 | With the Wild Geese |  |
33
THE DESMOND WAR
35
DIRGE OF THE MUNSTER FOREST. 1581
Bring out the hemlock! bring the funeral yew!
The faithful ivy that doth all enfold;
Heap high the rocks, the patient brown earth strew,
And cover them against the numbing cold.
Marshal my retinue of bird and beast,
Wren, titmouse, robin, birds of every hue;
Let none keep back, no, not the very least,
Nor fox, nor deer, nor tiny nibbling crew,
Only bid one of all my forest clan
Keep far from us on this our funeral day.
On the grey wolf I lay my sovereign ban,
The great grey wolf who scrapes the earth away;
Lest, with hooked claw and furious hunger, he
Lay bare my dead for gloating foes to see—
Lay bare my dead, who died, and died for me.
The faithful ivy that doth all enfold;
Heap high the rocks, the patient brown earth strew,
And cover them against the numbing cold.
Marshal my retinue of bird and beast,
Wren, titmouse, robin, birds of every hue;
Let none keep back, no, not the very least,
Nor fox, nor deer, nor tiny nibbling crew,
Only bid one of all my forest clan
Keep far from us on this our funeral day.
36
The great grey wolf who scrapes the earth away;
Lest, with hooked claw and furious hunger, he
Lay bare my dead for gloating foes to see—
Lay bare my dead, who died, and died for me.
For I must shortly die as they have died,
And lo! my doom stands yoked and linked with theirs;
The axe is sharpened to cut down my pride:
I pass, I die, and leave no natural heirs.
Soon shall my sylvan coronals be cast;
My hidden sanctuaries, my secret ways,
Naked must stand to the rebellious blast;
No Spring shall quicken what this Autumn slays.
Therefore, while still I keep my russet crown,
I summon all my lieges to the feast.
Hither, ye flutterers! black, or pied, or brown;
Hither, ye furred ones! Hither every beast!
Only to one of all my forest clan
I cry, “Avaunt! Our mourning revels flee!”
On the grey wolf I lay my sovereign ban,
The great grey wolf with scraping claws, lest he
Lay bare my dead for gloating foes to see—
Lay bare my dead, who died, and died for me.
And lo! my doom stands yoked and linked with theirs;
The axe is sharpened to cut down my pride:
I pass, I die, and leave no natural heirs.
Soon shall my sylvan coronals be cast;
My hidden sanctuaries, my secret ways,
Naked must stand to the rebellious blast;
No Spring shall quicken what this Autumn slays.
Therefore, while still I keep my russet crown,
I summon all my lieges to the feast.
37
Hither, ye furred ones! Hither every beast!
Only to one of all my forest clan
I cry, “Avaunt! Our mourning revels flee!”
On the grey wolf I lay my sovereign ban,
The great grey wolf with scraping claws, lest he
Lay bare my dead for gloating foes to see—
Lay bare my dead, who died, and died for me.
38
DIRGE FOR ALL IRELAND. 1581
Fall gently, pitying rains! Come slowly, Spring!
Ah, slower, slower yet! No notes of glee,
No minstrelsy! Nay, not one bird must sing
His challenge to the season. See, oh see!
Lo, where she lies,
Dead with wide-open eyes,
Unsheltered from the skies,
Alone, unmarked, she lies!
Then, sorrow, flow;
And ye, dull hearts, that brook to see her so.
Depart! go! go!
Depart, dull hearts, and leave us to our woe.
Ah, slower, slower yet! No notes of glee,
No minstrelsy! Nay, not one bird must sing
His challenge to the season. See, oh see!
Lo, where she lies,
Dead with wide-open eyes,
Unsheltered from the skies,
Alone, unmarked, she lies!
Then, sorrow, flow;
39
Depart! go! go!
Depart, dull hearts, and leave us to our woe.
Drop, forest, drop your sad accusing tears,
Send your soft rills adown the silent glades,
Where yet the pensive yew its branches rears,
Where yet no axe affronts the decent shades.
Pronounce her bitter woe,
Denounce her furious foe,
Her piteous story show,
That all may know.
Then quickly call
Your young leaves. Bid them from their stations tall
Fall! fall! fall! fall!
Till of their green they weave her funeral pall.
Send your soft rills adown the silent glades,
Where yet the pensive yew its branches rears,
Where yet no axe affronts the decent shades.
Pronounce her bitter woe,
Denounce her furious foe,
Her piteous story show,
That all may know.
Then quickly call
Your young leaves. Bid them from their stations tall
Fall! fall! fall! fall!
Till of their green they weave her funeral pall.
40
And ye, cold waves, who guard that western slope,
Show no white crowns. This is no time to wear
The livery of Hope. We have no hope.
Blackness and leaden greys befit despair
Roll past that open grave,
And let thy billows lave
Her whom they could not save.
Then open wide
Your western arms, to where the rain-clouds bide,
And hide! hide! hide!
Let none discern the spot where she hath died.
Show no white crowns. This is no time to wear
The livery of Hope. We have no hope.
Blackness and leaden greys befit despair
Roll past that open grave,
And let thy billows lave
Her whom they could not save.
Then open wide
Your western arms, to where the rain-clouds bide,
And hide! hide! hide!
Let none discern the spot where she hath died.
| With the Wild Geese | |