University of Virginia Library

previous section Poems and Dramas by "Fiona MacLeod" (William Sharp)
next section
101

FOAM OF THE PAST

I

103

FOAM OF THE PAST TO W. B. YEATS
110

LEAVES, SHADOWS, AND DREAMS

I have seen all things pass and all men go
Under the shadow of the drifting leaf:
Green leaf, red leaf, brown leaf,
Grey leaf blown to and fro.
Blown to and fro.
I have seen happy dreams rise up and pass
Silent and swift as shadows on the grass:
Grey shadows of old dreams,
Grey beauty of old dreams,
Grey shadows in the grass.
111

THE LAMENT OF IAN THE PROUD

What is this crying that I hear in the wind?
Is it the old sorrow and the old grief?
Or is it a new thing coming, a whirling leaf
About the grey hair of me who am weary and blind?
I know not what it is, but on the moor above the shore
There is a stone which the purple nets of the heather bind,
And thereon is writ: She will return no more.
O blown whirling leaf,
And the old grief,
And wind crying to me who am old and blind!
112

DEIRDRÊ IS DEAD ...

“Deirdrê the beautiful is dead ... is dead!”
(The House of Usna)

The grey wind weeps, the grey wind weeps, the grey wind weeps:
Dust on her breast, dust on her eyes, the grey wind weeps!
Cold, cold it is under the brown sod, and cold under the grey grass;
Here only the wet wind and the flittermice and the plovers pass:
I wonder if the wailing birds, and the soft hair-covered things
Of the air, and the grey wind hear what sighing song she sings
Down in the quiet hollow where the coiled twilights of hair
Are gathered into the darkness that broods on her bosom bare?
113

It is said that the dead sing, though we have no ears to hear,
And that whoso lists is lickt up of the Shadow, too, because of fear—
But this would give me no fear, that I heard a sighing song from her lips:
No, but as the green heart of an upthrust towering billow slips
Down into the green hollow of the ingathering wave,
So would I slip, and sink, and drown, in her grassy grave.
For is not my desire there, hidden away under the cloudy night
Of her long hair that was my valley of whispers and delight—
And in her two white hands, like still swans on a frozen lake,
Hath she not my heart that I have hidden there for dear love's sake?
Alas, there is no sighing song, no breath in the silence there:
Not even the white moth that loves death flits through her hair
114

As the bird of Brigid, made of foam and the pale moonwhite wine
Of dreams, flits under the sombre windless plumes of the pine.
I hear a voice crying, crying, crying: is it the wind
I hear, crying its old weary cry time out of mind?
The grey wind weeps, the grey wind weeps, the grey wind weeps:
Dust on her breast, dust on her eyes, the grey wind weeps!
115

HEART O' BEAUTY

O where are thy white hands, Heart o' Beauty?
Heart o' Beauty!
They are as white foam on the swept sands,
Heart o' Beauty!
They are as white swans i' the dusk, thy white hands,
Wild swans in flight over shadowy lands,
Heart o' Beauty!
O lift again thy white hands, Heart o' Beauty,
Heart o' Beauty!
Harp to the white waves on the yellow sands,
Heart o' Beauty!
They will hearken now to these waving wands,
To the magic wands of thy white hands,
Heart o' Beauty!
From the white dawn till the grey dusk,
Heart o' Beauty!
I hear the unseen waves of unseen strands,
Heart o' Beauty!
116

I see the sun rise and set over shadowy lands,
But never, never, never thy white hands, thy white hands,
Heart o' Beauty!
117

THE MONODY OF ISLA THE SINGER

“Like Bells on the wind ...”

Is it time to let the Hour rise and go forth as a hound loosed from the battle-cars?
Is it time to let the Hour go forth, as the White Hounds with the eyes of flame?
For if it be not time I would have this hour that is left to me under the stars
Wherein I may dream my dream again, and at the last whisper one name.
It is the name of one who was more fair than youth to the old, than life to the young:
She was more fair than the first love of Angus the Beautiful, and though I were blind
And deaf for a hundred ages I would see her, more fair than any poet has sung,
And hear her voice like mournful bells crying on the wind.
118

WHITE-HANDS

O where in the north, or where in the south, or where in the east or west
Is she who hath the flower-white hands and the swandown breast?
O, if she be west, or east she be, or in the north or south,
A sword will leap, a horse will prance, ere I win to Honey-Mouth.
She has great eyes, like the doe on the hill, and warm and sweet she is,
O, come to me, Honey-Mouth, bend to me, Honey-Mouth, give me thy kiss!
White-Hands her name is, where she reigns amid the princes fair:
White hands she moves like swimming swans athrough her dusk-wave hair:
White hands she puts about my heart, white hands fan up my breath:
White hands take out the heart of me, and grant me life or death!
119

White hands make better songs than hymns, white hands are young and sweet:
O, a sword for me, O Honey-Mouth, and a war-horse fleet!
O wild sweet eyes! O glad wild eyes! O mouth, how sweet it is!
O, come to me, Honey-Mouth! bend to me, Honey-Mouth! give me thy kiss!
120

THE DESIRE AND THE LAMENTATION OF COEL

(The noise of harps and tympans. From the wood comes the loud chanting voice of Coel):
O, 'tis a good house, and a palace fair, the Dûn of Macha,
And happy with a great household is Macha there:
Druids she has, and bards, minstrels, harpers, knights;
Hosts of servants she has, and wonders beautiful and rare,
But nought so wonderful and sweet as her face queenly fair,
O Macha of the Ruddy Hair!
(Choric Voices in a loud, swelling chant)
O Macha of the Ruddy Hair!
(Coel chants):
The colour of her great Dûn is the shining whiteness of lime,
And within it are floors strewn with green rushes and couches white;
121

Soft wondrous silks and blue gold-claspt mantles and furs
Are there, and jewelled golden cups for revelry by night:
Thy grianân of gold and glass is filled with sunshine-light,
O Macha, queen by day, queen by night!
(Choric Voices)
O Macha, queen by day, queen by night!
Beyond the green portals, and the brown and red thatch of wings
Striped orderly, the wings of innumerous stricken birds,
A wide shining floor reaches from wall to wall, wondrously carven
Out of a sheet of silver, whereon are graven swords
Intricately ablaze: mistress of many hoards Art thou, Macha of few words!
(Choric Voices):
O Macha of few words!
Fair indeed is thy couch, but fairer still is thy throne,
122

