 | From the Land of Dreams |  |
68
BARDIC TALES
THE WAVES' LEGEND ON THE STRAND OF BALA
I
The sea moans on the strand,Moans over shingle and shell;
O moaning sea! what sorrowful story
Do thy wild waves tell?
II
Ever they moan on the strand,And my ear, like a sounding shell,
Chants to me the sorrowful story
The moaning billows tell:
III
For Bala the Sweet-Voiced moan!Here on the lonely strand
Fell Bala, Prince of the Race of Rury,
Slain by no foeman's hand.
IV
Sweet was your tongue, O Bala,To win men's love; your voice
Made sigh for you the maids of Eman;
But nobler was your choice.
69
V
She gave for your heart her heart,Warm in her swan-white breast,
Aillin of Laigen, Lugah's daughter,
The fairest bird of his nest.
VI
Their pledge was here by the shoreTo meet, come joy or pain;
And swift in his war-car Bala from Eman
Sped o'er the sundering plain.
VII
He found her not by the shore,Gloom was o'er sea and sky,
And a man of the Shee with dreadful face
On a blast from the south rushed by.
VIII
Said Bala: “Stay that man!Ask him what word he brings?”
“A woe on the Dun of Lugah! A woe
On Eman of the Kings!
IX
“Wail for Aillin the Fair!Wail for him her feet
Were swift to seek on the lonely strand
Where they shall never meet!
70
X
“Swift were her feet on the way,Till me she meet on her track,
A hound of swiftness, a shape of fear,
A tiding to turn her back.
XI
“Swift are the lover's feet,But swifter our malice flies!
I told her: Bala is dead; and dead
In her sunny house she lies.”
XII
He scowled on Bala and roseA wrath of the mist, and fled
Like a wind-rent cloud; and suddenly Bala,
With a great cry, fell dead.
XIII
So moans the sea on the strand,Moans over shingle and shell.
O moaning sea, of many a sorrow
These wild waves tell!
71
THE DEATH OF CONLAOCH
THE DEATH OF CONLAOCH.
This Tale belongs to the last cycle of Bardic
Tales, the Ultonian Cycle of the Red-Branch,
The Men of Ulster, whose King was Conchobar,
“Hound of Help.” Con, or Cu, means a hound,
and the great Irish wolfhound was regarded as
the noblest of animals, and therefore the word
forms a part of the names of many of the Red-Branch
Champions. Cuchullain means Hound of
Culan, the great smith, who forged armour and
chariots for the Ulstermen. Cuchullain when a boy
was named Setanta, and once, roving with his
hurl and ball, he came to the workshop of Culan,
where he was attacked by a fierce dog, who
guarded the door. This dog he killed with his
hurl; but on hearing the lamentation of Culan
over his faithful guard, he promised to take the
dog's place and defend the door. Hence his
Champion's name.
The Champion's vow, laid upon Conlaoch by
his mother, is an instance of the strange vows
laid upon the Champions when their training in
all manly exercises and feats of war was finished,
and they “took their spears” from their
teachers, or from the King's hand. These vows
often produced fatal consequences, as they took
precedence of all other obligations. The vow of
Fergus, never to refuse a feast, led to the death
of the sons of Usna, whom he had promised to
accompany to Conchobar's court, and protect
them there.
THE DEATH OF CONLAOCH.
This Tale belongs to the last cycle of Bardic Tales, the Ultonian Cycle of the Red-Branch, The Men of Ulster, whose King was Conchobar, “Hound of Help.” Con, or Cu, means a hound, and the great Irish wolfhound was regarded as the noblest of animals, and therefore the word forms a part of the names of many of the Red-Branch Champions. Cuchullain means Hound of Culan, the great smith, who forged armour and chariots for the Ulstermen. Cuchullain when a boy was named Setanta, and once, roving with his hurl and ball, he came to the workshop of Culan, where he was attacked by a fierce dog, who guarded the door. This dog he killed with his hurl; but on hearing the lamentation of Culan over his faithful guard, he promised to take the dog's place and defend the door. Hence his Champion's name.
The Champion's vow, laid upon Conlaoch by his mother, is an instance of the strange vows laid upon the Champions when their training in all manly exercises and feats of war was finished, and they “took their spears” from their teachers, or from the King's hand. These vows often produced fatal consequences, as they took precedence of all other obligations. The vow of Fergus, never to refuse a feast, led to the death of the sons of Usna, whom he had promised to accompany to Conchobar's court, and protect them there.
THE BARD'S PRELUDE
I
O Strand of the sorrowful waves! O Strand of Bala! Once moreThe wind-swept grass of your dunes is my whispering bed, and I hear
The songs your sorrowful waves moan always along the shore,
The old stories your winds through the grass come whispering in my ear.
