From the Land of Dreams :: :: University of Virginia Library

Oh! the voices of the wind, the soft sweet voices,
The melancholy voices of the wind,
Bear me gently to the peaks of ancient vision,
The lone and silent mountains of the mind;
And the spirit of old Ireland to my spirit
Speaks like solitude, and desolately fills
Their silence with the passion I inherit
From her valleys and her hills.

II

Pale Kings, and hoary Druids in procession
Pass me sighing, with old sorrow in their eyes;
While the wind, the passionate wind, with fitful wailing
In his airy tongue of mystery replies.
Grave Kings, and Bards, and Druids without number
Pass by me with the wind whereon they pass,
Sweeping o'er me like a terror felt in slumber,
As a windflaw sweeps the grass.

III

The Danann gods pass by, majestic phantoms,
Like shining clouds, bright children of the morn;
But the gods of gloom have dimmed their ancient splendour,
Where, like wizards, in their tombs they dwell forlorn;
Where their beauty they have hidden from derision,
Whence they wander, veiled in storm or twilight grey;
But their beauty still shines on the peaks of vision,
And shall never pass away.

IV

There the Daghda walks the wind, the great Mor Riga
Floats beside him to the hosting of their clan,
Angus Ōg is there, grey Lir, Bōv Derg, and Cleena,

VOICES.

The Danann gods and goddesses were the descendants of the Daghda (Father) and his wife Dana, The Mor Riga (great queen), who was the war goddess.

Angus Og, The Love-god, was the Irish Eros. Lir was a sea-god, like his son Manannan, and Cleena ruled over one of the three magic waves, which roared on the coast of Ireland when danger threatened.

Bov Derg was King of the Dananns.

Queen of the moaning wave, and Manannan;
Their voice is on the winds, their druid power
Enchants with youth and love the Land of Dreams,
Their beauty and their glamour are the dower
Of her mountains, vales and streams.

V

There is music on the winds and o'er the waters,
They are singing still, the wandering Swans of Lir,
Silver-pure the voice of love-inspired Fianola,
Through the long night of enchantment ringing clear;
Like the voice of Ireland's heart she makes the nightwind
Ache with wild hopes that in her breast are sore,
Till the red wind from the East, her spirit's blight wind,
Shall have power to blight to more.

VI

There are voices on the peaks of ancient vision,
They call the dreamers in the Land of Dreams;
The young men hear, and wake, and in the morning
Go singing through her vales and by her streams;
Making music that shall win the world hereafter,
Making songs that shall go ringing down the years
Of tears that weep within the house of laughter,
Of joys baptized in tears.