A chair it is, all of a blaze of wonderful yellow gold:
There thou sittest, and watchest the women going to and fro,
Each in garments fair and with long locks twisted fold in fold:
With the joy that is in thy house men would not grow old,
O Macha, proud, austere, cold.
(Choric Voices):
O Macha, proud, austere, cold!
Of a surety there is much joy to be had of thee and thine,
There in the song-sweet sunlit bowers in that place;
Wounded men might sink in sleep and be well content
So to sleep, and to dream perchance, and know no other grace
Then to wake and look betimes on thy proud queenly face,
O Macha of the Proud Face!
(Choric Voices):
O Macha of the Proud Face!
123

And if there be any here who wish to know more of this wonder,
Go, you will find all as I have shown, as I have said:
From beneath its portico, thatched with wings of birds blue and yellow
Reaches a green lawn, where a fount is fed
From crystal and gems: of crystal and gold each bed
In the house of Macha of the Ruddy Head!
(Choric Voices):
In the house of Macha of the Ruddy Head!
In that great house where Macha the queen has her pleasaunce
There is everything in the whole world that a man might desire.
God is my witness that if I say little it is for this,
That I am grown faint with wonder, and can no more admire,
But say this only, that I live and die in the fire
Of thine eyes, O Macha, my desire,
With thine eyes of fire!
124

(Choric Voices in a loud swelling chant):
But say this only, that we live and die in the fire
Of thine eyes, O Macha, Dream, Desire,
With thine eyes of fire! (Choric Voices repeat their refrains, but fainter, and becoming more faint. Last vanishing sound of the harps and tympans.)
(The Voice of Coel):
And where now is Macha of the proud face and the ruddy hair,
Macha of few words, proud, austere, cold, with the eyes of fire?
Is she calling to the singers down there under the grass,
Is she saying to the bard, sing: and to the minstrel, where is thy lyre?
Or is that her voice that I hear, lonelier and further and higher
Than the wild wailing wind on the moor that echoes my desire,
O Macha of the proud face
And the eyes of fire!
125

DALUA

I have heard you calling, Dalua
Dalua!
I have heard you on the hill,
By the pool-side still,
Where the lapwings shrill
Dalua ... dalua ... dalua!
What is it you call, Dalua,
Dalua!
When the rains fall,
When the mists crawl
And the curlews call
Dalua ... dalua ... dalua!
I am the Fool, Dalua,
Dalua!
When men hear me, their eyes
Darken: the shadow in the skies
Droops: and the keening-woman cries
Dalua ... Dalua ... Dalua
 

Dalüa, one of the names of a mysterious being in the Celtic mythology, the Fairy Fool.

126

THE SONG OF FIONULA

Sleep, sleep, brothers dear, sleep and dream,
Nothing so sweet lies hid in all your years.
Life is a storm-swept gleam
In a rain of tears:
Why wake to a bitter hour, to sigh, to weep?
How better far to sleep—
To sleep and dream.
To sleep and dream, ah, that were well indeed:
Better than sighs, better than tears,
Ye can have nothing better for your meed
In all the years.
Why wake to a bitter hour, to sigh, to weep?
How better far to sleep—
To sleep and dream, ah, that is well indeed!
127

THE SONG OF AEIFA

[_]

From The Swan-Children of Lir

Speed hence, speed hence, O lone white swans,
Across the wind-sprent foam;
The wave shall be your father now,
And the wind alone shall kiss your brow,
And the waste be your home.
Speed hence, speed hence, O lone white swans,
Your age-long quest to make;
Three hundred years on Moyle's wild breast,
Three hundred years on the wilder west,
Three hundred years on this lake.
Speed hence, speed hence, O lone white swans,
And Lir shall call in vain
For all his aching heart and tears,
For all the weariness of his years,
Ye shall not come again.
Speed hence, speed hence, O lone white swans,
Till the ringing of Christ's bell;
Then at the last ye shall have rest,
And Death shall take ye to his breast
At the ringing of Christ's bell.
128

THE SORROW OF THE HOUSE OF LIR

Happy our father Lir afar,
With mead, and songs of love and war:
The salt brine, and the white foam,
With these his children have their home.
In the sweet days of long ago
Soft-clad we wandered to and fro:
But now cold winds of dawn and night
Pierce deep our feathers thin and light.
The hazel mead in cups of gold
We feasted from in days of old:
The sea-weed now our food, our wine
The salt, keen, bitter, barren brine.
On soft warm couches once we pressed:
White harpers lulled us to our rest:
Our beds are now where the sea raves,
Our lullaby the clash of waves.
Alas! the fair sweet days are gone
When love was ours from dawn to dawn:
Our sole companion now is pain,
Through frost and snow, through storm and rain.
129

Beneath my wings my brothers lie
When the fierce ice-winds hurtle by:
On either side and 'neath my breast
Lir's sons have known no other rest.
Ah, kisses we shall no more know,
Ah, love so dear exchanged for woe,
All that is sweet for us is o'er,
Homeless we are from shore to shore.
130

THE CHANT OF ARDAN THE PICT

O Colum and monks of Christ
It is peace we are having this night:
Sure, peace is a good thing,
And I am glad with the gladness.
We worship one God,
Though ye call him Dè—
And I say not, O Dia!
But cry Bea'uil!
For it is one faith for man,
And one for the living world,
And no man is wiser than another—
And none knoweth much.
None knoweth a better thing than this:
The Sword, Love, Song, Honour, Sleep.
None knoweth a surer thing than this:
Birth, Sorrow, Pain, Weariness, Death.
131

THE LAMENTATION OF BALVA THE MONK

Balva the old monk I am called: when I was young, Balva Honeymouth.
That was before Colum the White came to Iona in the West.
She whom I loved was a woman whom I won out of the South,
And I had a good heaven with my lips on hers and with breast to breast.
Balva the old monk I am called: were it not for the fear
That the soul of Colum the White would meet my soul in the Narrows
That sever the living and dead, I would rise up from here
And go back to where men pray with spears and arrows.
Balva the old monk I am called: ugh! ugh! the cold bell of the matins—'tis dawn!
Sure it's a dream I have had that I was in a warm wood with the sun ashine,
132

And that against me in the pleasant greenness was a soft fawn,
And a voice that whispered “Balva Honeymouth, drink, I am thy wine!”
133

THE LAST NIGHT OF ARTÂN THE CULDEE

It is but a little thing to sit here in the silence and the dark:
For I remember the blazing noon when I saw Oona the White:
I remember the day when we sailed the Moyle in our skin-built barque;
And I remember when Oona's lips were on mine in the heart of the night.
So it is a little thing to sit here, hearing nought, seeing nought:
When the dawn breaks they will hurry me hence to the new-dug grave:
It will be quiet there, if it be true what the good Colum has taught,
And I shall hear Oona's voice as a sleeping seal hears the moving wave.
134