II
They whisper, and all the coast is a druid mist in my eyes,And my heart is a glory of flame, like a dewdrop's heart, when the sun
Kindles its heavenly colours; and round me clear visions rise,
As the eye within me opens, and my Path of the Seers is won.
72
THE SON OF AIFÉ
Among the pines of Alba was the birth
Of Conlaoch; when the salt, sad winds of the sea,
On a wild night of storm, o'er Scatha's dun
Moaned in the branches; and around the house
The gulls and curlews cried, ere his first wail
Was answered by the bleak roar of the surf.
Of Conlaoch; when the salt, sad winds of the sea,
On a wild night of storm, o'er Scatha's dun
Moaned in the branches; and around the house
The gulls and curlews cried, ere his first wail
Was answered by the bleak roar of the surf.
There, by her daughter's couch, with murmured spells
To stay his coming till the lucky hour
Of birth should look on Aifé and her babe,
Sat red-maned Scatha; while, without a groan,
The mother lay, hating her child unborn.
With loathing and contemptuous bitterness
She smelt the balmy fume of magic herbs
Cast by the old sorceress on the glowing turf,
And heard the birth-rune wrathfully; and thus
Storm on the sea, storm in his mother's heart,
He passed the gates of birth.
To stay his coming till the lucky hour
Of birth should look on Aifé and her babe,
Sat red-maned Scatha; while, without a groan,
The mother lay, hating her child unborn.
With loathing and contemptuous bitterness
She smelt the balmy fume of magic herbs
Cast by the old sorceress on the glowing turf,
And heard the birth-rune wrathfully; and thus
Storm on the sea, storm in his mother's heart,
He passed the gates of birth.
But magic herbs
And chanted spells are weak to stay the loom
Of those grey weavers, in whose gleaming web
Dark powers with fateful dyes the threads imbue;
And his good hour looked on the boy too late.
And chanted spells are weak to stay the loom
Of those grey weavers, in whose gleaming web
Dark powers with fateful dyes the threads imbue;
And his good hour looked on the boy too late.
That Scatha knew; yet cried: “A child is born,
Beautiful in his form, and in his heart
The seed of valour. Conlaoch be his name—
A Hound of War!”
73
The seed of valour. Conlaoch be his name—
A Hound of War!”
So Conlaoch came, the flower
Of a noble tree; for when in Scatha's School
Cuchullain learnt the mystery of arms:
The seven feats of dexterity and strength,
The nine great feats of valour, of all there
He had the mastery, save of one alone,
Aifé, and her he strove with day by day,
A year's four seasons, and vanquished her at last;
For love had tamed her fierceness, and her proud heart
Turned to her conqueror. Short was the delight
She had with him. Soon the untarrying morn
She hid from in her lover's arms, yet knew
With every pulse's beat stole ever nearer,
A sorrow on the track of her glad hours
Not to be stayed, came swooping from the East
On silent wings. It chilled her bodeful heart,
And passing looked on her with its bleak eyes,
And left joy slain. Cuchullain must go forth
To take his champion's arms from Conchobar.
Of a noble tree; for when in Scatha's School
Cuchullain learnt the mystery of arms:
The seven feats of dexterity and strength,
The nine great feats of valour, of all there
He had the mastery, save of one alone,
Aifé, and her he strove with day by day,
A year's four seasons, and vanquished her at last;
For love had tamed her fierceness, and her proud heart
Turned to her conqueror. Short was the delight
She had with him. Soon the untarrying morn
She hid from in her lover's arms, yet knew
With every pulse's beat stole ever nearer,
A sorrow on the track of her glad hours
Not to be stayed, came swooping from the East
On silent wings. It chilled her bodeful heart,
And passing looked on her with its bleak eyes,
And left joy slain. Cuchullain must go forth
To take his champion's arms from Conchobar.
Sad was their parting; and there upon the strand
Cuchullain took from Aifé's hand a spear
Armed with an eastern dragon's venemous teeth
By Bolg, the Son of Buan. “Take it,” she said.
“I give thee here no spindle of a girl,
Wherewith she spins man's comfort in soft wool.
Round the red Queen of Carnage, when she weaves
The web of death, and spears, her shuttles, fly,
No spear so deadly sings above the slain.”
Cuchullain took from Aifé's hand a spear
74
By Bolg, the Son of Buan. “Take it,” she said.
“I give thee here no spindle of a girl,
Wherewith she spins man's comfort in soft wool.
Round the red Queen of Carnage, when she weaves
The web of death, and spears, her shuttles, fly,
No spear so deadly sings above the slain.”
