The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves :: :: University of Virginia Library

Cuchullin
Come down, fair Emer, from out thy prison,
Emer, my love, come down to me;
For the radiant moon at last has risen
That shall light us safe to the rolling sea.

Emer
Who is the hero, half-beholden
In the beechen shadow beneath my bower,
Of mien majestic and tresses golden,
Singing thus in the still night hour?

Cuchullin
It is I, Cuchullin, thy faithful lover,
Come from afar to set thee free;
It is I that stand in the beechen cover,
Sending my heart in song to thee.

Emer
Of my father stern, alas! I fear me,
Of my brothers brave and my kinsfolk all;
Ere thy mighty hands afar can bear me,
I must pass through their bright-lit banquet hall.

Cuchullin
Fear not thy kinsmen's hostile number,
Thy brothers brave and thy haughty sire;
Through the banquet hall they are stretched in slumber,
Quenched are the torches, dead the fire.

Emer
I fear for the fosse so deep and sullen,
And the watch-dogs fierce that bay on its brim;
Not for myself I fear, Cuchullin,
But lest they should rend thee limb from limb.

Cuchullin
Thy father's hounds are my old companions,
They will fawn at my feet till, as eagles float
Out from the rock with their young on their pinions,
With thee at my bosom I leap the moat.

Emer
Every Sept is our kinship boasting
Over Bregia north to Dun-Lir;
They will follow at dawn with such a hosting,
Alas! alas! for thy life I fear.

Cuchullin
See! how my war-car bounds in the shadows,
Light as a golden boat on the bay!
Lo! my good steeds! that athwart the meadows
Tempest-footed shall whirl us away.

Emer
Good-bye! for ever my father, my father,
For a loving heart to me you bore.
Good-bye, fair Lusk, I shall never gather
Thy sweet wild blossoms and berries more.
Good-bye for ever, fortress of power,
And the lawn, and the beeches, I loved so well!
Good-bye for ever, my maiden bower,
Where Love first laid me under his spell!
My father—a bitter wrong I do him;
But thus, even thus, his power is past.
As the sea draws the little Tolka to him,
Thou hast drawn me, Cuchullin, to thee at last.
Like a god to his earthly mistress bending
Thou hast stooped for thy bride from the hills above.
I would die, Cuchullin, thy life defending,
And, oh, let me die if I lose thy love!

EMER'S FAREWELL TO CUCHULLIN

O might a maid confess her secret longing
To one who dearly loves but may not speak!
Alas! I had not hidden to thy wronging
A bleeding heart beneath a smiling cheek;
I had not stemmed my bitter tears from starting,
And thou hadst learned my bosom's dear distress,
And half the pain, the cruel pain of parting,
Had passed, Cuchullin, in thy fond caress.

But go! Connacia's hostile trumpets call thee,
Thy chariot mount and ride the ridge of war,
And prove whatever feat of arms befall thee,
The hope and pride of Emer of Lismore;
Ah, then return, my hero, girt with glory,
To knit my virgin heart so near to thine,
That all who seek thy name in Erin's story
Shall find its loving letters linked with mine.

CUCHULLIN'S LAMENT OVER FERDIAH

Oh, mightiest of the host of Maev,
Ferdiah, sweetest mouth of song,
Heroic arm most swift and strong
To slaughter or to save.

Oh, curls, oh, softly rustling wreath
Of yellow curls that round him rolled,
One beauteous belt of glistering gold—
Who laid you low in death?

Blue eyes that beamed with friendship bright
Upon me through the battle press,
Or o'er the mimic field of chess—
Who quenched your kingly light?

Alas, Ferdiah, overthrown
By this red hand at last you fell!
My bosom's brother, was it well?
Ochone, ochone, ochone!

AWAKE, AWAKE, FIANNA!

Awake, awake, Fianna!
For through the shadows, see,
Great Oscur is hosting hither
Beneath the red rowan tree.
And as we march to meet him,
The minstrels together raise
On joyful harp and tympan
The mighty Oscur's praise.

For height and might of stature,
A giant he stands rockfast,
And yet his foot for fleetness
Out-runneth the autumn blast.
His eyes are earnest azure,
His laughter a peal of pearls;
The coolun round his shoulders
A rain of ruddy curls.

Behold, behold, his chariot
Is bursting amid the foe!
Oh, hark! his dread spear hurtles;
Their leader in blood lies low.
A bard of bards is Oscur,
The moulder of mellow words,
A minstrel true is Oscur
Among the chiming chords.

