Shamrocks :: :: University of Virginia Library

Feasting and joy in Tara's royal palace.
King Cormac held his daughter's nuptial feast;
Fire on the hearth, and wine in golden chalice,
Laughter and love till day dawned in the east.

The bridal was at noontide of the morrow:—
Spring weds with Winter, June's red rose with snow,
The songs of May with Autumn's wind of sorrow,
Wild midnight with the young day's happy glow!

This was the bridegroom, Fionn, the King of Eire;
Gnarled like an oak, his face like lichened stone,
Sullen and fierce, his red eyes sunk and weary,
Towered o'er all men that giant frame alone.

Like an old tiger that hath lonely lasted
Years after all his kin be turned to clay;
Like a huge tree the thunderbolt hath blasted,
Black and accursed, it stains the face of day.

Yet a great hero—famed in many a story,
Victor on many a bloody field of fight,
But drunk with blood and war, and blind with glory,
And, as men deemed, too old for love's delight.

What of the bride? Oh, like that star in heaven
That cometh when the green west waxeth cold!
To whom would sing her praises should be given
A mouth of silver and a tongue of gold.

The ladies' daïs glittered like a garden—
A bird of Paradise was every one;
And never a dragon stood to keep as warden
Hesperides, this Garden of the Sun.

There in the midst was Grainne, the King's daughter.
Like a clear pearl her pure and pallid face;
Her dreaming eyes were deep as moonlit water;
The proud head poised itself with staglike grace.

Around her, lips were curled in happy laughter,
Young faces flushing like a summer dawn;
She smiled no whit, though cheers rang to the rafter
When her sweet name amid the toasts was drawn.

Around were robes of ruby and of amber,
Sewn with seed-pearls, encrust with many a gem;
Her soft silks shimmered on the floor o' the chamber—
No jewels marred the straight white flow of them,

Save at her girdle, where the diamonds lightened
Like the sea's floor when summer noons are white;
And in her hair's dusk shades the clear flames whitened,
Sparkling anon with rose and sapphire light.

Fair were her damsels, but the Princess fairer.
Now, have you seen some peerless night of June,
How stars be rare until one cometh rarer
Down the mid-heaven, the radiant Lady Moon?

So with my Grainne. Have you seen, moreover,
When the red rose breaks on the summer air?
Straightway she draws each heart to be her lover,
Though many another flower be lovely there.

Lovely is June—oh, lovely and too fleeting!
Birds in her bowers and in her golden eaves.
How passionate the full heart of earth is beating
In this enchanted moon when no bird grieves!

Skimmeth the swallow o'er the ripening meadow,
Soareth the lark to a heaven of blinding blue,
Pipeth the blackbird from the elm tree shadow,
Trilleth the thrush in eves of scent and dew!

But for my Grainne—all her dusk hair flowing
Framed the sweet face as night doth frame a star;
Proudly she heard the song and music going,
Her gaze as one who mused on things afar.

Her face on the long throat was like a lily:
She drooped, then straightened, with a sudden scorn
In the great stormy eyes; anon grown chilly,
She shivered, for the old night waned to morn,

And closer drew her broidered mantle ever—
'Twas gold, with purple iris worked thereon—
Her hands unclasped and clasped with sudden fever;
Around her eyes were languid lines and wan.

Down in the hall the feast was growing older,
And the grey bridegroom slew his slain again,
Toasting his myriads. Had the night turned colder?
Outside the wind wailed like a soul in pain;

The lights burned blue, the bravest there 'gan shiver,
The harpers let the song and music fall;
And still the tale of blood and guilt went ever,
And Fionn's hoarse laughter woke the echoes all.

Even as he pledged the wine bubbled ashen ruddy,
Blood streaked with foam; and many men did say
That Death sat by him like a fleshless body,
Wagging his skull with laughter grim and gay.

And on the threshold was a strange shape lying,
A thing of eld, a woman with grey hair
That veiled her, crouching, and she keened; the crying
Smote heavy on the hearts of listeners there.

I know not—but the hounds were shrilly wailing,
Dark shadows flitted through the gloomy hall,
Up in the hidden roof the bats were sailing,
Strange laughter stirred the banners on the wall.

And when the ill King ceased the lights grew steady,
The harps sang out of love and war once more,
Back to pale cheeks the blood came warm and ruddy,
The hounds slept in the rushes on the floor.

Still through that deadly fear and its cessation
My Grainne stirred not from her proud repose;
Wrapped in the gold and purple of her station,
No terror stole her fever flush of rose.

But her pale lips a scornful smile were keeping,
White lightning in her eyes began to burn,
And storm-wind o'er their passionate depths was sweeping
Till the white lids drooped down in angry scorn.

So leave her—to her bridegroom of to-morrow?
Who knows? Death's hand may beckon him tonight,
Or one be strong as Death to save from sorrow
This golden bird, this lily of living light.

II. Part II. THE MEETING OF DIARMUID AND GRAINNE.

When the dawn's rose was flushing in the east,
Paling the lights and dimming all the feast,
Came to my Grainne's side, and sat him down,
Who but the Druid, Daire, the high-priest.