The ghastliest love-gift ever woman gave
She gave him then. Five were the battle-horns,
Stronger than steel and sharp in point and blade,
Arming its head, and in its raging breast
Lurked the slain dragon's malice.
She gave him then. Five were the battle-horns,
Stronger than steel and sharp in point and blade,
Arming its head, and in its raging breast
Lurked the slain dragon's malice.
With wistful eyes
She looked upon him, saying, “Remember me
By this, my gift—my last gift; for I know
That, parting now, we part for evermore.
No more may thou and I in happy days
Meet in these woods, or walk on this white strand.
Farewell! That spear will be thy last defence,
And keep thy life in many a dreadful hour.”
She looked upon him, saying, “Remember me
By this, my gift—my last gift; for I know
That, parting now, we part for evermore.
No more may thou and I in happy days
Meet in these woods, or walk on this white strand.
Farewell! That spear will be thy last defence,
And keep thy life in many a dreadful hour.”
Cuchullain lightly wielded it, and smiled,
“The voice of all the rivers of my veins
Sings in my heart for this great gift my thanks!
A warrior's life, my love, is not his own;
But count me fooled by some forgetful spell,
Or some rash vow, if I come back no more;
Since here I hold death to my enemies
Life to myself.”
“The voice of all the rivers of my veins
Sings in my heart for this great gift my thanks!
A warrior's life, my love, is not his own;
But count me fooled by some forgetful spell,
Or some rash vow, if I come back no more;
75
Life to myself.”
To her he gave a ring,
Saying: “Out of the mingling of our blood
A proud hope, Aifé, smiles upon us now,
A child of joy, in whom our love shall flower
In such a flame of valour as never yet
Shone where keen blades reap the red sheaves of war.
Thou hast taught me how to woo thee as men woo
Strong warrior queens; teach him all sleights of arms
We used against each other, when we played
The glorious game of war, the battle-glee
In our fierce hearts. And when the boy is grown,
If I live still, send him to me, this ring
Upon his hand, that we may meet in joy.”
“That will I do,” she said, “though false or true
His father prove himself.” She took the ring
And fiercely clasped her lover, with a kiss
That might have kindled love in a dead heart.
Saying: “Out of the mingling of our blood
A proud hope, Aifé, smiles upon us now,
A child of joy, in whom our love shall flower
In such a flame of valour as never yet
Shone where keen blades reap the red sheaves of war.
Thou hast taught me how to woo thee as men woo
Strong warrior queens; teach him all sleights of arms
We used against each other, when we played
The glorious game of war, the battle-glee
In our fierce hearts. And when the boy is grown,
If I live still, send him to me, this ring
Upon his hand, that we may meet in joy.”
“That will I do,” she said, “though false or true
His father prove himself.” She took the ring
And fiercely clasped her lover, with a kiss
That might have kindled love in a dead heart.
So parted they, and Aifé from the shore
Waved her sad last farewell, while the swift bark
Fled like a gull, vanishing o'er the sea.
Waved her sad last farewell, while the swift bark
Fled like a gull, vanishing o'er the sea.
76
THE SENDING OF CONLAOCH.
Before her child was born, from o'er the sea,
In a bad hour, this news to Aifé came:
“Cuchullain weds with Emer.” In her ear,
And in her jealous heart, that message dwelt,
Poisoning the sweet springs of her motherhood
While the child grew. Love battling with dark hate
Strove in the storms of her breast; yet the boy grew,
No blemish on him, beautiful and strong,
The child of love, not hate; blithe as a fawn,
And fearless as a hound of noble race;
Yet gently he endured his mother's moods,
And when she raged would coax her from her spleen
With some bright roguish answer, deftly shot
Athwart her bitter humour, like a ray
Of sunshine through the lowering of a storm.
In a bad hour, this news to Aifé came:
“Cuchullain weds with Emer.” In her ear,
And in her jealous heart, that message dwelt,
Poisoning the sweet springs of her motherhood
While the child grew. Love battling with dark hate
Strove in the storms of her breast; yet the boy grew,
No blemish on him, beautiful and strong,
The child of love, not hate; blithe as a fawn,
And fearless as a hound of noble race;
Yet gently he endured his mother's moods,
And when she raged would coax her from her spleen
With some bright roguish answer, deftly shot
Athwart her bitter humour, like a ray
Of sunshine through the lowering of a storm.
As an oak sapling planted by a stream
He grew and throve under his mother's eyes—
Sad eyes too proud for tears; now soft awhile,
Surprised by love; now cold and fierce again,
Sternly she trained him in all games of war,
Till in the School of Scatha every feat
His father did no worse did he, the down
Of manhood on his face.