OONA OF THE DARK EYES AND THE CRYING OF WIND

I have fared far in the dim woods:
And I have known sorrow and grief,
And the incalculable years
That haunt the solitudes.
Where now are the multitudes
Of the Field of Spears?
Old tears
Fall upon them as rain,
Their eyes are quiet under the brown leaf.
I have seen the dead, innumerous:
I too shall lie thus,
And thou, Congal, thou too shalt lie
Still and white
Under the starry sky,
And rise no more to any Field of Spears,
But, under the brown leaf,
Remember grief
And the old, salt, bitter tears.
And I have heard the crying of wind.
It is the crying that is in my heart:
135

Oona of the Dark Eyes, Oona of the Dark Eyes,
Oona, Oona, Oona, Heart of my Heart!
But there is only crying of wind
Through the silences of the sky,
Dews that fall and rise,
The faring of long years,
And the coverlet of the brown leaf
For the old familiar grief
And the old tears.
136

THE LOVE-SONG OF DROSTAN

[_]

(From “Drostan and Yseul”: an unpublished drama.)

Drostan:
You have drunken of the cup of wisdom. Let me also drink. [Suddenly snatches a small clarsach from the woman's hand, and to its wild and rude music chants—
In the days of the Great Fires when the hills were aflame,
Aed the Shining God lay by a foamwhite mountain,
The white thigh of moon-crown'd Dana, Beautiful Mother.
And the wind fretted the blue with the tossed curling clouds
Of her tangled hair, and like two flaming stars were her eyes
Torches of sunfire and moonfire: and her vast breasts
Heaved as the sea heaves in the white calms, and the wind of her sighs
137

Were as the winds of sunrise soaring the peaks of the eagles—
Dana, Mother of the Gods, moon-crown'd, sea-shod, wonderful!

“Fire of my love,” she cried.... Aed of the Sunlight and Shadow
Laughed: and he rose till he grew more vast than Dana:
The sun was his trampling foot, and he wore the moon as a feather:
And he lay by Dana: and the world swayed, and the stars swung.
Thus was Oengus born, Lord of Love, Son of Wisdom and Death.
Hear us, Oengus, Beautiful, Terrible, Sun-Lord and Death-Lord!
Give us the white flame of love born of Aed and of Dana—
Hearken, thou Pulse of hearts, and let the white doves from your lips
Cover with passionate wings the silence between us,
Where a white fawn leaps and only Yseul and I behold it.
138

THE CUP

Chuir Muiril mirr ann,
Chuir Uiril mil ann,
Chuir Muirinn fion ann,
'S chuir Michal ann buadh.
“Muriel placed myrrh in it:
Uriel placed honey in it:
Murien placed wine in it:
And Michael strength.”
The Cup of bitter-sweet I know
That with old wine of love doth glow:
The dew of tears to it doth go,
And wisdom is its hidden woe.
Were I but young again to throw
This cup where the wild thistles grow,
Or where, oblivious, ceaseless, slow,
The grey tumultuous waters flow!
139

THE LOVE-CHANT OF CORMAC CONLINGAS

Oimé, Oimé, woman of the white breasts, Eilidh!
Woman of the golden hair, and lips of the red, red rowan!
Oimé, O-rì, Oimé!
Where is the swan that is whiter, with breast more smooth,
Or the wave on the sea that moves as thou movest, Eilidh—
Oimé, a-rò; Oimé, a-rò!
It is the marrow in my bones that is aching, aching, Eilidh:
It is the blood in my body that is a bitter wild tide, Oimé!
O-rì, Ohion, O-rì, aròne!
Is it the heart of thee calling that I am hearing, Eilidh,
Or the wind in the wood, or the beating of the sea, Eilidh,
Or the beating of the sea?
140

Shule, shule agràh, shule agràh, shule agràh, Shule!
Heart of me, move to me! move to me, heart of me, Eilidh, Eilidh,
Move to me!
Ah! let the wild hawk take it, the name of me, Cormac Conlingas,
Take it and tear at thy heart with it, heart that of old was so hot with it,
Eilidh, Eilidh, O-rì, Eilidh, Eilidh!
 

Eilidh is pronounced Eily.

141

THE DEATH-DIRGE FOR CATHAL

Out of the wild hills I am hearing a voice, O Cathal!
And I am thinking it is the voice of a bleeding sword.
Whose is that sword? I know it well: it is the sword of the Slayer—
Him that is called Death, and the song that it sings I know:—
O where is Cathal mac Art, the white cup for the thirst of my lips?
Out of the cold greyness of the sea I am hearing, O Cathal,
I am hearing a wave-muffled voice, as of one who drowns in the depths:
Whose is that voice? I know it well: it is the voice of the Shadow—
Her that is called the Grave, and the song that she sings I know:—
O where is Cathal mac Art, that has warmth for the chill that I have?
142

Out of the hot greenness of the wood I am hearing, O Cathal,
I am hearing a rustling step, as of one stumbling blind.
Whose is that rustling step? I know it well: the rustling walk of the Blind One—
Her that is called Silence, and the song that she sings I know:—
O where is Cathal mac Art, that has tears to water my stillness?
143

THE DEATH DANCE

O arone a-ree, eily arone, arone!
'Tis a good thing to be sailing across the seas!
How the women smile and the children are laughing glad
When the galleys go out into the blue sea—arone!
O eily arone, arone!
But the children may laugh less when the wolves come,
And the women may smile less in the winter-cold—
For the Summer-sailors will not come again, arone!
O arone a-ree, eily arone, arone!
I am thinking they will not sail back again, O no!
The yellow-haired men that came sailing across the sea:
For 'tis wild apples they would be, and swing on green branches,
And sway in the wind for the corbies to preen their eyne,
O eily arone, eily a-ree!
144

And it is pleasure for Scathach the Queen to see this:
To see the good fruit that grows on the Tree of the Stones:
Long black fruit it is, wind-swayed by its yellow roots,
And like men they are with their feet dancing in the void air!
O, O, arone, a-ree, eily arone!
O arone a-ree, eily arone, arone,
O, O, arone, a-ree, eily arone!
145

THE END OF AODH-OF-THE-SONGS

The swift years slip and slide adown the steep;
The slow years pass; neither will come again.
Yon huddled years have weary eyes that weep,
These laugh, these moan, these silent frown, these plain,
These have their lips curl'd up with proud disdain.
O years with tears, and tears through weary years,
How weary I who in your arms have lain:
Now, I am tired: the sound of slipping spears
Moves soft, and tears fall in a bloody rain,
And the chill footless years go over me who am slain.
I hear, as in a wood, dim with old light, the rain,
Slow falling; old, old, weary, human tears:
And in the deepening dark my comfort is my Pain,
Sole comfort left of all my hopes and fears,
Pain that alone survives, gaunt hound of the shadowy years.
146

THE LAMENT OF DARTHOOL

Ionmhuin tir, an tir ud shoir—
Alba go na h'-iongantaibh;
Nocha ttiocfainn aiste ale,
Muna ttagainn le Naoise.