He, as they gazed, 'gan tell the guests to her,
How this was brave, and that a soothsayer,
And yon a minstrel was of high renown,
And yet another, how his race was fair;

Who answered not, but gazed all hopelessly
Out where the dawn was painting sky and lea.
Far-off she knew blue mountains rent their veil;
She heard a myriad birds from every tree,

And paled. Oh, if the tall hills stood between
Her and this King, and miles of woodland green,
And spreading seas with never a snowy sail,
And pleasant plains, and rivers of sunny sheen!

Was Tir n'an Oge so far?—Oh, might she go
Like that white maid who died in last year's snow,
Whose feet had trodden the enchanted land,
And who, returning, pined to death for woe!

Would she return? Ah no! what mortal love
Could recompense for the great joy thereof?—
The crystal hills, the rivers with jewelled sand,
The golden meads and woods where one might rove

With a bright fairy lover, warm and bold,
Through years that age not, loves that turn not cold—
Beautiful, young for ever, for that sun
Sees an eternal Spring where naught grows old.

Then she woke up from dreams, and sighed full drear,
And heard the old voice crooning at her ear
Of this and that fair deed of many a one;
And so she turned her weary sense to hear.

“My Princess,” said the priest, continuing,
“Look yonder where the lights are in a ring,
And see the flower of all our chivalry,
The Three of whom even now the singers sing.

“Ossian, whose song might wake dead worlds again,
And Oscar, his tall son—a godlike twain,
Valiant and wise, and known from sea to sea
For all that makes white knighthood without stain!”

But she gazed out beyond them eagerly:
“I pray you, reverend priest, who that may be,
The stateliest man of all the world of men,
Yon with the great hound's head upon his knee,

“And the straight brows above a hero's eyes,
And dusky face, and lips where laughter lies,
And hair like midnight over the haunted glen,
Where never a star looks out from eerie skies?

“If one might hear him, how his words were sweet;
Bronzed is he, freckled with many a noon-sun's heat,
The kingliest king the world might ever see,
Clad in gold armour from proud head to feet.”

And Daire: “Diarmuid is the sweet knight's name.
Faithfullest, bravest known to knightly fame;
The truest lover of women on earth is he,
Pledged to his death to save from woe or shame

The meanest kitchen-wench, the poorest maid,
The greyest crone that seeks his great sword's aid;
Whoe'er would work a woman wrong must then
Answer to him, who hath not felt afraid.”

And she held both her hands to still the beat
Of her wild heart, lest any hearken it;
And “Oh, my lord!” she said, “my flower of men!
Long was the night-time, but this day is sweet.”

And still the old man murmured many a tale
Of the knight's prowess; how the widow's wail,
The orphan's cry, would make their cause his cause:
Like the new dawn her face that was so pale.

Oh! the warm flush rose up from chin to hair;
And down amid the great feast's song and glare,
All in a stillness and a sudden pause,
Diarmuid, the knight, looked up and found her fair.

Then did she call her chiefest maiden near,
And drew her down and whispered in her ear,
“Now bring me my gold goblet from my bower;
This night I will some lips shall pledge me here.”

And more none heard save this maid, skillèd well
In all strange lores, and many a magic spell;
Over the wine-cup, fit for a queen's dower,
She shook a phial, and a dark dust fell.

Then poured the wine therein. The cup might hold
Drink for a hundred in its heart of gold;
Its gems were lurid like a serpent's eyes:
'Twas a great wizard fashioned it of old.

My Grainne took the great cup daintily,
Adown the daïs and the hall went she:
There fell a sudden silence of surprise.
She paused before grey Fionn, and bent the knee,

And proffered him the cup; who left his place
And lifted her, and laid his withered face
To hers unshrinking; then, before them all,
He drank, and laughed, and gazed a minute's space

On her sweet eyes. But proudly is she gone
To King and Queen, who drink deep draughts. Anon
She is come down among the knights in hall;
Each drank, and to his neighbour she passed on

But it was said thereafter how the Three
She passed, nor asked to pledge her; verily,
When the deep sleep fell down on each one there,
These were unglamoured, from the witch-spell free.

But all who drank seemed made of carven stone,
So deep their slumbers. As she passed alone
Back, she bent down and kissed the Queen's white hair,
And “Mother,” she said: the word was like a moan.

She was so pale—oh, paler than the dead!—
With her wide, desolate eyes all shadowèd.
She gave the cup to her wise handmaiden,
And through the sleepers came, with drooping head,

Down to the Three, and would have gone to him,
Diarmuid, but tremors seized her, frame and limb;
She saw the lights turn round and sleeping men,
For sight and sense alike were sick and dim.

But a true arm upheld her, and she knew
'Twas Diarmuid's, yet she turned and spake unto
Ossian, “Wilt take and wed me, gentle bard?”
“Nay,” he said; “thou art Fionn's to wed and woo;

And I, his son, who cross not his emprise.”
Then turned she, and to Diarmuid raised her eyes
Love-lit, and held him with that still regard;
Then knelt, and with a storm of sudden cries

She wept: “And thou; one golden summer hour,
Through the blue windows of my maiden bower,
At the great games I saw thee victor crowned,
And my heart gave to thee its rose-red flower,

“Who knew thee not, nor how they named thy name
Until this night. Now, by thy knightly fame,
Take me.” Her heavy hair was on the ground
And o'er his hands and feet. His eyes 'gan flame,

And flamed and lightened all his dusky face,
Who leaned to her and for a minute's space
Looked on her, thinking how all loss were gain
To kiss the lovely eyelids in their place;

Yet forced his gaze from her, and loyally
Urged his allegiance to the King. But she,
“Your bonds—your bonds, my knight!” Like silver rain
Rang through her tears her laughter suddenly.

