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I.

When summer days are hot and blue,
How well for thee that mayst pursue
Far from the city's crowded street
The winding brook with wandering feet,
Conquer the mountain's airy crest,
Lose thee in woodland glade; or, best,
Breathe ocean-wind where curl'd waves roar,
Dart from the land in merry boat,
Dive into crystal green, swim, float,
Watch, on your cliff-sward stretch'd at rest,
Cloud-shadows cross the mighty floor,
Or pleated crimsons dye the west
As bit by bit the great Sun goes,
And soft the lazy ripple flows
Like sleep upon a wearied brain.
Suppose it thus; suppose thee fain
Of song or story, some wild thing
Reported from the mystic main,—
Of Dalachmar now hear me sing,
Son of a long-forgotten king.
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King Erc the Fortunate was dead,
Diarmad ruled the clans instead,
Of West Ierné, strong in war,
Generous in peace; and Dalachmar,
His younger brother, dwelt with him.
Nor showed the sun and moonlight dim
In those long-faded seasons; bright
Was many a fresh new morrow's light
Along the mountains, evening gold
Fell on the wave, in times of old.
Their Fortress-Hill, a mighty mound,
With houses built of the strong oak-tree,
Entrench'd and palisaded round,
Ring within ring, o'erlook'd the sea
And rugged woods of wolf and bear;
A land of gloomy pathways where
Wild men crept also to and fro
To snatch a prey with club and bow;
Till sharply blew the signal-horn
The warriors of the Rath to warn,
And bid them smite the plunderers back
With blood upon their hasty track.
Or sometimes ocean-rovers fierce
Dared with their waspish navy pierce
A river-mouth or guardless bay
And sting the land with fire and sword;
Then sped the warriors forth, to slay
And chase and scatter, and drive aboard.
But when the battle spoil was won,
Or when the hunting-day was done,
They heard, o'er fragrant cups of mead,
Their bards rehearse each daring deed
To ringing harps, or duly count
Those high ancestral steps that mount
To Balor and to Parthalon,
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Or some thrice-famous story tell
Of war, or dark Druidic spell
(To-day no weaker), or how well
A Spirit loved a mortal Youth;
And all was heard and held for truth.
 

Ancient Ireland.

two mythic heroes.