He grew and throve under his mother's eyes—
Sad eyes too proud for tears; now soft awhile,
Surprised by love; now cold and fierce again,
Sternly she trained him in all games of war,
Till in the School of Scatha every feat
His father did no worse did he, the down
Of manhood on his face.
77
But when his thumb
Could hold his father's ring, grimly she set
That ring upon his hand, and laid upon him
Three champion's vows; the first: “Ne'er to go back
Before a living man, but sooner die”;
The second: “Never to avoid the proof
Of battle, though the champion of the world
Frowned in his face; but sooner die”; the third:
“For any man's fair word, or threat of death,
Never to tell his name.”
Could hold his father's ring, grimly she set
That ring upon his hand, and laid upon him
Three champion's vows; the first: “Ne'er to go back
Before a living man, but sooner die”;
The second: “Never to avoid the proof
Of battle, though the champion of the world
Frowned in his face; but sooner die”; the third:
“For any man's fair word, or threat of death,
Never to tell his name.”
Bitter that day
Was Aifé's heart, where, through long waiting years,
While never back to her arms over the sea
Cuchullain came, the black witch jealousy
Sat like a carrion bird, with gloomy spell
Blighting the flowers of love, chanting for ever
In hoarse monotonous voice one baleful word,
“Revenge!” Now, as the mother kissed her son,
And sent him forth saying: “This ring will find
Thy father,” in her heart she heard that song;
And, even when on his hand she kissed the ring,
Her eyes hot with the memory of old tears,
Out of the dreary cave of her sick brain,
Where Love lay on his bier, crept a dark thought,
Whispering: “Now let the father slay the son,
The son his father, my false lover's wrong
Shall be avenged at last, and I can die.”
Was Aifé's heart, where, through long waiting years,
While never back to her arms over the sea
Cuchullain came, the black witch jealousy
Sat like a carrion bird, with gloomy spell
Blighting the flowers of love, chanting for ever
In hoarse monotonous voice one baleful word,
“Revenge!” Now, as the mother kissed her son,
And sent him forth saying: “This ring will find
Thy father,” in her heart she heard that song;
And, even when on his hand she kissed the ring,
Her eyes hot with the memory of old tears,
78
Where Love lay on his bier, crept a dark thought,
Whispering: “Now let the father slay the son,
The son his father, my false lover's wrong
Shall be avenged at last, and I can die.”
So did they part, and Aifé from the strand
Watched Conlaoch's bark over the heaving waves
Flee like a gull, and vanish in the sea.
Watched Conlaoch's bark over the heaving waves
Flee like a gull, and vanish in the sea.
CONLAOCH'S CHALLENGE
Over the Strand of Bala and the sea
A morning of great sunshine filled the sky,
Making the fathomless deep of tender air
One azure flame, and with soft inward light
Flooding the bosom of each sailing cloud
That slowly on its way voyaged serene,
High o'er the Strand of Bala and the sea.
A morning of great sunshine filled the sky,
Making the fathomless deep of tender air
One azure flame, and with soft inward light
Flooding the bosom of each sailing cloud
That slowly on its way voyaged serene,
High o'er the Strand of Bala and the sea.
On the broad Strand of Bala white-capt waves,
Tripping their ancient measure, up the shore
Danced gleefully, and paused, and turning drew
The lazy pebbles down with murmurous noise.
Green leagues of heaving billows, far away
Gleamed in the sunlight, darkened in the gloom
Where fell the shadow of a passing cloud.
Tripping their ancient measure, up the shore
Danced gleefully, and paused, and turning drew
The lazy pebbles down with murmurous noise.
Green leagues of heaving billows, far away
Gleamed in the sunlight, darkened in the gloom
Where fell the shadow of a passing cloud.
The peace of morn reigned in the sunny sky,
Reigned o'er the Strand of Bala and the sea.
Reigned o'er the Strand of Bala and the sea.
79
There on the lonely strand a Warrior Youth
Came, landing through the surf: the battle-dress
Upon him like the ransom of a King,
For splendour; like the glory of the looms
In a Queen's house the mantle that he wore.
The cathbarr on his head blazed like a star;
The beauty of his hair, flame of his youth,
Gleamed on his broad shoulders. Firmly he stood
On his well-planted feet as a tall pine
That grips with its tough root the wind-swept crag;
Or moved with springing step like the red buck
Who rules the mountain-glens, and keeps his realm
Against all foes. Valour and strength and grace
He wore upon him, as the rowan-tree,
Royal by ancient birthright, in the woods
Wears with blithe dignity her coral crown,
And knows not her own beauty. So that day
Came Conlaoch to the strand.