Yet loyal would he plead, but Oscar spake:
“Now, by thy vows no knight may take and break—
This woman's words can bend thee to her will—
Away, away, before the sleepers wake.”

Then he bent down and swung her from her knee,
And kissed her long, and kissed her passionately,
Held to his heart her face so still and chill;
“Sweet, thou and I together till death!” said he.

III. Part III. THE FLIGHT.

Last night was heavy with many a sign and omen,
The blue corpse-lights were dancing out on the heath,
And the banshee wringing her hands with the wail of a woman,
The voices of air were singing a song of death;
There were fighting men in the midmost sky, when the levin
Tore the wild wrack asunder and sprung on the world;
The brightest star of all slid out of the heaven;
The golden eagle fell dead with his bright wings furled.

Ah woe! and the spreading oak in the palace meadow,
Green and beloved, by lightning was riven and slain;
The spirits that dwelt in its heart of the leafy shadow,
Shrieked o'er the wind as they fled through the night and rain.
The sheeted dead through the palace chambers were straying;
The moon looked through them, the torches flickered and died;
Outside the phantom steeds were champing and neighing,
The phantom hounds were crying the keen outside.

But now was never a cloud in the merry morning:
The dawn's rose-leaves were shed on a yellow sea,
The cock was shrilling blithely his note of warning,
The gossamers were spun on the dewy lea;
There was pleasant lowing of kine, and the sheep were restful;
The young lambs cropped the grass and found it was good;
And the lark was telling a tale of a happy nestful—
His love lay low on earth with her speckled brood.

And who is this that cometh softly and stilly
Out through the postern gate of sweet Grainne's bower?
Is this the white maid of last night with the face of a lily,
This bride like a rose when the sun shines clear after shower?
And, seeing her lover awaits, she is gone to him straightway.
He hath swung himself down by his spears from the battlement's height,
For a warrior may not pass through the women's gate-way,
Silken-foot as a thief that flieth by night.

“Oh, my beloved, dost fear? There is time for returning.
The ruthless King will hunt us down to the death.
Dost thou remember at midnight the banshee's mourning?”
“More than his hatred I fear his loving,” she saith.
“Nay, my beloved, the world hath no faithfuller lover,
And fear and danger are all too heavy to bear.

Kiss me and go, our love and our loving be over:”
She was clasping his hands in a sudden anguish of prayer.

“Rather, dear knight, with thy kind steel save me in slaying:
Dead I return to the King, and in no other wise.”
What could he do but raise her up from her praying?
What could he do but kiss the tears from her eyes?
And Oscar and Ossian are come to speed him at leaving;
And some in the palace are stirring, already awake;
And they say farewell with a passion of loving and grieving,
With hands that are clinging, and hearts most sad for his sake.

And Diarmuid sayeth, “O friends far dearer than brothers,
What could exceed the faithful love we have had,
Since Oscar and I played blithe by the knees of our mothers,
Till we chased the red deer in our manhood, and waxèd glad

With the full fierce joy of the fight, or the eyes of women?
Remember me, O dear friends, in the days that shall be,
When ye play at the games, or stand in the face of foemen,
Or laugh at the feast—then, brothers, remember me.”

Their steeds, so fiery not Fionn or his Fenians might ride them,
Wore golden collars, the loving gifts of a King.
Their eyes were wistful as Grainne tarried beside them,
Stroking their night-black necks like the raven's wing:
They knew the hands that every day to the manger
Brought them the ruddy apples so crisp and sweet;
In their true hearts they guessed at her need and danger,
And whinnied low, and stamped with their eager feet.

They journeyed away and away till the sunset's glowing
Hung o'er Athlone where the Shannon is forded dry;
And they left the steeds, lest the mark of their slight hooves showing
Tell the King's trackers the road they had travelled by.
One passed to east and one to west of the river,
By north and south they fared a different way,
But came together, all grey with foam and a-quiver,
To Tara meadows at dawn of the following day.

At Clonmacnoise he built her a fort of wattles,
Gathered and welded fast by his strong right hand,
That oft had carried the Sacred Standard in battles;
He made her a bed of the soft green moss of the land.
The darkness was round them, the voice of the night-wind sighing;
The wood's brown children softly stirred in their sleep,
And overhead was an eagle wheeling and crying;
The wakeful stars were guarding their slumber deep.

About the time when the yellow moonlight was fading,
And over the east the flush of the dawning crept,
A mighty beast came up through the undergrowth wading,
And thrust his head in Diarmuid's breast as he slept.
'Twas Bran, the hound of the King, ever tireless and ready,
Sent by Oscar to tell of the coming of Fionn;
For he loved my knight with a love enduring and steady:
A dog's true love is good for a man to win.

He was nine feet long from his waving tail to his shoulder;
He stood five feet from his bright brown head to the ground;
No dog at the chase was warier ever or bolder,
By land or sea was never his equal found:
He could bound like a bird in the air, bear the cold and the hunger;
Could swim in the broad blue lakes as the fishes do;
Was soft and tender to creatures weaker and younger,
Old in wisdom, and honest, gentle, and true.

