The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere

‘My Oscar stared upon his wounds;
To fields long past his thoughts took flight:
“My son,” I cried, “thou hadst not died
If Fionn had ruled the fight!”

‘O Patrick! I have sung thee lays,
Emprize of others, or my own;
Where he was bravest all were brave;
But his, and his alone,

‘The gracious ways, the voice that smiled,
The heart so loving and so strong:
The women laughed to hear my harp;
They wept at Oscar's song!

‘All night we watched the dying man:
To staunch his blood we strove in vain:
We heard the demon-loaded wind
Along the mountain strain.

‘All night we propped him with our spears:
To staunch his blood we strove in vain;
Till, drenched in falling floods, the moon
Went down beyond the plain.

175

‘Alas! the dawning of that morn,
My Oscar's last! With barren glare
It flashed along the broken arms
And the red pools here and there.

‘Then saw we, pacing from afar,
A kingly form, a shape of woe:
King Fionn it was that toward us moved
With measured footsteps slow:

‘King Fionn himself; and far behind
Came many warriors more of Fail,
Down-gazing on Baoignè's clan
Death-cold, and still, and pale.

‘There lay all dumb the men of might:
There, foot to foot, the foemen, strewn
Like seaweed lines on stormy shores,
Or forests overblown!

‘O! then to hear that cry far borne
On gales new-touched with morning frost!
As though he heard it not, the king
Came, striding o'er that host,

‘Seeking the bodies of his sons:
So on he strode through fog and mist;
And we to meet him moved; for now
That Fionn it was we wist.

‘“All hail to thee, King Fionn! all hail!”
He answered naught, but onward passed
Until he reached that spot where lay
My Oscar sinking fast.

176

‘“Late, late thou com'st: yet thou art here:”
Then answered Fionn, “Alas the day!
My reign is done since thou art gone,
And all this host is clay.”

‘My Oscar gazed upon his face:
He heard the words his grandsire said:
He heard, nor spake: his hand down fell
And his great spirit fled.

‘Then all the warriors, far and near,
Save one that wept, and Fionn, my sire,
Three times upraised a cry that rang
O'er all the land of Eire.

‘Fionn turned from us his face that hour:
We knew that tears adown it crept:
Never, except for Bran his hound,
The king till then had wept.

‘He shed no tear above his son;
Tearless he saw his brother die:
He wept to see my Oscar dead
And the warriors weeping nigh.

‘This is the tale of Gahbra's fight,
Where all the monarchs warred on one;
Where they that wrecked him shared his fate,
And Erin's day was done.

‘On Gahbra's field the curse came down:
Our voice is changed from that of men:
We sigh by night: we sigh by day:
We learned that lesson then.

177

‘O! many a prince was laid that day
In narrow cairn and lonely cave;
But all the far-famed Rath thenceforth
Became my Oscar's grave!

‘Patrick, I pray the Lord of Life—
Patrick, do thou His grace implore—
That death may still my heart ere long:
This night my pain is sore.’

University of Virginia Library

II. THE DEATH OF OSCAR.