Irish Songs and Poems By William Allingham: Second Edition: With Nine Airs for Voice and Pianoforte, and a Permanent Photograph of the Waterfall of Asaroe |
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| A STORMY NIGHT.
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 | Irish Songs and Poems |  |
136
A STORMY NIGHT.
A STORY OF THE DONEGAL COAST.
I.
A wild west Coast, a little Town,Where little Folk go up and down,
Tides flow and winds blow:
Night and Tempest and the Sea,
Human Will and Human Fate:
What is little, what is great?
Howsoe'er the answer be,
Let me sing of what I know.
II.
Bright-curving Moon! stealing timidly forthOn the footsteps of sunset, the west and the north
Are conspiring; a rumour of turmoil hath spread
From dusky Ben Gulban to dim Teelin Head,
Over which thou hast floated an hour; but descending
To find the Atlantic, thou leavest night lonely,
And vapours grown frantic are blackly upwending,
Like thoughts never spoken but shudder'd at only:
Harsh blast hurries past, heavy gloom hath dropt down
Like a night within night, over fields, over town,
And the empty sands and rocks of the bay
Stretching many a mile away.
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III.
Ever the wind more fiercely blew.Far and low the cormorant flew
Across the black and swelling surge
To roost on ledges of the crag
Where gray Kilbarron's wall, a rag
Of ancient pride, o'ertops the verge,
And, sprinkled with their frequent spray,
Watches the billows night and day.
'Twas spring-time now, but the mad weather
Mix'd all seasons up together.
IV.
Among those rocks, within a denOf driftwood and old sails, Three Men
Kept watch by turn, their smouldering log,
Scarlet heart of a pungent fog,
Hour by hour with sleepy light
Glimmering. All without this lair
Was darkness and the noise of night,
Where the wide waste of ocean roll'd
Thund'ring with savage crash, and air
In one tremendous torrent stream'd
Across the rocks, across the wold,
Across the murky world. It seem'd
There never could be daylight more
From earth to sky, on sea or shore.
V.
And who are these Three Watchers? Two,Brown of face and big of thew,
Half fishermen, half sailors, know
The tides and currents of the Bay,
With all the winds that round it blow;
One wakes, one sleeps; rough men are they.
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With slumber on his dark-fringed eyes,
And yet an anxious frowning face,
Youthful, but haggard. Sad his case
Who into Sleepland too must bear
The weary burden of his care.
Thy Father, Redmond, with his woes
And years, can better find repose.
VI.
His Father? let the humble strainThat tells of him be brief and plain.
Land-surveyor by his trade,
A modest living thus he made,
Being honest, frugal, diligent
(Such men not often fail), content
With what he had, averse from strife,
A good Man, with as good a Wife,
And two fine Boys. Their schooling done,
He strove to train the Elder Son
To take his place; but, partly wrought
By Nature in him, partly caught
From books and men, the Boy's desire
Of roaming kept his blood on fire,
Till Denis ran away to sea.
Alas, poor Mother! woe for thee,
Whose Son is not alive or dead.
Daily, long time, she smooth'd his bed;
Watch'd till the Postman shook his head
In passing; when the nights were wild,
Lay thinking of her firstborn Child,
The small white head that used to rest
So safely on her loving breast:
Where is it now? Boys little know
Of mothers' tears, how sad they flow.
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VII.
Redmond, the old folk's Younger Son,And now a ten times precious one,
Tall, active, gypsy-dark, well-featured,
Ready of wit and kindly-natured,
Vain, tho', and by his self-conceit
Easier than any fool to cheat,
Took to his Father's trade at first
Alertly; but the Lad was cursed
In his Companions; learnt to play
At cards, and out at night to stay,
And taste that fountain, unappall'd,
‘Water of Life’ most wrongly call'd;
Far truer will he speak who saith
‘Water of Evil,’ ‘Water of Death.’
The careful Father, growing old,
Saw business slipping from his hold,
Nor caught, as hope was, by the Son.
Leak of misfortune, once begun
Soon pour'd a flood; and they were poor,
When want is hardest to endure,
That aged Toiler and his Wife.
VIII.
Young Redmond broke his idle lifeWith fitful enterprise; of stills
Among the dark and lonely hills
He knew, and whereabouts to set
The salmon-poacher's cunning net.
By chance he saw and join'd for gain
To-night the sturdy Fishers twain,
Who from the crags of that rough coast,
With angry daylight gone almost,
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A British vessel by her rig,
Hopelessly tacking, every tack
Nigher the rocks whereon her back
Must soon be broken, and her masts
Flung down, and 'mid the shrieking blast's
Derision and the mad waves' hate
She and her crew must find their fate.
The coastguardmen were far away,
Busy elsewhere down the bay.
IX.
The Watchers know the wind and tide,And in their chosen shelter bide;
And Redmond sleeps amid the roar;
Sleeps, but with many a moan and start,
Remorseful, weak, unhappy heart,—
A shake, a voice, ‘The Brig's ashore!’
