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THE STORY OF AIBHRIC.
“And at last it happened to them (the swans) that they met
a young man whose name was Aibhric, and his attention was
attracted to them, and their singing was sweet to him, so that
he loved them greatly, and they loved him.”—The Fate of the
Children of Lir.
Five and twenty years of my life were fair,
Five and twenty years;
The red gold-dust lay thick on my beard and hair,
Mine eyes were keener than spears,
And blue as the skies, and I was comely and tall,
The son of a king,
First in battle, in hunting, in bower and hall
(Hark! how the wild swans sing!)
Five and twenty years;
The red gold-dust lay thick on my beard and hair,
Mine eyes were keener than spears,
And blue as the skies, and I was comely and tall,
The son of a king,
First in battle, in hunting, in bower and hall
(Hark! how the wild swans sing!)
Five and twenty years, and my day was at morn,
My life at its June;
Oh, the desolate gloaming, dark and forlorn,
Wet skies and a waning moon!
When I rode down through the reeds by the riverbed,
Weary and faint were we—
The good steed stumbling and hanging the noble head,
The hounds going heavily.
My life at its June;
Oh, the desolate gloaming, dark and forlorn,
Wet skies and a waning moon!
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Weary and faint were we—
The good steed stumbling and hanging the noble head,
The hounds going heavily.
We had been hunting since out in the eastern skies
The dawn fires began;
The stag was king of the herd—he was fearless and wise,
Thrice the age of a man.
We followed by hill, and we followed by forest and brake,
With many a bugle-blast;
And twice he swam through a river and breasted a lake,
While we followed fast.
The dawn fires began;
The stag was king of the herd—he was fearless and wise,
Thrice the age of a man.
We followed by hill, and we followed by forest and brake,
With many a bugle-blast;
And twice he swam through a river and breasted a lake,
While we followed fast.
But now, at the eve, none answered my bugle's call;
Lord and lady were gone
Back to the lighted board in the palace hall—
I was riding alone:
The stag had vanished;—a long, gold gleam in the west
The grey pools mirrored all chill,
And the shrieking water-fowl flew up from the nest,
The wind in the reeds sobbed shrill.
Lord and lady were gone
Back to the lighted board in the palace hall—
I was riding alone:
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The grey pools mirrored all chill,
And the shrieking water-fowl flew up from the nest,
The wind in the reeds sobbed shrill.
Dreary, dreary seemed the place and strange,
The moon was barred with the drifts,
And great cloud-mountains rose stormily, range after range,
And broke into rifts;
An eagle sailed overhead with a flapping wing
And a wild, long cry.
I stayed my horse, and I mused with much questioning,
In what strange country was I.
The moon was barred with the drifts,
And great cloud-mountains rose stormily, range after range,
And broke into rifts;
An eagle sailed overhead with a flapping wing
And a wild, long cry.
I stayed my horse, and I mused with much questioning,
In what strange country was I.
The hounds looked up in my face and shivered with dread,
Then cowered and were still;
Only the moon's wild face, like the face of the dead,
Looked up from each marsh-pool chill;
And the reeds and rushes shook and the wind wailed by,
The flat land stretched on each side,
Down to the grey, sad line of the boding sky,
The gold gleam flickered and died.
Then cowered and were still;
Only the moon's wild face, like the face of the dead,
Looked up from each marsh-pool chill;
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The flat land stretched on each side,
Down to the grey, sad line of the boding sky,
The gold gleam flickered and died.
I said in my heart that the place was a place of bale,
The stag a spirit accursed—
But never my cheek did pale or my courage quail;
What any man dared, I durst.
I patted my trembling horse and spoke to each hound,
And turned me to go;
Hark to the song!—did it rise from the mere or the ground?—
The strange song, subtle and slow.
The stag a spirit accursed—
But never my cheek did pale or my courage quail;
What any man dared, I durst.
I patted my trembling horse and spoke to each hound,
And turned me to go;
Hark to the song!—did it rise from the mere or the ground?—
The strange song, subtle and slow.