Then Diarmuid woke, and kissed his love in her sleeping.
“Waken, heart of my heart, for the King is here,
And his wrath is only for me; thou art safe in his keeping.”
“With thee I live or I die,” was her answer clear.
She bathed her face in a brooklet, singing and sunny;
She plaited her wealth of hair to a crown for her head;
She cheered the gloom from his heart with her words like honey,
And fed his lips with the wine and the good white bread.

And ate and drank herself, and the hound, moreover,
Who licked her hand, and laid his head on her knee
And gazed at her with the gaze of a faithful lover.
As Diarmuid watched them his eyes were pleasant to see;
For once again he said in his heart that sorrow,
Yea, death itself, were light to bear for her sake;
Though the meshes of doom drew closer now, and to-morrow
Would see him dreaming in night where no day should break.

The army draweth around with a noise like thunder,
The eagle flieth away to quieter skies,
The birds and rabbits and squirrels are frozen with wonder,
The hound gazing up with a questioning look of surprise.
He kissed her lips three times with a wistful sighing—
The King looked on from afar with a face of gloom—
“Sweet was our loving,” he said, “though it led to our dying.”
“Sweet was our loving,” she said, “though our love was our doom.”

They are silent now, with her hidden face in his bosom;
He strokes her hair in a sweetness bitter as death.
They are young, and the trees are heavy with bud and blossom;
They feel the scent of the flowers and the new Spring's breath.
The birds in the laden boughs are songless and sorry,
The faithful hound is bristling with fury and hate,
And lo! the hunters face to face with their quarry,
And lo! the grey King, cold and silent as Fate.

IV. Part IV. DIARMUID'S HEROISM.

As Diarmuid kissed his love three times, the King turned white and red;
And “For those honeyed kisses, my knight, I claim your head,”
He cried from out his army. But even as he spoke,
A mist was creeping up the wooded hollow—
A mist all grey and ghostly, you could not see a span;
The horses loomed like mountains, a giant every man.
It reached the doomèd lovers, and wrapped them like a cloak,
In darkness where no human eye might follow.

And they but drew the closer to meet each other's gaze.
Now, who is this that stands by them, a man of ancient days?
The mist flows from his fingers—he waves them soft and slow;
Above his brows a leaping flame burns redly.

'Tis Angus the Magician—no son of mortal man;
He travels on the pure cold wind, and on the waters wan.
In his palace by the banks of Boyne he knew an hour ago
That his foster son was set in danger deadly.

“Now come ye underneath my cloak, and we will travel far;
Unto my fairy palace I'll steer this magic car.”
But spake my Diarmuid bravely, “Oh, be he King or churl,
No man shall say his fury set me flying;
But take my dear upon your cloak, and tarry for a while
By the banks of lower Shannon, till the early morning smile,
And if I join ye not by then, farewell, my shining pearl;
You shall know your lover stiff and stark is lying.

“Then take her to her father's home, and to her mother dear;
And grieve not for me, sweet heart, if they should slay me here.”

The magic cloak 'gan rise in air, a moment—they are gone,
And he stands alone within his fort of wattles.
There were seven doors set round about, and they were thick and strong.
He heard the blackbird singing his golden matin song;
And he stood up like a pillar, and put his armour on,
Its gold plates dinted with the blows of battles.

He hied him to the first strong door—the army stood around—
Through that thick mist his voice rang out with no uncertain sound:
“Who waits without to capture me?” And Oscar answered clear,
“I am here, and Ossian with me, dear heart's brother;
Come out and pass a free man.” But Diarmuid shook his head:
“And if I should which man of ye for my sake should lie dead?
Oh, better far a thousand deaths, my brothers true and dear;
I shall ope to Fionn himself, not any other.”

And then drew nigh another door; 'twas Cailte answered free,
“Come out to us, O bravest, and we will die for thee.”
“But Fionn would slay each man of ye, your wives and children fair,
And fire and sword would leave your valleys sterile.”
At yet another door he spake, and Conan, brave and true—
“We give the King our hatred, our love we give to you;
Not he, for all his thousand fights, shall hurt a single hair.”
He answered thus: “For me alone the peril.”

The tears were large within his eyes to think how true they were.
He drew anigh another door; McMorrogh's son stood there:
“O Diarmuid, of one clan are we, and by our kith and kin,
Each man of us is yours in heart and body.”
He thanked them well-nigh weeping, and would not open yet.
Without the fifth door Glor's tall son with his Fenian host was set:

“O hero, with the skene and sword we swear to keep thy skin
From pin-prick as from death-wound stark and bloody.”

He only answered, “Noble heart, true friend thy father was;
Is death the kindly token that I should bring, alas?”
He came unto another door; the two Hughs answered him,
“We'll welcome thee with spear-thrust and sharp arrow.”
“Oh, not for fear I turn from ye, dark men that spy and lie,
But Diarmuid of the Love-Spot by more noble hands must die.”
He reached at last the seventh door, and Fionn spake fierce and grim,
“I will cleave thy bones asunder to the marrow.”

Who answered blithely, “By the door at which thou keepest watch
I win my way to freedom;” his hand was on the latch.