Then, sighing deep, he wakes, alone;
His Comrades are already gone.
He lights his lantern, straps it tight,
Buttons coat, pulls cap aright,
And out,—but in a moment turns;
His throat from evil custom yearns
For poison: ‘Curse them! have they hid
The bottle?’—eagerly he slid
His hand, found, clutch'd it, deeply quaff'd
With tremulous lips the burning draught,
Then rush'd into the night and storm.
X.
Silent the signal-gun's alarm,And quench'd the sudden blue-light's glare;
But down among the breakers there
A Black Bulk on their ghostly white
Hung in the meshes of the night,
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Redmond crept downwards, reach'd at last
'Mid flying foam a slant of rock
Whose lower slope receives the shock
And rush of billows. See! the surge
Hath left a Waif upon its verge,
And Redmond seizes it,—a Man,
Dead or alive? 'Tis all he can
To lift the drench'd and helpless form
A short way up. Yes, he is warm,
He lives, though doubtless badly hurt.
But what is this, so tightly girt
About his waist, heavy and full?
A leathern belt. In vain to pull!
That stubborn buckle will not slip,
Nor break to an impatient grip.
XI.
Stunn'd as he was, the Stranger feltFingers tampering with his belt;
He clutch'd the Robber, strove to rise;
But Redmond, fastening on the prize,
With ever-growing fury burn'd,
As now, his strength in part return'd,
The Man fought hard, and tried to shout.
The words were blown back in his throat,
And, stifled there by savage grasp,
Died off into a groan, a gasp,
When dragg'd across the rocky ledge
He hung upon the perilous edge
Of a black rugged gulf, wherein,
Sweeping up its midnight cave,
Was heard the stroke of heavy wave
Amidst the elemental din.
With one fierce action Redmond tore
The belt away, and flung him o'er.
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XII.
And in that moment pass'd a changeOn Redmond's life; the world grew strange.
He did not move or tremble or groan.
The Night and He were there alone.
Without a thought, without a plan,
He had robb'd and murder'd a man;
Whither to go, or what to do,
Whom seek, or shun, he nothing knew;
Nor whether it was calm or storm,
Nor whether he was cold or warm.
He crawl'd away; he found the Tent;
The place was empty, in he went,
Sat down bewilder'd. Half it seem'd
As though he had but slept and dream'd
This wretchedness, until he felt
His clammy fingers touch the Belt,
Which bit him worse than snake. He knew
That all the dreadful deed was true.
XIII.
A knife-slash! Coins of glitt'ring goldAcross the sullen fire-shine roll'd,
The Dead Man's treasure; also shone
A brass plate on the Belt, whereon
Was writing. Redmond stirr'd the flame,
Stoop'd forward, saw his Brother's name.
Springing to his feet upright
With one hoarse yell that tore the night
He flung the tent-sail open. There,
With bloody face and eyes a-stare,
Look'd in—his murder'd brother's Ghost.
Redmond, he knew not whither, fled,
To human gaze for ever lost.
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XIV.
And yet his Brother was not dead.He dropt upon a jutting shelf
Over the raging ocean-gulf,
Crept upwards, found the glimm'ring light.
Thence his Murderer took flight
Into the darkness. The cold wave
Swallow'd him. No man made his grave.
XV.
Redmond went forth at fall of night,Denis came back with morning light.
Whitebeard Father, trembling Mother,
Losing one Son to find another,
Strange were your thoughts!—tho' age no more
Wonders keenly as of yore.
Denis had written home, to say
That rich he would return some day,
Or never; but the lines were lost.
He sought the far Pacific Coast,
Mined, struggled, starved, lay at death's door,
Was three times rich and three times poor,
Then triumph'd, hurried east, and found
An Irish vessel homeward bound—
Which bore him straighter than was good.
So much the Parents understood.
And often by the snug fireside
Among the hills, far from the tide,
Where Denis kept their old age warm,
Curious strangers would they tell
About ‘the Night of the Big Storm;’
Yet never till the day they died
Knew how in truth it all befell.
But Denis told his Wife; nor she,
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For Redmond when she bow'd her knee.
And Denis doth his duties right
In house and field; tho' nothing can
Lift from the silent, serious man
The shadow of that Stormy Night.
XVI.
The rain-clouds and storm-clouds roll up from the seaThe sun and the morning disperse them: they flee.
The winds and the waves fall to silence. The blue
Overarches the world. There is plenty to do.
The Fisher rows forth, and the Seaman sets sail,
The Smith hits his iron, the Joiner his nail,
The red Ploughman plodding, the pale Tailor stitching,
The Clerk at his desk, and the Cook in her kitchen.
The poor little Folk in our poor little Town
On their poor little business go up and go down;
Like people in London and Paris and Rome,
And elsewhere that live under crystalline dome.
And each by himself, whether little or great,
Fulfils his own life and endures his own fate.
| Irish Songs and Poems | |