O woods of Oona, I can hear the singing
Of the west wind among the branches green
And the leaping and laughing of cool waters springing,
And my heart aches for all that has been,
For all that has been, my Home, all that has been!
Glenmassan! O Glenmassan!
High the sorrel there, and the sweet fragrant grasses:
It would be well if I were listening now to where
In Glenmassan the sun shines and the cool west wind passes,
Glenmassan of the grasses!
147

Lock Etive, O fair Loch Etive, that was my first home,
I think of thee now when on the grey-green sea—
And beneath the mist in my eyes and the flying foam
I look back wearily,
I look back wearily to thee!
Glen Orchy, O Glen Orchy, fair sweet glen,
Was ever I more happy than in thy shade?
Was not Nathos there the happiest of men?
O may thy beauty never fade,
Most fair and sweet and beautiful glade.
Glen of the Roes, Glen of the Roes,
In thee I have dreamed to the full my happy dream:
O that where the shallow bickering Ruel flows,
I might hear again, o'er its flashing gleam,
The cuckoos calling by the murmuring stream.
148

THE LOVE-KISS OF DERMID AND GRAINNE

When by the twilit sea these twain were come
Dermid spake no one word, Grainne was dumb,
And in the hearts of both deep silence was.
“Sorrow upon me, love,” whispered the grass;
“Sorrow upon me, love,” the sea-bird cried;
“Sorrow upon me, love,” the lapsed wave sighed.
“For what the King has willed, that thing must be,
O Dermid! As two waves upon this sea
Wind-swept we are,—the wind of his dark mind,
With fierce inevitable tides behind.”
“What would you have, O Grainne: he is King.”
“I would we were the birds that come with Spring,
The purple-feathered birds that have no home,
The birds that love, then fly across the foam.”
149

“Give me thy mouth, O Dermid,” Grainne said
Thereafter, and whispering thus she leaned her head—
Ah, supple, subtle snake she glided there
Till, on his breast, a kiss-deep was her hair
That twisted serpent-wise in gold red pain
From where his lips held high their proud disdain.
“Here, here,” she whispered low, “here on my mouth
The swallow, Love, hath found his haunted South.”
Then Dermid stooped and passionlessly kissed.
But therewith Grainne won what she had missed,
And that night was to her, and all sweet nights
Thereafter, as Love's flaming swallow-flights
Of passionate passion beyond speech to tell.
But Dermid knew how vain was any spell
Against the wrath of Finn: and Grainne's breath
To him was ever chill with Grainne's death;
Full well he knew that in a soundless place
150

His own wraith stood and with a moon-white face
Watched its own shadow laugh and shake its spear
Far in a phantom dell against a phantom deer.
151

THE TRYST OF QUEEN HYNDE

Queen Hynde was in the rowan-wood with scarlet fruit aflame,
Her face was as the berries were, one sun-hot wave of shame.
With scythes of fire the August sun mowed down vast swathes of shade:
With blazing eyes the waiting queen stared on her steel-blue blade.
“What, thirsty hound,” she muttered low, “with thirst you flash and gleam:
Bide, bide a wee, my bonnie hound, I'll show ye soon a stream!”
The sun had tossed against the West his broken scythes of fire
When Lord Gillanders bowed before his Queen and Sweet Desire.
She did not give him smile or kiss; her hand she did not give:
“But are ye come for death,” she said, “or are ye come to live?”
152

Gillanders reined and looked at her: “Hynde, Queen and Love,” he said,
“I wooed in love, I come in love, to this the tryst we made:
“Why are your eyes so fierce and wild? why is your face so white?
I love you with all my love,” he said, “by day and by night.”
“What o' the word that's come to me, of how my lord's to wed
The lilywhite maid o' one that has a gold crown on his head?
“What o' the word that yesternight ye wantoned with my name,
And on a windy scorn let loose the blown leaf o' my shame?”
The Lord Gillanders looked at her, and never a word said he,
But sprang from off his great black horse and sank upon his knee.
“This is my love,” said white Queen Hynde, “and this, and this, and this”—
Four times she stabbed him to the heart while she his lips did kiss.
153

She left him in the darkling wood: and as she rode she sang
(The little notes swirled in and out amid the horsehoof clang)
My love was sweet, was sweet, was sweet, but not so sweet as now!
A deep long sleep my sweet love has beneath the rowan-bough.
They let her in, they lifted swords, his head each one did bare:
Slowly she bowed, slowly she passed, slowly she clomb the stair:
Her little son she lifted up, and whispered 'neath his cries—
“The old king's son, they say; mayhap; he has Gillander's eyes.”
154

THE SONG OF AHÈZ THE PALE

But this was in the old, old, far-off days,
But this was in the old, old, far-off days.
They rode beneath the ancient boughs, and as they rode she sang,
But at the last both silent were: only the horse-hoofs rang.
Guenn took up his sword, and she felt its shining blade,
And she laughed and vowed it fitted ill for the handling of a maid.
He looked at her, and darkly smiled, and said she was a queen:
For she could swing the white sword high and love its dazzling sheen.
She lifted up the great white sword and swung it o'er his head—
“Ah, you may smile, my lord, now you may smile,” she said.
For this was in the old, old, far-off days,
For this was in the old, old, far-off days.
155

THE WAR-SONG OF THE VIKINGS

Let loose the hounds of war,
The whirling swords!
Send them leaping afar,
Red in their thirst for war;
Odin laughs in his car
At the screaming of the swords!
Far let the white-ones fly,
The whirling swords!
Afar off the ravens spy
Death-shadows cloud the sky.
Let the wolves of the Gael die
'Neath the screaming swords!
The Shining Ones yonder
High in Valhalla
Shout now, with thunder:
Drive the Gaels under,
Cleave them asunder—
Swords of Valhalla!
156