Came, landing through the surf: the battle-dress
Upon him like the ransom of a King,
For splendour; like the glory of the looms
In a Queen's house the mantle that he wore.
The cathbarr on his head blazed like a star;
The beauty of his hair, flame of his youth,
Gleamed on his broad shoulders. Firmly he stood
On his well-planted feet as a tall pine
That grips with its tough root the wind-swept crag;
Or moved with springing step like the red buck
Who rules the mountain-glens, and keeps his realm
Against all foes. Valour and strength and grace
He wore upon him, as the rowan-tree,
Royal by ancient birthright, in the woods
Wears with blithe dignity her coral crown,
And knows not her own beauty. So that day
Came Conlaoch to the strand.
There by the ship
He left his crew, and, striding from the shore
Shone like a Danann god high on the ridge
Of sun-kist sand-hills, terrible as Lugh,
When in his eye kindles the battle-glee;
Beautiful as young Angus, when he stands
Upon on eastern hill, and wakes the day
With the far-sounding music of his harp.
He left his crew, and, striding from the shore
Shone like a Danann god high on the ridge
Of sun-kist sand-hills, terrible as Lugh,
When in his eye kindles the battle-glee;
Beautiful as young Angus, when he stands
Upon on eastern hill, and wakes the day
80
O Spear of Lugh! for what strange combat now
Yearns the relentless fury of thy blade?
O sweet-voiced birds of Angus, bringing dreams,
What dream fires the Boy's heart, as on his arm
He lifts his death-defying shield, and waves
His spears aloft, and far before him sends
The joy of his voice in that clear challenging shout?
Yearns the relentless fury of thy blade?
O sweet-voiced birds of Angus, bringing dreams,
What dream fires the Boy's heart, as on his arm
He lifts his death-defying shield, and waves
His spears aloft, and far before him sends
The joy of his voice in that clear challenging shout?
Beyond the sandy ridges by the Strand
Of Bala, in the lowlands where the cows
O'er the green meadows, by the wandering stream
Of gently-flowing Fane, pastured in peace,
The young men kept the ford for Conchobar;
Who, far from ruined Eman, burnt in wrath
By Fergus, for the death of Usna's Sons,
Reigned sadly in Dundalgan by the sea.
Of Bala, in the lowlands where the cows
O'er the green meadows, by the wandering stream
Of gently-flowing Fane, pastured in peace,
The young men kept the ford for Conchobar;
Who, far from ruined Eman, burnt in wrath
By Fergus, for the death of Usna's Sons,
Reigned sadly in Dundalgan by the sea.
Clear to the young men's booth rang that stern shout,
And three came forth to meet upon the dunes
Young Conlaoch where he stood. Greeting him there,
They said: “O Warrior Youth, come you to us
This day in peace or war, out of the sea?
From what strange land fare you, on what strange quest,
Shining in arms against us, and your voice
Vexing the air with such a battle-cry?
If it be death you seek, these plains can yield
Stones for your cairn; if not, you have come astray,
Perchance to light on danger.”
And three came forth to meet upon the dunes
Young Conlaoch where he stood. Greeting him there,
They said: “O Warrior Youth, come you to us
This day in peace or war, out of the sea?
From what strange land fare you, on what strange quest,
Shining in arms against us, and your voice
81
If it be death you seek, these plains can yield
Stones for your cairn; if not, you have come astray,
Perchance to light on danger.”
Cheerily
Sounded the northern music of his voice
In his bold answer: “Flower of the valorous host
Of Conchobar, from no chance-driven ship,
Ill-steered, or wandering from her course, I come
From oversea, to find my feet astray
In your long-famous Land. No fear of death
Dismays my heart; for here I come to seek
The proof of battle, and one to put me down;
And slain will I before him fall, or take
His glory from him in fair fight this day.”
Smiling in scorn they said: “Grandly must sound
Your name upon the tongues of men, fair youth,
If you can match the least whose shield adorns
Our House of Arms. But shame of ignorance
Reddens our cheeks, asking your name and kin.
What champion comes over the sea to tame
The pride of Connall Cearnach, or mayhap
Win glory from the Hound of Uladh now?”
Sounded the northern music of his voice
In his bold answer: “Flower of the valorous host
Of Conchobar, from no chance-driven ship,
Ill-steered, or wandering from her course, I come
From oversea, to find my feet astray
In your long-famous Land. No fear of death
Dismays my heart; for here I come to seek
The proof of battle, and one to put me down;
And slain will I before him fall, or take
His glory from him in fair fight this day.”
Smiling in scorn they said: “Grandly must sound
Your name upon the tongues of men, fair youth,
If you can match the least whose shield adorns
Our House of Arms. But shame of ignorance
Reddens our cheeks, asking your name and kin.