Said Fionn to his battalions: “If he go safe and well,
To-morrow shall your headless trunks be bleeding.”
Then Diarmuid, with an airy bound exceeding light and high,
Swung by his javelins and his spears a bird's flight to the sky,
And passed out o'er that door and host, whose eyes, sealed by a spell,
Watched the eyrie while the eagle far was speeding.

He found his love before the night, where in a cavern rude
A great wild boar hung roasting before a fire of wood;
And Grainne's life had nigh fled out with joy to see him there,
Her knight and true love safe and glad and living.
That night they slumbered sweetly, but ere the dawn of day
Good Angus rose up warily to speed him on his way.
The cock crew, and the east was grey, the old moon waned in air,
While yet this cunning counsel he was giving:

“Before I go, my lovers, this warning take from me—
Seek refuge not nor shelter in a single-trunkèd tree
With but a single opening, or a cave with but one door,
Or an island of the sea with single channel:
Wherever you shall cook your meal you shall not stay to eat,
Nor sleep where you have eaten, but still with tireless feet
Lie down afar and wake afar from the place you slept before.”
They writ it down within their memory's annal.

As they went on by Shannon, a giant youth there came
From westward o'er the wild moor, and Muadhan was his name,
And proffered them true service. He was so strong and tall,
He bare them both across the swollen river.
He watched while they were sleeping; and, fishing in the weir,
He caught the rose-red salmon to make them royal cheer;

Brought down the wild bird flying, and the greatest stag of all,
With the keen unerring arrows from his quiver.

Then came the dread Green Fenians, with twice a thousand men,
And ships, and skenes, and horses, and chieftains eight times ten,
And three great chiefs above them; and three great hounds had they
Whose throats belched fire—the ban-dogs of the devil:
No fire would burn, or water drown, or deadly weapon wound;
Red skins like molten iron encased each hideous hound.
Their reeking jaws were bloody; most fearful was their bay;
Black slime was pendulous from their lips of evil.

And of that gallant army, by skene or strategy,
My Diarmuid slew three-quarters, or drowned them in the sea.
Like a hawk among the sparrows, a wolf amid the fold,
He hewed their beautiful glittering mail asunder;

He bound the great Green chieftains, so none could give relief,
And left the three in torture, and left the three in grief,
And passed away uninjured, for links and chains of gold
Held to the rock the furious hounds of wonder.

V. Part V. THEIR FURTHER ADVENTURES.

Then, while the clansmen stood all helpless by,
And the bound chieftains writhed in despair,
Thither came Deirdre, the King's messenger,
Flying o'er hilltops and the mountains high,
Like the swift blast of a pure wind at play,
Or like a swallow on an April day.

Who wrung her hands, beholding, for she knew
That in all Erin from green sea to sea,
None could release them save the glorious Three
Unto themselves and to each other true;
Whose love, exceeding great through good and ill,
Held them as one man with a single will.

Then she bade set the hounds free, and they sped,
Coursing with jaws still wet with young fawn's blood,
On like a torrent, till in that green wood,
In a cave's heart, they found the hero's bed,
And rent it, and next morn at break of day,
Lo! the tired quarry, faint but fierce at bay.

And Diarmuid slew the great beasts, and despair
Fell on the King's men, and those chiefs he bound
Died of their bonds, and in green-sodded ground
Fionn buried them, and writ the Ogham there;
And went henceforth most heavy in heart and sore,
And thirsted for the knight's death more and more.

There was a quicken-tree that had strange power:
He who should eat three berries of that tree
Henceforth from pain and sickness should go free;
Eating thereof, the old regained youth's flower;
Like the red wine it gladdened, or rich mead.
'Twas a great race of wizards sowed that seed.

Terrible was the giant who kept guard
Over that tree—a son of wicked Cam,
Crooked-tusked, red-eyed, horned like a ram,

Holding all evil magic in his ward,
So he was proof 'gainst water, sword, or brand;
Round his swart body was an iron band.

Right in the midst of his black face was set
One wicked eye: a club hung by his side;
And it was said three blows upon his hide
From that same club would overthrow him yet.
In the top branches all night would he stay,
And pace around the tall tree all the day.

Miles of the land he had made desolate;
Fionn and his Fenians dare not hunting go
Into the wardship of this evil foe.
But Diarmuid's hunting-booth stood by his gate;
And Diarmuid chased the tall red deer a-foot,
With never a wish to taste that magic fruit.

There was a clan owed eric unto Fionn,
And he would have of them my hero's head,
Or else a handful of the berries red;

And the two chiefs who sought his peace to win,
Following my Diarmuid, combated with him,
Who overthrew and bound them limb by limb.

But when his lady took a sick desire
To taste the tree, he would not say her “Nay:”
So he came walking where the giant lay,
And touched him with his foot and woke his ire.
Lo! the great bulk rose up a mountain high,
And the great roar of anger shook the sky

So that the birds fell. Then the giant's stroke
Struck down the knight, who staggered to his knee,
Though the shield sheltered him; but speedily
He sprung, and clasped that body like an oak,
And twisted round the strong band's iron girth;
And he and that fierce warrior rolled to earth.

But Diarmuid clutched the club with a dead man's hold—
He was above—their struggles shook the ground;
Locked like young bulls, the mountains miles around
Echoed the roars that turned the land's heart cold;
The dust they raised hung three days in the air;
The giant's heels scooped out a valley there.