THE CRIMSON MOON

Behind the Legions of the Sun, the Star Battalions of the night,
The reddening of the West I see, from morn till dusk, from dusk till light.
A day must surely come at last, and that day soon,
When the Hidden People shall march out beneath the Crimson Moon.
Our palaces shall crumble then, our towers shall fall away,
And on the plains our burning towns shall flaunt a desolate day:
The cities of our pride shall wear tiaras of red flame,
And all our phantom glory be an idle windblown name.
What shall our vaunt be on that day, or who thereon shall hear
The laughter of our laughing lips become the wail of fear?
Our vaunt shall be the windy dust in eddies far and wide,
157

The hearing, theirs who follow us with swift and dreadful stride.
A cry of lamentation, then, shall sweep from land to land:
A myriad waving hands shall shake above a myriad strand:
The Day shall swoon before a Shade of vast ancestral Night,
Till a more dreadful Morn awake to flood and spume of light.
This is the prophecy of old, before the roaming tribes of Man
Spread Multitude athwart the heirdom of an earlier Clan—
Before the gods drank Silence, and hid their way with cloud,
And Man uprose and claimed the Earth and all the starry crowd.
So Man conceived and made his dream, till at the last he smiled to see
Its radiant skirts brush back the stars from Immortality:
He crowned himself with the Infinite, and gave his Soul a Home,
And then the quiet gods awoke and blew his life to foam.
158

This is the Dream I see anew, when all the West is red with light,
Behind the Legions of the Sun, the Star Battalions of the night.
Verily the day may come at last, and that day soon,
When the Hidden People shall march out beneath the Crimson Moon.
159

THE WASHER OF THE FORD

There is a lonely stream afar in a lone dim land;
It hath white dust for shore it has, white bones bestrew the strand:
The only thing that liveth there is a naked leaping sword;
But I, who a seer am, have seen the whirling hand
Of the Washer of the Ford.
A shadowy shape of cloud and mist, of gloom and dusk, she stands,
The Washer of the Ford:
She laughs, at times, and strews the dust through the hollow of her hands.
She counts the sins of all men there, and slays the red-stained horde—
The ghosts of all the sins of men must know the whirling sword
Of the Washer of the Ford.
She stoops and laughs when in the dust she sees a writhing limb:
“Go back into the ford,” she says, “and hither and thither swim;
160

Then I shall wash you white as snow, and shall take you by the hand,
And slay you there in silence with this my whirling brand,
And trample you into the dust of this white, windless sand”—
This is the laughing word
Of the Washer of the Ford
Along that silent strand.
161

THE MOURNERS

[_]

(From the Breton)

When they had made the cradle
Of ivory and of gold,
Their hearts were heavy still
With the sorrow of old.
And ever as they rocked, the tears
Ran down, sad tears:
Who is it lieth dead therein,
Dead all these weary years?
And still they rock that cradle there
Of ivory and of gold:
For in their minds the shadow is
The Shadow of Old.
They weep, and know not what they weep;
They wait a vain re-birth:
Vanity of vanities, alas,
For there is but one birth
On the wide green earth.
163

II

165

MILKING SIAN

Give up thy milk to her who calls
Across the low green hills of Heaven
And stream-cool meads of Paradise!
Across the low green hills of Heaven
How sweet to hear the milking call,
The milking call i' the meads of Heaven:
Stream-cool the meads of Paradise,
Across the low green hills of Heaven.
Give up thy milk to her who calls,
Sweet voiced amid the Starry Seven.
Give up thy milk to her who calls!
166

THE KYE-SONG OF ST. BRIDE

O sweet St. Bride of the
Yellow, yellow hair:
Paul said, and Peter said,
And all the saints alive or dead
Vowed she had the sweetest head,
Bonnie, sweet St. Bride of the
Yellow, yellow hair.
White may my milkin' be,
White as thee:
Thy face is white, thy neck is white,
Thy hands are white, thy feet are white,
For thy sweet soul is shinin' bright—
O dear to me,
O dear to see
St. Briget white!
Yellow may my butter be,
Firm, and round:
Thy breasts are sweet,
Firm, round and sweet,
So may my butter be:
So may my butter be O
Briget sweet!
167

Safe thy way is, safe, O
Safe, St. Bride:
May my kye come home at even,
None be fallin', none be leavin',
Dusky even, breath-sweet even,
Here, as there, where O
St. Bride thou
Keepest tryst with God in heav'n,
Seest the angels bow
And souls be shriven—
Here, as there, 'tis breath-sweet even
Far and wide—
Singeth thy little maid
Safe in thy shade
Briget, Bride!
168

ST. BRIDE'S LULLABY

Oh, Baby Christ, so dear to me,
Sang Briget Bride:
How sweet thou art,
My baby dear,
Heart of my heart!
Heavy her body was with thee,
Mary, beloved of One in Three—
Sang Briget Bride—
Mary, who bore thee, little lad:
But light her heart was, light and glad
With God's love clad.
Sit on my knee,
Sang Briget Bride:
Sit here
O Baby dear,
Close to my heart, my heart:
For I thy foster-mother am,
My helpless lamb!
O have no fear,
Sang good St. Bride.
169

None, none,
No fear have I:
So let me cling
Close to thy side
While thou dost sing,
O Briget Bride!
My Lord, my Prince, I sing:
My Baby dear, my King!
Sang Briget Bride.
170

THE BIRD OF CHRIST

Holy, Holy, Holy,
Christ upon the Cross:
My little nest was near,
Hidden in the moss.
Holy, Holy, Holy,
Christ was pale and wan:
His eyes beheld me singing
Bron, Bron, mo Bron!
Holy, Holy, Holy,
“Come near, O wee brown bird!”
Christ spake, and lo, I lighted
Upon the Living Word.
Holy, Holy, Holy,
I heard the mocking scorn!
But Holy, Holy, Holy,
I sang against a thorn!
Holy, Holy, Holy,
Ah, his brow was bloody:
Holy, Holy, Holy,
All my breast was ruddy.
171

Holy, Holy, Holy,
Christ's-Bird shalt thou be:
Thus said Mary Virgin
There on Calvary.
Holy, Holy, Holy,
A wee brown bird am I:
But my breast is ruddy
For I saw Christ die.
Holy, Holy, Holy,
By this ruddy feather,
Colum, call thy monks, and
All the birds together.
 

“O my Grief, my Grief!”

172

THE MEDITATION OF COLUM

Before the Miracle of the Fishes and the Flies

I

Praise be to God, and a blessing too at that, and a blessing!
For Colum the White, Colum the Dove, hath worshipped;
Yea he hath worshipped and made of a desert a garden,
And out of the dung of men's souls hath made a sweet savour of burning.