THE ROYAL HUNT

Tantara rara, hark from Tara, how the herald's trumpet clear
Gaily summons King and Commons to the hunting of the deer;
And now the Ard Righ rides before us, circled by his shining court;
Whilst the crowd's acclaiming chorus hails him to the happy sport,
And tantara, tantara, tantara, tantara, hark the bugles' greeting
Soft echoes, re-echoes, re-echoes, and echoes far into the distance retreating.
Tantara rara, lirra lara! sweet the silver bugles blow,
Dogs are doubting, footmen shouting hunt the covers high and low.

Now uncouple Bran the supple, Bran and Scolan swift as flame!
Loose us Laom, loose us Taom, free us ev'ry hound of fame!
The stag is started in the hollow! Hark, the huntsman's view halloo!
Hark, the hounds in chorus follow! Hulla hulla, hulla hoo!
While tantara, tantara, fainter and fainter the horn is now replying,
And further, and further, and further, and further—the hunt in the distance is dying.
Tantara rara now from Tara over hill and dale we go,
While we chevy, yoicks, tantivy, tally, tally, tallyho!

ANCIENT LULLABY

O sleep, my baby, you are sharing
With the sun in rest repairing;
While the moon her silver chair in
Watches with your mother.
Shoheen, sho lo!
Lulla lo lo!

The morning on a bed of roses,
Evening on rude hills reposes:
Dusk his heavy eyelid closes
Under dreamy curtains.
Shoheen, sho lo!
Lulla lo lo!

The winds lie lulled on bluest billows,
Shining stars on cloudy pillows,
Waters under nodding willows,
Mists upon the mountains.
Shoheen, sho lo!
Lulla lo lo!

Upon the fruits, upon the flowers,
On the wood-birds in their bowers,
On low huts and lofty towers
Blessed sleep has fallen.
Shoheen, sho lo!
Lulla lo lo!

And, ah! my child, as free from cumber,
Thus thro' life could'st thou but slumber,
Thus in death go join the number
Of God's smiling angels.
Shoheen, sho lo!
Lulla lo lo!

OISEEN'S LAMENT FOR OSCUR

I sought my own son over Gowra's black field,
Where the host of the Fians was shattered,
Where fell all our mighty ones, and helmet and shield
O'er the red earth lay shamefully scattered.
I sought my own Oscur and my proud heart upleaped,
As at last on a lone ridge I found him,
His stern hand still clinging to the sword that had reaped
Swathe on swathe of the dead foes around him.

He held out his arms, though the drear mist of death
Had begun o'er his bright eyes to gather.
“I thank God,” he faltered with his failing breath,
“That thou still art unhurt, oh, my father.”
Then down, down I knelt by my heart's dearest one,
All else beside him forgetting;
Till Oscur's proud spirit passed forth like the sun
In a red sea of glory setting.

PATRICK AND OISEEN.

Oiseen, Oiseen, too long is thy slumber.
Oiseen, arise, and give ear to the chant;
Thy force hath forsook thee, thy battles are over,
And without us, old man, thou would'st perish of want.

“My force hath forsook me, my battles are over;
Since, alas! the famed empire of Finn is no more,
And without you, indeed, 'tis for want I should perish,
But, since Finn, sweetest music is music no more.”

“Nay, foolish old man, for all of thy vaunting,
Of the loud Dord-Finn chorus, the tympan and horn,
Thou hast never heard music like matin bells ringing,
Or solemn psalms sung in the still summer morn.”

“Though greatly thou praisest the chants of the clerics,
I had rather lie listening down in the dale
To the voice of the cuckoo of Letterkee calling;
Or the very sweet thrushes of green Glenn-a-Sgail;

“Or the song of the blackbird of Derrycarn gushing
So full and so free in the woods of the West
(Oh, Patrick, no hymn under heaven could approach it!
Ah, would that I only were under his nest!).

“And I'd far liefer hearken the eagle's fierce whistle,
From lone Glenamoo or the Ridge by the Stream,
Or list the loud thunder of rushing Tra-Rury,
Or catch on rough Irrus the sea-gull's scream.

“And I'd bid long good-bye to the bells of the clerics,
Could I once again follow o'er mountain and moor
The tune of the twelve fleetest wolf hounds of Erin
Let loose with their faces away from the Suir.

“And Cnu, little Cnu of my bosom, where art thou?
O small fairy dwarf to the Finians so dear,
Whose harp ever soothed all our sorrows to slumber,
Ah, Cnu, little Cnu, how I would you were here.

“Where is now your betrothed one, oh, Cnu, where is Blathnaid?
Who stood up in beauty to sing when you played;
For the mouth of no mortal such sweetness could utter
As the soft, rosy mouth of that magical maid.”