But with a swing that club did Diarmuid take,
And beat upon his brains and scattered them:
In a great grave beside the tree's slight stem
He laid that bulk with speed for Grainne's sake,
Lest she should see it lying so, and quail
In all her woman's heart, and ail and fail.

And brought her then, and gathered the red fruit
To please her; and those knights he had o'erthrown
He brought likewise, and drew the branches down,
And bade them take what now might win their suit.
“Take them to Fionn,” he said, “and spare my head,
And for my foes be henceforth friends instead.”

But those two warriors, coming then to Fionn,
Deceived him not, for well he knew whose deed
Had rid him of that monster and his breed,
And he forgave not them their tribal sin;
But gathered round his army speedily,
And marched in haste to find that quicken-tree.

And, coming, saw not Diarmuid and his love;
High in the tree-top, in the giant's lair,
They were in hiding, and the day was fair,

And hot and strong the noon-day sun above;
So he encamped, and round the army lay,
While with his knights at chess the King would play.

And Diarmuid, leaning, watched the game he loved,
And saw that Ossian paused with puzzled frown;
Then from his height he flung a berry down
To mark which way the chessmen should be moved;
And Fionn looked up, and mocked and called his name,
Crying, “Come down and judge for us the game.”

And so three times, and grew the great King's wrath,
His restless fingers trifled with his sword;
For every time the berry struck the board
He lost that game. “What skill our Ossian hath,
When Oscar this and that way guides,” said he,
“And Diarmuid prompts him from the quickentree!”

Then Diarmuid grew defiant, being at bay,
And rose and took his lady, sweet and tall,
And kissed her lips three times before them all.

But the King, seeing, mocked no more that day.
“Twice have my seven battalions seen,” he said,
“Now and before, but thou shalt lose thy head.”

He set four hundred in a standing ring
About the tree, that none should pass their hands,
And offered with reward of men and lands
To whoso should ascend, and slay, and bring
That slain head down, his armour and his sword,
And a chief's place by field and council-board.

Then there were nine tall brothers standing by,
Whose father Diarmuid's slew, and they would go
And seek to take his head, avenging so
That ancient wrong. The first clomb speedily.
But Angus in his fairy home had heard
The tidings from a small white singing bird.

And on the east wind he came sailing fast,
And lighted by the twain in the tree-top,
And looked and saw that daring knight come up,
And gave him Diarmuid's shape, and him down cast;
Then as he fell Fionn's hirelings ran full fleet
And beat his brains out at their master's feet.

But, being dead, his own shape came again,
And there was grief to see what they had done.
Then with more fury went the second one
On his ill quest, and in like wise was slain;
So the King's men slew all the noble nine,
And ended mournfully that ancient line.

Then Angus carried Grainne by his art
Far from that place; and Diarmuid, wild to see
All that were slain for him, wept bitterly,
With death and desolation in his heart.
“I will come down to thee, O King,” he said;
“Slay me to-morrow or to-day instead;

“I care not, seeing I stand so much alone;
A man has need of comrade men, and friends
Foes have I many since to serve thine ends
And guard thee I have slain full many a one:
And my love's heart is soft and slight to bear
My manhood up; I shall grow soft like her.”

Then Oscar stood before the King's dark frown:
“Let him go free—he well hath won his wife;
Thou hast no knight his equal, and this life

Will go for his if he comes bravely down.”
And he called softly up the quicken-tree,
“Come, then, dear brother, Oscar stands with thee.”

And more reproaches cast he to the King,
Whose knights caught up their shining skenes to hear,
And gathered dark-browed. Flew through air his spear,
Its sharp cry like the night-wind's flying wing,
Or like the roaring waters rushing on
Over the black brows of a wall of stone.

But Fionn was sad and silent, and the swords
Fell from fierce hands, and meanwhile Diarmuid passed
Out by his spears perhaps an arrow's cast
Beyond that host, and heard there Oscar's words,
And watched him coming sad and sorrowfully
Out from those knights he never more might see.

Who came where Diarmuid was, and kissed his cheek
And hand-in-hand they went with drooping head,
For each true manly heart was heavy as lead,
And only once that hour did Oscar speak:
“Mighty is Fionn, and wise, invincible;”
And Diarmuid, “Brother, thou hast spoken well.”

The mountain ash.

Compensation, under the Brehon laws, for crime or injury done.

VI. Part VI. THEIR HAPPY WEDDED LIFE.

But when the troubled years were done,
Forgotten like a dream that's over,
There came a time of summer sun
For lady and for lover.

A rose of dawn for midnight's dark,
And tears and sighs made way for smiling;
And over all the singing lark,
And the blackbird's song beguiling.

Beside a tranquil summer lake
They built themselves a stately palace;
There quivering reeds and rushes shake,
And floats the lily's chalice.

The water was an earth-bound sky,
The sailing swans were queens enchanted,
And by her sister butterfly
The yellow iris flaunted.

The kine were lowing on the sward,
The sheep were browsing in the shadow;
The summer breathings scarcely stirred
The grey-brown ripening meadow.

The blue hills loomed through silver veils,
The green woods dreamed beside a river;
And hither came the nightingales
That now are fled for ever.

And as the tranquil years went on,
To this bright palace by the water,
There came four times a sturdy son,
And once a little daughter.