II

A savour of burning, most sweet, a fire for the altar,
This he hath made in the desert; the hell-saved all gladden.
Sure he hath put his benison, too, on milchcow and bullock,
On the fowls of the air, and the man-eyed seals, and the otter.
173

III

But where in his Dûn in the great blue mainland of Heaven
God the Allfather broodeth, where the harpers are harping His glory;
There where He sitteth, where a river of ale poureth ever,
His great sword broken, His spear in the dust, He broodeth.

IV

And this is the thought that moves in His brain, as a cloud filled with thunder
Moves through the vast hollow sky filled with the dust of the stars:
What boots it the glory of Colum, since he maketh a Sabbath to bless me
And hath no thought of my sons in the deeps of the air and the sea?
174

ST. CHRISTOPHER OF THE GAEL

Behind the wattle-woven house
Nial the Mighty gently crept
From out a screen of ashtree boughs
To where a captive white-robe slept.
Lightly he moved, as though ashamed;
To right and left he glanced his fears.
Nial the Mighty was he named
Though but an untried youth in years—
But tall he was, as tall as he,
White Dermid of the magic sword,
Or Torcall of the Hebrid Sea
Or great Cuhoolin of the Ford;
Strong as the strongest, too, he was:
As Balor of the Evil Eye;
As Fionn who kept the Ulster Pass
From dawn till blood-flusht sunset sky.
Much had he pondered all that day
The mystery of the men who died
On crosses raised along the way,
And perished singing side by side.
175

Modred the chief had sailed the Moyle,
Had reached Iona's guardless-shore,
Had seized the monks when at their toil
And carried northward, bound, a score.
Some he had thrust into the deep,
To see if magic fins would rise:
Some from high rocks he forced to leap,
To see wings fall from out the skies:
Some he had pinned upon tall spears,
Some tossed on shields with brazen clang,
To see if through their blood and tears
Their god would hear the hymns they sang.
But when his oarsmen flung their oars,
And laughed to see across the foam
The glimmer of the highland shores
And smoke-wreaths of the hidden home,
Modred was weary of his sport.
All day he brooded as he strode
Betwixt the reef-encircled port
And the oak-grove of the Sacred Road.
At night he bade his warriors raise
Seven crosses where the foamswept strand
Lay still and white beyond the blaze
Of the hundred camp-fires of the land.
176

The women milked the late-come kye,
The children raced in laughing glee;
Like sheep from out the fold of the sky
Stars leapt and stared at earth and sea.
At times a wild and plaintive air
Made delicate music far away:
A hill-fox barked before its lair:
The white owl hawked its shadowy prey.
But at the rising of the moon
The druids came from grove and glen,
And to the chanting of a rune
Crucified St. Columba's men.
They died in silence side by side,
But first they sang the evening hymn:
By midnight all but one had died,
At dawn he too was grey and grim.
One monk alone had Modred kept,
A youth with hair of golden-red,
Who never once had sighed or wept,
Not once had bowed his proud young head.
Broken he lay, and bound with thongs.
Thus had he seen his brothers toss
Like crows transfixed upon great prongs,
Till death crept up each silent cross.
177

Night grew to dawn, to scarlet morn;
Day waned to firelit, starlit night:
But still with eyes of passionate scorn
He dared the worst of Modred's might.
When from the wattle-woven house
Nial the Mighty softly stepped,
And peered beneath the ashtree boughs
To where he thought the whiterobe slept,
He heard the monk's words rise in prayer,
He heard a hymn's ascending breath—
“Christ, Son of God, to Thee I fare
This night upon the wings of death.”
Nial the Mighty crossed the space,
He waited till the monk had ceased;
Then, leaning o'er the foam-white face,
He stared upon the dauntless priest.
“Speak low,” he said, “and tell me this:
Who is the king you hold so great?—
Your eyes are dauntless flames of bliss
Though Modred taunts you with his hate:—
“This god or king, is He more strong
Than Modred is? And does He sleep
That thus your death-in-life is long,
And bonds your aching body keep?”
178

The monk's eyes stared in Nial's eyes:
“Young giant with a child's white heart,
I see a cross take shape and rise,
And thou upon it nailèd art!”
Nial looked back: no cross he saw
Looming from out the dreadful night:
Yet all his soul was filled with awe,
A thundercloud with heart of light.
“Tell me thy name,” he said, “and why
Thou waitest thus the druid knife,
And carest not to live or die?
Monk, hast thou little care of life?”
“Great care of that I have,” he said,
And looked at Nial with eyes of fire:
“My life begins when I am dead,
There only is my heart's desire.”
Nial the mighty sighed. “Thy words
Are as the idle froth of foam,
Or clashing of triumphant swords
When Modred brings the foray home.
“My name is Nial: Nial the Strong:
A lad in years, but as you see
More great than heroes of old song
Or any lordly men that be.
179

“To Modred have I come from far,
O'er many a hill and strath and stream,
To be a mighty sword in war,
And this because I dreamed a dream:
“My dream was that my strength so great
Should serve the greatest king there is:
Modred the Pict thus all men rate,
And so I sought this far-off Liss.
“But if there be a greater yet,
A king or god whom he doth fear,
My service he shall no more get,
My strength shall rust no longer here.”
The monk's face gladdened. “Go, now, go;
To Modred go: he sitteth dumb,
And broods on what he fain would know:
And say, ‘O King, the Cross is come!’
“Then shall the king arise in wrath,
And bid you go from out his sight,
For if he meet you on his path
He'll leave you stark and still and white.
“Thus shall he show, great king and all,
He fears the glorious Cross of Christ,
And dreads to hear slain voices call
For vengeance on the sacrificed.
180

“But, Nial, come not here again:
Long before dawn my soul shall be
Beyond the reach of any pain
That Modred dreams to prove on me.
“Go forth thyself at dawn, and say
‘This is Christ's holy natal morn,
My king is He from forth this day
When He to save mankind was born’:
“Go forth and seek a lonely place
Where a great river fills the wild;
There bide, and let thy strength be grace,
And wait the Coming of a Child.
“A wondrous thing shall then befall:
And when thou seek'st if it be true,
Green leaves along thy staff shall crawl,
With flowers of every lovely hue.”
The monk's face whitened, like sea-foam:
Seaward he stared, and sighed “I go—
Farewell—my Lord Christ calls me home!”
Nial stooped and saw death's final throe.
An hour before the dawn he rose
And sought out Modred, brooding, dumb;
“O King,” he said, “my bond I close,
King Christ I seek: the Cross is come!”
181