The voice was a woman's voice, all passionate fair,
Full of pleading and pain—
Singing, soaring, thrilling the earth and the air,
Falling like golden rain;
Drawing the heart from the breast, and an anguish of tears
From eyes that never had wept.
I stood as one of the dead, and, unknowing of fears,
My pulses a stillness kept.
Full of pleading and pain—
Singing, soaring, thrilling the earth and the air,
Falling like golden rain;
Drawing the heart from the breast, and an anguish of tears
From eyes that never had wept.
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My pulses a stillness kept.
I have heard, when the year and the bonny trees are in bud,
The thrush and the blackbird sing,
With a riotous passion of joy for the youth in their blood,
For the lovely promise of spring;
And the golden voices of radiant ladies I've heard,
And the harps at the board of the king;—
But never sang lady, or harp-string, or singing bird,
As this strange spirit did sing.
The thrush and the blackbird sing,
With a riotous passion of joy for the youth in their blood,
For the lovely promise of spring;
And the golden voices of radiant ladies I've heard,
And the harps at the board of the king;—
But never sang lady, or harp-string, or singing bird,
As this strange spirit did sing.
The voice fell down, and ceased, and the moon outshone;
Nothing to see or hear—
Only four grey swans drifting and drifting on
Over the windy mere.
Swans!—they were swans, yet I swear as I watched them there
Something I seemed to see:
A woman's snowy breast and the glint of gold hair.
Was it but wizardry?
Nothing to see or hear—
Only four grey swans drifting and drifting on
Over the windy mere.
Swans!—they were swans, yet I swear as I watched them there
Something I seemed to see:
A woman's snowy breast and the glint of gold hair.
Was it but wizardry?
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And the winding-sheet of the mist covered moon and star,
As I rode from the evil place
Knowing not whither—as one who in dreams fareth far,
Heedless of time or space;—
Through the dead forest where fairies danced in a ring,
Dreaming still of the song,
Till the horse drew rein in the great courtyard of the king,
In the midst of the throng.
As I rode from the evil place
Knowing not whither—as one who in dreams fareth far,
Heedless of time or space;—
Through the dead forest where fairies danced in a ring,
Dreaming still of the song,
Till the horse drew rein in the great courtyard of the king,
In the midst of the throng.
That night I was silent and strange at the feast and the dance,
My blood ran a-cold,
Nor warmed for the touch of soft hands, or the lovelitten glance
Of radiant eyes, or the gold
Of shadowing hair, or sweet lips troubled with pain,
Or cheeks like the dawn:
The wild voice sang and rang in my heart and brain;
I saw but the swans drift on.
My blood ran a-cold,
Nor warmed for the touch of soft hands, or the lovelitten glance
Of radiant eyes, or the gold
Of shadowing hair, or sweet lips troubled with pain,
Or cheeks like the dawn:
The wild voice sang and rang in my heart and brain;
I saw but the swans drift on.
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And a fevered night and day went by like a snake
That is wounded sore.
At eve I stole by the forest and haunted brake,
Where lost winds wail evermore;
And something led me on by an unknown path
To the lonely mere.
No ripple stirred the water sluggish as death;
The sky was empty and drear.
That is wounded sore.
At eve I stole by the forest and haunted brake,
Where lost winds wail evermore;
And something led me on by an unknown path
To the lonely mere.
No ripple stirred the water sluggish as death;
The sky was empty and drear.
Nor a breath in the reeds, nor the shriek of a startled bird—
Grey death hung over all;
And I would have lifted my voice, but some strange thing stirred
In the gaunt reeds, pallid and tall—
A strange thing, slimy and dark, and it plunged with a cry
To the water below.
The wan stream circled and widened; a night-bird whirred by;
My heart beat heavy and slow.
Grey death hung over all;
And I would have lifted my voice, but some strange thing stirred
In the gaunt reeds, pallid and tall—
A strange thing, slimy and dark, and it plunged with a cry
To the water below.
The wan stream circled and widened; a night-bird whirred by;
My heart beat heavy and slow.
Oh! the passionate voice with its burden of pain;
There is death in the song;
She singeth of battle, of parting, of fair lovers slain,
Of years that are long;
And the wailing of winds o' wild nights in the song I can hear,
And the thunder of waves!—
Nay, I am old, I forget; it is many a year:
My feet are stumbling through graves.