And Oscar dwelt in quiet here,
Though many a maid afar was pining,
Thinking her skies were strange and drear
Without that bright star's shining.

The King had taken another wife,
And lulled to sleep his ancient madness;
No echoes of the far world's strife
Disturbed this vale of gladness.

And thither Ossian often came—
His place set high above the table—
When halls were thronged with knight and dame,
And steeds were in the stable.

And also flocked the honey-throats,
The bards whom all men honoured greatly;
They rowed the lake in swift-winged boats
With purple awnings stately;

And paced beneath the drooping trees,
Rehearsing songs of love and battle
That troubled sore the labouring bees,
And frighted drowsy cattle.

And there were contests of the bards,
And splendid games at ball and hurly,
And chasing the red forest herds
All in the morning early.

When winter brought the firelit nights
Who sorrowed for the summer glories,
Hearing the senachies recite
Their ancient marvellous stories?

And lovely was the wedded life,
For sixteen years unclouded over,
Of noble husband, tender wife,
Each still the constant lover.

They loved as in that hour's surprise,
When, with a sudden flush and quiver,
Each looked to meet the other's eyes
And knew they loved for ever.

They loved as in those days of old,
When Death was with them night and morning—
Upon their eyes his breathings cold,
Within their ears his warning.

For trust gave love his perfect part;
And Grainne's matron-brows were noble;
And each was greater, soul and heart,
For all the bygone trouble.

Story-tellers.

VII. Part VII. THE DEATH OF DIARMUID.

It came on the last night of the old year.
As Diarmuid in Rath Grainne lay a-sleeping
He heard the distant baying of a hound,
And rose and took his armour and his spear,
Dazed in his mind, and all his pulses leaping,
And would have sallied forth to find that sound.

For the voice drew him with resistless might,
Tugged at his heart-strings, so his feet must follow,
Although the evil demons walked abroad,
And in the stormy wilderness of night
Leaped the blue lightning from her caverns hollow
Into the quivering lake;—the world was awed.

But Grainne woke, and seeing him paled and said,
“Love, go thou safely,” and broke down in weeping,
Knowing the wizards of the quicken-tree
Hated him, and long since had struck him dead,
Only great Angus held him in safe keeping;
And now she knew their arts and sorcery.

So she imprisoned him with tender arms;
And as he slept, again the hound's voice crying
Fainter and farther, and at last the dawn,
Windy and red, and rain-clouds fled in swarms;
And he arose, and kissed her calmly lying,
And went, for still with might his heart was drawn.

He took his armour, and his fierce small spear,
And led his favourite hound that followed after—
Down in the west there hung a tarrying star—
And reached at last a mountain, stark and drear,
And on its peak, lo! Fionn with mocking laughter,
And the fierce gibes one well had slain him for.

And Diarmuid held his peace nor answered back,
Though, seeing the snare, with rage his heart was burning;
But asked whose hunting dog it was that bayed.
And Fionn, “Ben Gulban's boar we chase and track,
And thirty Fenians he hath tusked since morning;
Wilt thou not slay him, or art thou afraid?”

Now, fearful was the wild boar of the hill—
No honest beast, but so transformed from human;
Whom Diarmuid's father slew long years ago.

And 'twas foretold that Diarmuid he should kill;
They were the two sons of the selfsame woman,
And the same hour should give them their death-blow.

But Diarmuid sware to Angus in his youth
Never to fight the boar in all his fighting,
And kept that oath; but now he must forget
And face the beast for glory or for ruth,
Or go henceforth with coward in fiery writing
Bit in his name that was so stainless yet.

And Fionn still mocking, “It is time to go.
See the boar comes, and all the Fenians flying;
Let us leave him the mountain-top, my knight.”
And Diarmuid, “Nay, since thou hast trapped me so,
I bide the end for living or for dying;
But give me Bran to help me in the fight.”

And the King would not, for he said the hound
Had fought the boar too often, unavailing
His skill and strength to match that savage wrath.
Saying, he went his ways, and all around
Was nought to see except the curlew sailing,
And lonely, lonely was the mountain path.

Then came the boar, his foes dispersed and slain,
Snorting and rushing blindly here and thither.
And Diarmuid loosed his hound that was so brave;
But the dog shrieked as one in mortal pain,
And fled in terror so he knew not whither,
And stumbling fell—the torrent was his grave.

Then Diarmuid cast his javelin, strong and true,
That struck the boar, but, from his forehead glancing,
Left him unscathed, and he raised his head
And saw who fought with him; and fury flew
From his small fiery eyes, and swift advancing
He would have rent him with his tusks stained red.

But the knight sprang on him and clasped him round;
And up and down the mountain, the boar dashing
Sought to relieve him of that hated girth;
And cast him in the end on rocky ground,
And tore him, trampling with his feet, and gashing
The fairest body ever born on earth.

And would have fled, but Diarmuid cast his spear
Cleaving the forehead, so were slain together
Sons of one mother, as the warning told.

Then Diarmuid turned to dying without fear,
And saw his life-blood staining the sweet heather,
And agonized, his lower limbs grown cold.

Thither came Fionn then with his chivalry,
And felt no ruth, but evil gladness showing,
Wagged with his head—“It likes me well thy plight:
Would that the women of Erin now might see
The beauty that set hearts afire and glowing
Turned into loathing. Thou art done, my knight.”