Swift as a stag's leap from a height
King Modred drew his dreadful sword:
Then as a snow-wraith, silent, white,
He stared and passed without a word.
Before the flush of dawn was red
A druid came to Nial the Great:
“The doom of death hath Modred said,
Yet fears this Christ's mysterious hate:
“So get you hence, you giant-thewed man:
Go your own way: come not again:
No more are you of Modred's clan:
Go now, forthwith, lest you be slain.”
Nial went forth with gladsome face;
No more of Modred's clan he was:
“Now, now,” he cried, “Christ's trail I'll trace,
And nowhere turn, and nowhere pause.”
He laughed to think how Modred feared
The wrath of Christ, the monk's white king:
“A greater than Modred hath appeared,
To Him my sword and strength I bring.”
All day, all night, he walked afar:
He saw the moon rise white and still:
The evening and the morning star:
The sunrise burn upon the hill.
182

He heard the moaning of the seas,
The vast sigh of the sunswept plain,
The myriad surge of forest-trees;
Saw dusk and night return again.
At falling of the dusk he stood
Upon a wild and desert land:
Dark fruit he gathered for his food,
Drank water from his hollowed hand
Cut from an ash a mighty bough
And trimmed and shaped it to the half:
“Safe in the desert am I now,
With sword,” he said, “and with this staff.”
The stars came out: Arcturus hung
His ice-blue fire far down the sky:
The Great Bear through the darkness swung:
The Seven Watchers rose on high.
A great moon flooded all the west.
Silence came out of earth and sea
And lay upon the husht world's breast,
And breathed mysteriously.
Three hours Nial walked, three hours and more:
Then halted when beyond the plain
He stood upon that river's shore
The dying monk had bid him gain.
183

A little house he saw: clay-wrought,
Of wattle woven through and through:
Then, all his weariness forgot,
The joy of drowning-sleep he knew.
Three hours he slept, and then he heard
A voice—and yet a voice so low
It might have been a dreaming bird
Safe-nested by the rushing flow.
Almost he slept once more: then, Hush!
Once more he heard above the noise
And tempest of the river's rush
The thin faint words of a child's voice.
“Good Sir, awake from sleep and dream,
Good Sir, come out and carry me
Across this dark and raging stream
Till safe on the other side I be.”
Great Nial shivered on his bed:
“No human creature calls this night,
It is a wild fetch of the dead,”
He thought, and shrunk, and shook with fright.
Once more he heard that infant-cry:
“Come out, Good Sir, or else I drown—
Come out, Good Sir, or else I die
And you, too, lose a golden crown.”
184

“A golden crown”—so Nial thought—
“No—no—not thus shall I be ta'en!
Keep, ghost-of-the-night, your crown goldwrought—
Of sleep and peace I am full fain!”
Once more the windy dark was filled
With lonely cry, with sobbing plaint:
Nial's heart grew sore, its fear was stilled,
King Christ, he knew, would scorn him faint.
“Up, up thou coward, thou sluggard, thou,”
He cried, and sprang from off his bed—
“No crown thou seekest for thy brow,
But help for one in pain and dread!”
Out in the wide and lonely dark
No fetch he saw, no shape, no child:
Almost he turned again—but hark!
A song rose o'er the waters wild:
A king am I
Tho' a little Child,
Son of God am I,
Meek and mild,
Beautiful
Because God hath said
Let my cup be full
Of wine and bread.
185

Come to me
Shaken heart,
Shaken heart!
I will not flee.
My heart
Is thy heart
O shaken heart!
Stoop to my Cup,
Sup,
Drink of the wine:
The wine and the bread,
Saith God,
Are mine—
My Flesh and my Blood!
Throw thy sword in the flood:
Come, shaken heart:
Fearful thou art!
Have no more fear—
Lo, I am here,
The little One,
The Son,
Thy Lord and thy King.
It is I who sing:
Christ, your King ...
Be not afraid:
Look, I am Light,
A great star
186

Seen from afar
In the darkness of night:
I am Light,
Be not afraid ...
Wade, wade
Into the deep flood!
Think of the Bread,
The Wine and the Bread
That are my Flesh and Blood.
Cross, cross the Flood,
Sure is the goal ...
Be not afraid
O Soul,
Be not afraid!
Nial's heart was filled with joy and pain:
“This is my king, my king indeed:
To think that drown'd in sleep I've lain
When Christ the Child-God crieth in need!”
Swift from his wattled hut he strode,
Stumbling among the grass and bent,
And, seeking where the river flowed,
Far o'er the dark flood peered and leant:
Then suddenly beside him saw
A little Child all clad in white:
He bowed his head in love and awe,
Then lifted high his burthen light.
187

High on his shoulders sat the Child,
While with strong limbs he fared among
The rushing waters black and wild
And where the fiercest currents swung.
The waters rose more high, more high,
Higher and higher every yard ...
Nial stumbled on with sob and sigh,
Christ heard him panting sore and hard.
“O Child,” Nial cried, “forbear, forbear!
Hark you not how these waters whirled!
The weight of all the earth I bear,
The weary weight of all the world!”
“Christopher!” ... low above the noise,
The rush, the darkness, Nial heard
The far-off music of a Voice
That said all things in saying one word—
“Christopher ... this thy name shall be!
Christ-bearer is thy name, even so
Because of service done to me
Heavy with weight of the world's woe.”
With breaking sobs, with panting breath
Chistopher grasped a bent-held dune,
Then with flung staff and as in death
Forward he fell in a heavy swoon.
188

All night he lay in silence there,
But safe from reach of surging tide:
White angels had him in their care,
Christ healed and watched him side by side.
When all the silver wings of dawn
Had waved above the rose-flusht east,
Christopher woke ... his dream was gone.
The angelic songs had ceased.
Was it a dream in very deed,
He wondered, broken, trembling, dazed?
His staff he lifted from the mead
And as an upright sapling raised.
Lo, it was as the monk had said—
If he would prove the vision true,
His staff would blossom to its head
With flowers of every lovely hue.
Christopher bowed: before his eyes
Christ's love fulfilled the holy hour ...
A south-wind blew, green leaves did rise
And the staff bloomed a myriad flower!
Christopher bowed in holy prayer,
While Christ's love fell like healing dew:
God's father-hand was on him there:
The peace of perfect peace he knew.
189