There is death in the song;
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Of years that are long;
And the wailing of winds o' wild nights in the song I can hear,
And the thunder of waves!—
Nay, I am old, I forget; it is many a year:
My feet are stumbling through graves.
The snows of a hundred winters are on my hair;
I was but a boy
When she sang my manhood away—Oh, its dawn was fair!—
And its strength and joy;
And crown, and kingdom, and all that maketh delight,
Were nothing to me,
Who only cared to follow the grey swans' flight
By mere, and river, and sea.
I was but a boy
When she sang my manhood away—Oh, its dawn was fair!—
And its strength and joy;
And crown, and kingdom, and all that maketh delight,
Were nothing to me,
Who only cared to follow the grey swans' flight
By mere, and river, and sea.
I am old and weary—the lost years vanished apace
While I wandered alone,
Forgotten of men, and another reigned in my place
On my father's throne.
My brows grew lined and withered, my blue eyes dim,
And the fair spun gold
Of hair and beard grew greyer; I stiffened in limb;
My life-blood ran cold.
While I wandered alone,
Forgotten of men, and another reigned in my place
On my father's throne.
My brows grew lined and withered, my blue eyes dim,
And the fair spun gold
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My life-blood ran cold.
Then came the Saint—ah! you know it, the rest of the tale!—
How at the sweet bell's song,
Far to the seaward something glimmered all pale,
Surf and breaker among;
And lo! the swans came drifting with broken wings,
The pinions dragging all slow,
And she was singing, singing—hark! how she sings
With a passion of woe!
How at the sweet bell's song,
Far to the seaward something glimmered all pale,
Surf and breaker among;
And lo! the swans came drifting with broken wings,
The pinions dragging all slow,
And she was singing, singing—hark! how she sings
With a passion of woe!
'Twas her own death-song that she sang, as she drifted anear,
The stately throat of her bent;
There was blood on her snowy breast—I could see it clear—
She drifted weary and spent;
And the fierce waves caught them and broke on them, head and limb,
And flung them, dying and faint,
Under the gentle eyes that had waxèd dim,
At the feet of the Saint.
The stately throat of her bent;
There was blood on her snowy breast—I could see it clear—
She drifted weary and spent;
And the fierce waves caught them and broke on them, head and limb,
And flung them, dying and faint,
Under the gentle eyes that had waxèd dim,
At the feet of the Saint.
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Then he to whom God had spoken bent in his place,
And laid on each brow
The life-giving waters;—to him be glory and grace
And heaven now!
At the water's touch, the power that the demon hath
Thralled Christ's children no more,
And lo! four human creatures, wounded to death,
Lay on the wild sea-shore.
And laid on each brow
The life-giving waters;—to him be glory and grace
And heaven now!
At the water's touch, the power that the demon hath
Thralled Christ's children no more,
And lo! four human creatures, wounded to death,
Lay on the wild sea-shore.
And she, all broken, lay 'mid her golden hair,
The blood flowing free
From a terrible wound in her breast; but the face was fair—
The great eyes turned on me
Just for an instant. The good Saint knelt by her side,
His lips with pity made sweet,
And laid the long hair like the golden robe of a bride
Shrouding from head to feet.
The blood flowing free
From a terrible wound in her breast; but the face was fair—
The great eyes turned on me
Just for an instant. The good Saint knelt by her side,
His lips with pity made sweet,
And laid the long hair like the golden robe of a bride
Shrouding from head to feet.
Oh! sweet is her sleep in the earth that the Saint hath blest,
Where she shall not hear
The cruel waves; but the birds will sing her to rest,
And the voices of children dear;
And the wind will chant overhead and the grasses wave
All for her sake
When I die—I am old—I shall sleep by her side in the grave,
And shall not desire to wake.
Where she shall not hear
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And the voices of children dear;
And the wind will chant overhead and the grasses wave
All for her sake
When I die—I am old—I shall sleep by her side in the grave,
And shall not desire to wake.
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