“Nevertheless, O Fionn,” said Diarmuid then,
“Thyself couldst heal me if it were thy pleasure.”
“Heal thee!” said Fionn; “as soon might heal the dead.”
“Canst thou not bring new life to dying men,”
Said Diarmuid, “if they drink thy two palms' measure
Of crystal water from the full well-head?”

“Hast thou deserved life-giving drink of me?”
Said Fionn. And Diarmuid, “Yea; dost thou remember
When thy foes sought to burn thee in thy house,

And the flames rose and would have roasted thee,
But I dashed through and quenched both fire and ember,
And slew my fifty whilst thou didst carouse?

“Thou wouldst have halved for me thy kingdom fair
If I had asked that night. And think, moreover,
When by his magic Colgan's son made fast
Thy feet to earth, and the sword touched thy hair
And pricked thy neck, but I thy knight and lover
Coming o'erthrew thy foes ere night was past:

“And brought their heads to thee, and their gold cup,
And touched thy feet with King's blood, so defeating
The magic's power, and set thy body free.
If I had asked that night when we did sup
Pearls in my drink and rubies for my eating,
Thy crown had gone ungemmed to pleasure me.”

And then he wandered, being near to die,
And his dry lips foam-flaked began to mutter
Strange soothsaying of what the years would bring.

“Death and defeat; the Fenians fly, they fly
In the lost battle, and their white lips utter
Thy name with wrath and cursing, ruthless king.

“Oscar and Ossian—'tis for you my grief,
And Erin's widowed wives and childless mothers.
Ossian shall live to see it, and much more;
But Oscar shall be slain with many a chief;
And sons hate sires, and brothers war with brothers;
And thou, O Fionn, that day, shalt miss me sore!”

Then Oscar raised his sword and threatened Fionn:
“Bring him the draught, or I will slay thee surely.”
And the knights groaned, their faces dark with gloom.
There was a small well, crystal-clear and thin;
A mile o'erhead the lark was singing purely;
The trodden heather yielded rich perfume.

Fionn came with lagging feet and loathing will,
And his thin lips drawn down in rage and cunning;
Took the white water in his joined palms bare,

And turned, but thought on Grainne, and let spill;
And at the sight of that sweet draught downrunning,
With a loud roar his knights had slain him there.

But Diarmuid cried aloud in pangs of death,
And the King went again, and took the water
That bubbled now rose-red between his hands,
And came half-way, and stopped, and caught his breath,
And thought once more upon King Cormac's daughter;
Fell the clear draught again on arid sands.

Which Diarmuid seeing heaved a terrible sigh,
And Oscar sware, “Now, by my sword and dagger,
Spill it again and I shall strike thee dead.”
Then went the King and raised the water high—
'Twas cold and grey—and came, and seemed to stagger,
And Diarmuid longing lifted his dear head,

And thrust his lips out, but fell back again
Lifeless and stark—the great soul fled for ever.
Then Oscar raised his voice in bitterness,

And the whole company of Fenian men,
Crying three times, made all the mountains shiver,
And the bare sky to echo their distress.

But Fionn, “Peace, peace! the man is dead being dead;
A true knight and a brave one;” and went speedy
Lest Angus come with vengeance in his heart.
And Oscar knelt and raised the dusky head,
And kissed the bearded lips with lips unsteady,
And Ossian too, and neither would depart,

Till they had laid their yellow cloaks beneath
And over him, and left him in Bran's keeping.
All day the faithful hound lay by his side,
Nose set on paws, and mourned that woeful death;
And overhead the hungry vultures sweeping
Knew him, and fled, and flapped their wings, and cried.

But Grainne, hearing, gathered round her knees
His sons and hers, and the one little daughter,
And wept with them in grieving heavy and sore,

Recounting his brave deeds by lands and seas,
And all the full deliverance he had brought her,
And bade them nurse their vengeance evermore

Till the time came. And to his eldest son
She gave his sword, and girt it round his body;
And to the next, Ga Dearg, his faithful spear;
And to the third, his armour to put on;
And to the fourth, his shield all stained and bloody;
But only kissed his little daughter dear.

And Angus knew that hour, and hither sped
On the cold wind, and wrung his hands with wailing:
“O bright-faced one, O son, art thou laid low?
Last night I watched thee not, and thou art dead;
And all my lifelong guard was unavailing
To keep thee from thy treacherous, evil foe.”

And shrieked three times, so that the shriek did fill
The waste world of the clouds, and the wild heaven,
And the sea islands, and the greenwood seas;

And valley, and forest, and the highest hill
Reeled at that sound that rung from morn to even,
Blown on all airs and borne on every breeze.

“I cannot give thee life, son,” whispered he,
“But I will heal thy gaping wounds, and bear thee
To my bright house, and on a golden bed
Thou'lt lie, and every day I'll breathe on thee
Life for an hour; thou'lt speak, and I shall hear thee—
We two together till the world is dead.”

Through the dusk gloaming came a golden bier,
Borne by four eagles whose wide wings were golden,
And hovering lit the startled evening grey;
And took the good knight with crossed sword and spear,
And sailed away; and never of man beholden
Was Angus or my Diarmuid from that day.

Now Benbulbin, a mountain in Sligo.