What champion comes over the sea to tame
The pride of Connall Cearnach, or mayhap
Win glory from the Hound of Uladh now?”
And Conlaoch gravely answered: “Vows are on me
Never to tell my name, save to the man
Who conquers me. Set me before your best,
And I will strive with him until I take
My death from him, or he defeat from me.”
82
Who conquers me. Set me before your best,
And I will strive with him until I take
My death from him, or he defeat from me.”
Wondering they heard, and said: “O stranger youth,
Great seems your folly, greater still your pride;
But welcome be the man whose courage soars
A hawkflight over both!”
Great seems your folly, greater still your pride;
But welcome be the man whose courage soars
A hawkflight over both!”
They left the shore,
And to the booths beside the ford they came;
There gave him food, and water from the well;
For mead he would not drink. They staked the field
And built of sods cut from the sunny plain
The judge's throne; then bade him name his hour
And take his rest awhile. So passed the time
In courteous talk between them in the shade.
And to the booths beside the ford they came;
There gave him food, and water from the well;
For mead he would not drink. They staked the field
And built of sods cut from the sunny plain
The judge's throne; then bade him name his hour
And take his rest awhile. So passed the time
In courteous talk between them in the shade.
THE FIRST BATTLE BY THE FORD
The judge was set, the summoning trumpet blew,
And Conlaoch took his place. Then from the booth
Came Connall Cearnach armed into the field.
There courteously they met, and Connall said:
“Fair Youth, refuse not now to tell your name
To me—to Connall Cearnach.” Brightly shone
Young Conlaoch's eyes, hearing that name. He bent
His head in reverence ere he answered him;
“Great is your grace in meeting one unknown,
O Warrior King, whose fame lives on the tongue
Of mightiest bards; and for that grace my heart
Sings a proud song of thanks. But save to him
Who conquers me, I may not tell my name.
That is my vow.” “O Youth,” Connall replied,
“Your valiant words promise as noble deeds.”
And Conlaoch took his place. Then from the booth
Came Connall Cearnach armed into the field.
83
“Fair Youth, refuse not now to tell your name
To me—to Connall Cearnach.” Brightly shone
Young Conlaoch's eyes, hearing that name. He bent
His head in reverence ere he answered him;
“Great is your grace in meeting one unknown,
O Warrior King, whose fame lives on the tongue
Of mightiest bards; and for that grace my heart
Sings a proud song of thanks. But save to him
Who conquers me, I may not tell my name.
That is my vow.” “O Youth,” Connall replied,
“Your valiant words promise as noble deeds.”
Again the trumpet blew; and then was fought
Between the two a battle that gave joy
To every eye beholding. The swift spears
Flew like trained falcons from their hands; and fast
They raced like hounds over the field of arms;
Now here, now there, parrying with watchful shields,
Leaping aside, or catching in their flight
The darts of death, to hurl them hissing back.
Yet such fine craft they used in their defence
That neither took a wound.
Between the two a battle that gave joy
To every eye beholding. The swift spears
Flew like trained falcons from their hands; and fast
They raced like hounds over the field of arms;
Now here, now there, parrying with watchful shields,
Leaping aside, or catching in their flight
The darts of death, to hurl them hissing back.
Yet such fine craft they used in their defence
That neither took a wound.
They breathed awhile
And Connall cried, laughing: “This is the game
Of boys in Scatha's House, and better none
Could play with me than you, O nameless Youth!
But now our eager swords, hungry for work,
Begin to bite their scabbards. Let us prove
Their valour and their guile in combat now!”
And Connall cried, laughing: “This is the game
84
Could play with me than you, O nameless Youth!
But now our eager swords, hungry for work,
Begin to bite their scabbards. Let us prove
Their valour and their guile in combat now!”
They drew their swords, and closed upon the green
With feint and thrust, meeting with blade or shield
Many a fierce onset, many a deadly blow;
Until young Conlaoch, baffling with bold sleight
A thrust of Connall's closed, and lifting him
In his tough arms, flung him upon the ground,
Stunned by his fall.
With feint and thrust, meeting with blade or shield
Many a fierce onset, many a deadly blow;
Until young Conlaoch, baffling with bold sleight
A thrust of Connall's closed, and lifting him
In his tough arms, flung him upon the ground,
Stunned by his fall.
Then from the Ulstermen
A cry of anger and amazement rose;
And Connall as he lay groaned with dull voice:
“Youth you have put such shame on me this day
As never man before. I am grown old.
My happy star pales like a sunset-cloud,
And victory flies to perch on younger crests.
Slay me then! Death is better than grey years
Among the old men, whose names die on the tongue
Of palsied age!”