THE CROSS OF THE DUMB

A CHRISTMAS ON IONA, LONG, LONG AGO

One eve, when St. Columba strode
In solemn mood along the shore,
He met an angel on the road
Who but a poor man's semblance bore.
He wondered much, the holy saint,
What stranger sought the lonely isle,
But seeing him weary and wan and faint
St. Colum hailed him with a smile.
“Remote our lone Iona lies
Here in the grey and windswept sea,
And few are they whom my old eyes
Behold as pilgrims bowing the knee....
“But welcome ... welcome ... stranger-guest,
And come with me and you shall find
A warm and deer-skinn'd cell for rest
And at our board a welcome kind....
190

“Yet tell me ere the dune we cross
How came you to this lonely land?
No curraghs in the tideway toss
And none is beached upon the strand!”
The weary pilgrim raised his head
And looked and smiled and said, “From far,
My wandering feet have here been led
By the glory of a shining star....”
St. Colum gravely bowed, and said,
“Enough, my friend, I ask no more;
Doubtless some silence-vow was laid
Upon thee, ere thou sought'st this shore:
“Now, come: and doff this raiment sad
And those rough sandals from thy feet:
The holy brethren will be glad
To haven thee in our retreat.”
Together past the praying cells
And past the wattle-woven dome
Whence rang the tremulous vesper bells
St. Colum brought the stranger home.
From thyme-sweet pastures grey with dews
The milch-cows came with swinging tails:
And whirling high the wailing mews
Screamed o'er the brothers at their pails.
191

A single spire of smoke arose,
And hung, a phantom, in the cold:
Three younger monks set forth to close
The ewes and lambs within the fold.
The purple twilight stole above
The grey-green dunes, the furrowed leas:
And Dusk, with breast as of a dove,
Brooded: and everywhere was peace.
Within the low refectory sate
The little clan of holy folk:
Then, while the brothers mused and ate,
The wayfarer arose and spoke....
“O Colum of Iona-Isle,
And ye who dwell in God's quiet place,
Before I crossed your narrow kyle
I looked in Heaven upon Christ's face.”
Thereat St. Colum's startled glance
Swept o'er the man so poorly clad,
And all the brethren looked askance
In fear the pilgrim-guest was mad.
“And, Colum of God's Church i' the sea
And all ye Brothers of the Rood,
The Lord Christ gave a dream to me
And bade me bring it ye as food.
192

“Lift to the wandering cloud your eyes
And let them scan the wandering Deep....
Hark ye not there the wandering sighs
Of brethren ye as outcasts keep?”
Thereat the stranger bowed, and blessed;
Then, grave and silent, sought his cell:
St. Colum mused upon his guest,
Dumb wonder on the others fell.
At dead of night the Abbot came
To where the weary wayfarer slept:
“Tell me,” he said, “thy holy name...”
—No more, for on bowed knees he wept....
Great awe and wonder fell on him;
His mind was like a lonely wild
When suddenly is heard a hymn
Sung by a little innocent child.
For now he knew their guest to be
No man as he and his, but one
Who in the Courts of Ecstasy
Worships, flame-winged, the Eternal Son.
The poor bare cell was filled with light,
That came from the swung moons the Seven
Seraphim swing day and night
Adown the infinite walls of Heaven.
193

But on the fern-wove mattress lay
No weary guest. St. Colum kneeled,
And found no trace; but, ashen-grey,
Far off he heard glad anthems pealed.
At sunrise when the matins-bell
Made a cold silvery music fall
Through silence of each lonely cell
And over every fold and stall,
St. Colum called his monks to come
And follow him to where his hands
Would raise the Great Cross of the Dumb
Upon the Holy Island's sands....
“For I shall call from out the Deep
And from the grey fields of the skies,
The brethren we as outcasts keep,
Our kindred of the dumb wild eyes....
“Behold, on this Christ's natal morn,
God wills the widening of His laws,
Another miracle to be born—
For lo, our guest an Angel was!...
“His Dream the Lord Christ gave to him
To bring to us as Christ-Day food,
That Dream shall rise a holy hymn
And hang like a flower upon the Rood!...”
194

Thereat, while all with wonder stared
St. Colum raised the Holy Tree:
Then all with Christ-Day singing fared
To where the last sands lipped the sea.
St. Colum raised his arms on high...
“O ye, all creatures of the wing,
Come here from out the fields o' the sky,
Come here and learn a wondrous thing!”
At that the wild clans of the air
Came sweeping in a mist of wings—
Ospreys and fierce solanders there,
Sea-swallows wheeling mazy rings,
The foam-white mew, the green-black scart,
The famishing hawk, the wailing tern,
All birds from the sand-building mart
To lonely bittern and heron....
St. Colum raised beseeching hands
And blessed the pastures of the sea:
“Come, all ye creatures, to the sands,
Come and behold the Sacred Tree!”
At that the cold clans of the wave
With spray and surge and splash appeared:
Up from each wrack-strewn, lightless cave
Dim day-struck eyes affrighted peered.
195

The pollacks came with rushing haste,
The great sea-cod, the speckled bass;
Along the foaming tideway raced
The herring-tribes like shimmering glass:
The mackerel and the dog-fish ran,
The whiting, haddock, in their wake:
The great sea-flounders upward span,
The fierce-eyed conger and the hake:
The greatest and the least of these
From hidden pools and tidal ways
Surged in their myriads from the seas
And stared at St. Columba's face.
“Hearken,” he cried, with solemn voice—
“Hearken! ye people of the Deep,
Ye people of the skies, Rejoice!
No more your soulless terror keep!
“For lo, an Angel from the Lord
Hath shown us that wherein we sin—
But now we humbly do His Word
And call you, Brothers, kith and kin....
“No more we claim the world as ours
And everything that therein is—
To-day, Christ's-Day, the infinite powers
Decree a common share of bliss.
196

“I know not if the new-waked soul
That stirs in every heart I see
Has yet to reach the far-off goal
Whose symbol is this Cross-shaped Tree....
“But, O dumb kindred of the skies,
O kinsfolk of the pathless seas,
All scorn and hate I exorcise,
And wish you nought but Love and Peace!”
Thus, on that Christmas-day of old
St. Colum broke the ancient spell.
A thousand years away have rolled,
'Tis now ... “a baseless miracle.”
O fellow-kinsmen of the Deep,
O kindred of the wind and cloud,
God's children too ... how He must weep
Who on that day was glad and proud!
197

Nine Desires

The desire of the fairy women, dew:
The desire of the fairy host, wind:
The desire of the raven, blood:
The desire of the snipe, the wilderness:
The desire of the seamew, the lawns of the sea:
The desire of the poet, the soft low music of the Tribe of the Green Mantles:
The desire of man, the love of woman:
The desire of women, the little clan:
The desire of the soul, wisdom.
previous section Poems and Dramas by "Fiona MacLeod" (William Sharp)
next section