Archpoet Conn was old and blind.
No whiter to the autumnal wind
Marsh-cotton waves on rushy moor
Than flow'd his hair and beard, and pure
His raiment when he sat in hall
As torrent-foam or seagull's breast.
The King, in seven rich colours drest,
Pledged him at feast and festival,
And gladly to his master's voice
Conn bow'd the snowy, sightless head.
Young Dalachmar, in robe of red,
Sat next the Bard, of kindly choice,
And spake to him and carved his dish,
And fill'd the goblet to his wish,
That love for loss might make amends;
For youth and age were steadfast friends.
And many a time with careful hand
He led the Sage to the salt sea-sand,
Slow-pacing by the murmurous flood,
Or to a shelter'd glen where stood
One sacred oak-tree, broad and low,
Firm as the rocks that saw it grow,
A cromlech, and a pillar-stone.
And, year by year, of things unknown
He learn'd.
In shadow of that oak
Conn taught the Prince of fairy-folk
Who dwell within the hollow hills,
In founts of rivers and of rills,
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In caves and woods, and some that be
Underneath the cold green sea;
The spells they cast on mortal men,
And spells to master these again;
And Dalachmar all that strange lore
Longing heard and lonely ponder'd,
Musing, wondering, as he wander'd
Through the forest or by the shore.
And when his elder Brother said,
‘My Brother, with the brow of care!
O Dalachmar! I rede thee, wed;
No lack of noble maids and fair;’—
Ever the younger Chief replied,
‘Yea—but I have not seen my bride,
Though many beauties; when I see,
Know her I shall, and she know me.’
—‘I dread lest thou have turn'd thy mind
To something man may never find,
Some love the wide earth cannot give.’
—‘So must I ever loveless live!’
Nor thought his pensive fortune hard,
Communing with the wise old Bard.
But winter came, and Conn no more
Slow enter'd hall, or paced on sand,
Or sat in shadow of oak-tree bough;
If you should search the sea and land
You could not find his white head now,
Unless beneath a cairn of stones
Where round Slieve Rann the north-wind moans.
And young Prince Dalachmar thought long
The nights of darkness; tale or song,
Or maiden's eyes, to youth so dear,
Banquet, or jest, or hunting-spear,
He nothing prized, or warrior-fame
Once green with promise round his name.
Though gentle, he could wield a sword,
And plunge into the waves of war;
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Lorcan, who spake an evil word,
Hand to hand in fight he slew;
And when a wildboar overthrew
His elder brother, Dalachmar
Leapt from his horse with ready knife
And found the fierce brute's throbbing life
In one sharp stroke. But weary pass'd
Midwinter now. The barren sea
Roar'd, and the forest roar'd, and he
Was lonely in his thoughts.
At last
One day 'twas spring. Dim swelling buds
Thicken'd the web of forest boughs,
Bird and beast began to arouse,
Caper'd and voiced in glad relief;
The salmon cleft the river-floods,
The otter launch'd from his hole in the bank,
Away went the wild swans' airy rank
From salt lagoon; far out on the reef
The seals lay basking; broadly bright
Ocean glitter'd in morning light;
And the young Chief sprang to his little boat
And paddled away on the deep afloat,
By dreadful precipice and cave,
Where slumbers now the greedy wave
Lull'd by that blue heav'n above.
Then, so it chanced, his coracle
Glided into a rocky cove
And up a lonely little strand;
And out he stept on sunny sand
Whereon a jagged shadow fell
From the steep o'erhanging cliff,
And drew ashore his fragile skiff.
What spies he on the tawny sand?
A cold sea-jelly, cast away
By fling of ebbing water?——nay!
A little Cap, of changeful sheen,
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A seamless Cap of rippled green
Mingling with purple like the hue
Of ocean weeds.
He stoop'd; its touch
Like thinnest lightning ran him through
With blissful shiver, sharp and new!
What might it mean? for never such
A chance had come to Dalachmar;
He felt as when, in dream, a star
Flew to him, bird-like, from the sky.
But then he heard a sad low cry,
And, turning, saw five steps away—
Was it a Woman?—strange and bright,
With long loose hair, and her body fair
Shimmering as with watery light;
For nothing save a luminous mist
Of tender beryl and amethyst
Over the living smoothness lay,
Statue-firm from head to feet,—
A breathing Woman, soft and sweet,
And yet not earthly.
So she stood
One marvellous moment in his sight;
Then, lapsing to another mood,
Her mouth's infantine loveliness
Trembling pleaded in sore distress;
Her wide blue eyes with great affright
Were fill'd; two slender hands she press'd
Against the roundlings of her breast,
Then with a fond face full of fears
She held them forth, and heavy tears
Brimm'd in silence and overflow'd.
He, doubting much what this might be,
Watch'd her.
Swiftly pointed she;
Utter'd some sound of foreign speech;
But Dalachmar held out of reach
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The Cap, behind-back,—and so each
Regarded other.
Then she flung
Her arms aloft,—stood straight,—her wide
Eyes gazed on his, and into him;
And she began a solemn song,
Of words uncouth, slow up and down;
A song that deepen'd as she sung,
That soon was loud and swift and strong
Like the rising of a tide,
With power to seize and drench and drown
The senses,—till his sight grew dim,
A torpor crept on every limb.
What could he do?—an ocean-spell
Was on him.
But old wisdom rush'd
Into his mind, and with a start,
One gasp of breath, one leap of heart,
He pluck'd his dagger from its sheath,
Held forth the little Cap beneath
Its glittering point. The song was hush'd.
Prone on the yellow sand she fell.
He kneels, he takes her hands, with gentle,
Tender, passionate words—in vain;
Then with a heart of love and pain
Wraps her in his crimson mantle,
Lifts her, lays her down with care,
As she a one-year infant were,
Within his woven coracle,
And o'er the smooth sea guides it well,
And bears her up the rocky path,
And through the circles of the Rath,
To Banva's bower, his sister dear.
There, half in pity, half in fear,
The women tend her, till she sighs
And opens wide her wondrous eyes.
Dalachmar alone of all
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In his deep heart understood
Of this Damsel dimly bright
Wafted from the salt-sea flood;
Like a queen when cloth'd aright.
Only a little web, more light
Than any silk, that halfway goes
Between the fingers and the toes,
Her under-ocean breeding shows.
She hath wept and ceased to weep;
Slow her wearied eyelids fall;
Lay her softly, let her sleep.
 

a kind of stone sepulchre.

‘Bright and strange One, where wert found?
(Sleep! while Banva sings)
From caves and waves of the fishful sea,
From swell and knell of the rolling tide
(Slumber! while we sing to thee),
Borne forlorn to our fortress-mound
(Sleep! while Banva sings).
Fairest maiden, sea-blue-eyed,
Sea-shell-tinted, thy unbound
And wavy-flowing hair is dried
And comb'd away on either side
(While Banva sings, and Derdra sings),
Down from smoothly pillow'd head;
Safe art thou on shadowy bed;
Sleep now—safe art thou
In the Dūn of Kings.’
She slept. They heard a thrush outside
Clear across vernal woods, the tide
Searching among his rocks below,
And the spearman pacing to and fro.
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