A cry of anger and amazement rose;
And Connall as he lay groaned with dull voice:
“Youth you have put such shame on me this day
As never man before. I am grown old.
My happy star pales like a sunset-cloud,
And victory flies to perch on younger crests.
Slay me then! Death is better than grey years
Among the old men, whose names die on the tongue
Of palsied age!”
But Conlaoch by his side
Knelt ruthfully, murmuring: “As soon would I
Slay thee as slay my father! Grudge me not
My first great hour, or deem thy honour dimmed
By one unlucky chance; thou, whose proud name
Shines glorious in the everlasting morn
Wherein great deeds live in undying song.
Where is the man who never felt the spite
Of Fortune's treachery? Who dare talk of shame
When on a noble head her malice falls?”
Knelt ruthfully, murmuring: “As soon would I
85
My first great hour, or deem thy honour dimmed
By one unlucky chance; thou, whose proud name
Shines glorious in the everlasting morn
Wherein great deeds live in undying song.
Where is the man who never felt the spite
Of Fortune's treachery? Who dare talk of shame
When on a noble head her malice falls?”
So Conlaoch strove to comfort him; and he
Smiled a sad smile: “Mock me not with vain words;
Better the dreams of youth,” he said, “than all
Grey memories of brave deeds! I am grown old,
My fame lies mouldering like an autumn leaf
In winter's fogs. The old fade with their fame.
Enjoy thy youth!”
Smiled a sad smile: “Mock me not with vain words;
Better the dreams of youth,” he said, “than all
Grey memories of brave deeds! I am grown old,
My fame lies mouldering like an autumn leaf
In winter's fogs. The old fade with their fame.
Enjoy thy youth!”
Sadly the young men came
And bore him thence in silence to his booth.
And bore him thence in silence to his booth.
THE SECOND BATTLE BY THE FORD
Meanwhile a message to the King was brought
By a fleet runner, with the bitter news
Of Connall's fall; and ere the day was old
Two chariots from Dundalgan to the ford
Came racing, swifter than two flames of war.
Far off they saw them blaze like angry stars,
As the wind-outspeeding stallions rushed like fire
Over the plain, and far behind the wheels
Long dust-clouds rose like smoke. In one the King
Rode with the Archdruid Cathvah, and in one
Cuchullain, driven by Laeg, stood like an oak,
Grasping his battle spears.
By a fleet runner, with the bitter news
Of Connall's fall; and ere the day was old
Two chariots from Dundalgan to the ford
Came racing, swifter than two flames of war.
86
As the wind-outspeeding stallions rushed like fire
Over the plain, and far behind the wheels
Long dust-clouds rose like smoke. In one the King
Rode with the Archdruid Cathvah, and in one
Cuchullain, driven by Laeg, stood like an oak,
Grasping his battle spears.
Conchobar now,
Throned on the seat of judgment, set by him
Grey Cathvah, venerable in magic robes.
There Conlaoch, lightly sinking on his knee,
Made his obeisance, and from the grave King
Great was the praise he heard, with flushing cheeks
And youthful joy of triumph in his heart;
But boldly still refused his name.
Throned on the seat of judgment, set by him
Grey Cathvah, venerable in magic robes.
There Conlaoch, lightly sinking on his knee,
Made his obeisance, and from the grave King
Great was the praise he heard, with flushing cheeks
And youthful joy of triumph in his heart;
But boldly still refused his name.
Once more
The trumpet blew. Cuchullain from the booth
Come shining to the field, and courteously
Greeted the Boy: “O Youth, in feats of war
Thou hast shamed us all this day! Tell me thy name,
And no dishonour on that name can fall.
I am Cuchullain.” Conlaoch answered him:
“O Champion of the World, better my death
From such a hand than breaking of my vow!
That were my black dishonour.” Cuchullain sighed:
“That face is like the face of one I knew—
Where did I see that face?” A cloud of gloom
Fell on him, as he muttered to himself:
“Dark is my mind, blind is my groping brain!”
Then looked once more on Conlaoch, and sadly said:
“Come! Wilt thou prove on me thy valour now?”
The trumpet blew. Cuchullain from the booth
Come shining to the field, and courteously
Greeted the Boy: “O Youth, in feats of war
Thou hast shamed us all this day! Tell me thy name,
And no dishonour on that name can fall.
I am Cuchullain.” Conlaoch answered him:
“O Champion of the World, better my death
From such a hand than breaking of my vow!
87
“That face is like the face of one I knew—
Where did I see that face?” A cloud of gloom
Fell on him, as he muttered to himself:
“Dark is my mind, blind is my groping brain!”
Then looked once more on Conlaoch, and sadly said:
“Come! Wilt thou prove on me thy valour now?”
