
Give me to drink, enchantress, of thy cup:
Not absolute Lethe, but, mingled in love,
Dark dews, to allay the ambrosial quintessence
Of golden consolation and deep rest!

Some say thou art Death's sister. Oh! be now
Mother of Life! Renew thy dewy spell,
To stay the onset of too fiery thoughts
Which vex the soul, and waste, but nought achieve.
Bring in thy train, not Death's blood-chilling brood,
But the deft-fingered daughters of brown health,
To knit the fibres of my ravelled brain.

140

TO MELANCHOLY,

TO RENEW OLD FRIENDSHIP.

1

O Melancholy, thou and I were friends;
But now Despair
Hath dulled thy glimmering hair,
And turned thy heart's rich gloom to his own ends,
Who wast so debonair!

2

Lo! eve's lone star wooes thee from thy ill trance:
Bats with their wings,
All shy twy-natured things,
By owl-light work thy dun deliverance,
While the lulling nightjar sings.

141

3

Then, Melancholy, be my friend again,
Let not Despair
Lay waste thy shadowing hair,
And coldly kill thy heart's voluptuous pain,
Thy lover's love to share.

4

Wander once more upon thy mission holy,
Sing with the sad,
Talk with the moodful mad,
And, in Despair's despite, sweet Melancholy,
Give me—what once I had!

142

AN AUTUMN DAY.

1.

Shrouded comes Autumn walking
Through glimmering woodland and waste,
And with misty breath she quells
The leaves and dreams of Spring.
The robin warbles in dripping glades,
On grassy hillocks the swallows crowd,
Brooding their southward flight.

2.

For the migratory sun
Deserts his northern nest,
In the creeping chill its dying brood
Pines for the warmth of his wing;
And, where harvesters reaped and sang,
The gaunt o'erteemèd Earth
Sees spectres walking amid the sheaves:
Season of visions, hail!

143

TO THE ROBIN.

1

Art thou there, thou dauntless singer,
Robin, art thou there?
Though the Autumn with his wind-flaws
Makes the branches bare.

2

Dauntless there shall Winter find thee,
Even as now thou art,
Pouring songs in such a rapture
From as great a heart!

144

TO HOPE.

1

O gentle Hope, whose shy sweet eyes
Are dearer than the soft blue skies
Of Spring to the o'erwintered earth,
Or to the woods forlorn the first dim violet's birth!
Where shall I find thee?
Wilt thou for ever, in thy wistful flight
After to-morrow's light,
Leave me behind thee?

2

Turn, and from yon far dawnlit shore
Come pacing through the wild uproar
Of the stern sea of wildering waves,
Where trade our mortal barks o'er their unresting graves:
Walk thou, their terror!
The vexèd surge, within whose briny pits
The floating sea-fowl sits,
Shall smile, thy mirror.

145

RAIN.

The kindled clouds loom bright as burning smoke
O'er the vast conflagration of the sky,
Rain in their folds, and inland heavily
Roll o'er the sodden fallows, all a-soak
Under the glowing sunset. Since I woke,
Till now with skirts updrawn sullenly fly
The hosts of gloom, has rain, rain rushing by,
Battered the woodlands with his watery stroke.
In baffled rage, tempestuous melancholy,
Throbs my oppress'd heart, as of one afar
From some last field of death and victory;
Who waits to hear his comrades' onset-volley,
Swordless and sick. What means this ghostly war?
What cause, what cloudy banner summons me?