Fast flew their spears. The champion carelessly
Played with him as a master, testing him;
Conlaoch with careful heed of his defence
Watching his play, made answer with a sleight
Fine as his own; and soon Cuchullain saw
One worthy of his arms was in the field,
And shouted praise. And now, like two red stags
Unmatched before, they bounded o'er the grass
Fighting for mastery; till the sunny sky
Was overcast, and growling from the hills
The thunder swooped, as there furiously still
They fought, and in Cuchullain's breast the rage
Of battle flamed, and dreadful grew his face;
Then to the Boy, with wrathful shout, he cried:
“Tell me thy name, or die!” From some deep voice
In Conlaoch's heart came the revealing word:
“This is thy father!” “Know me then by this!”
He shouted back. A spear flew from his hand
Full at his father's head; but by his art
Swerved from its mark, and lightly grazed his brow,
And singing past him quivered in the earth.
Played with him as a master, testing him;
Conlaoch with careful heed of his defence
Watching his play, made answer with a sleight
Fine as his own; and soon Cuchullain saw
One worthy of his arms was in the field,
And shouted praise. And now, like two red stags
Unmatched before, they bounded o'er the grass
Fighting for mastery; till the sunny sky
Was overcast, and growling from the hills
The thunder swooped, as there furiously still
They fought, and in Cuchullain's breast the rage
Of battle flamed, and dreadful grew his face;
Then to the Boy, with wrathful shout, he cried:
“Tell me thy name, or die!” From some deep voice
88
“This is thy father!” “Know me then by this!”
He shouted back. A spear flew from his hand
Full at his father's head; but by his art
Swerved from its mark, and lightly grazed his brow,
And singing past him quivered in the earth.
Then on Cuchullain madness fell. The lust
Of slaughter darkly blazed in his fierce eyes,
And, grasping in his rage his ghastly spear,
Armed with the dragon's teeth, he cried again:
“Thy hour is come—take from my hand thy death!”
And rashly, in fatal madness, from his hand
He launched the grisliest horror of the world.
Of slaughter darkly blazed in his fierce eyes,
And, grasping in his rage his ghastly spear,
Armed with the dragon's teeth, he cried again:
“Thy hour is come—take from my hand thy death!”
And rashly, in fatal madness, from his hand
He launched the grisliest horror of the world.
Sudden and grim the end its baleful teeth
Made of that noble game, superb in skill
Beyond all combats fought on Irish grass.
Made of that noble game, superb in skill
Beyond all combats fought on Irish grass.
Not to be balked or stayed, inevitable,
The demon thing flew screaming o'er the plain,
Through shield and warcoat rending its fierce way,
And Conlaoch fell, pierced by five deadly wounds.
The demon thing flew screaming o'er the plain,
Through shield and warcoat rending its fierce way,
And Conlaoch fell, pierced by five deadly wounds.
Fast following it Cuchullain cried to him:
“Tell me thy name!” He lifted his weak hand,
And showed the ring, read in the setting sun
That gleamed through clouds parted above the plain,
As o'er the sea the thunder died away.
“Tell me thy name!” He lifted his weak hand,
And showed the ring, read in the setting sun
That gleamed through clouds parted above the plain,
89
Cuchullain saw, and knew it. His crime revealed
With a swift pang stabbed his remorseful heart.
In sudden vision rose the Alban shore,
And Aifé waving o'er the sundering sea
Her last farewell. Then with a bitter cry:
“My son! my son!” he knelt beside his boy,
And kissed his blanching lips, and his great voice
Tender with tears, and broken with wild sobs,
Groaned out: “Oh! why this horror? Why the guilt
Of thy dear blood—my own—upon this hand?
Did she—? Black fall my curse upon her head,
Aifé, thy mother, if she planned this guile!”
With a swift pang stabbed his remorseful heart.
In sudden vision rose the Alban shore,
And Aifé waving o'er the sundering sea
Her last farewell. Then with a bitter cry:
“My son! my son!” he knelt beside his boy,
And kissed his blanching lips, and his great voice
Tender with tears, and broken with wild sobs,
Groaned out: “Oh! why this horror? Why the guilt
Of thy dear blood—my own—upon this hand?
Did she—? Black fall my curse upon her head,
Aifé, thy mother, if she planned this guile!”
And Conlaoch, pale with agony, panted slow:
“Curse not my mother—though she laid on me
The vow that slays me! Curse this worm of pain
Your blind desire of victory loosed on me—
Base weapon for a champion! Curse the false heart
That held my father's eyes from knowing me!
Wonder is in my mind you knew me not,
When my spear turned from you. Not mine the shame
This day, falling before you, magic arms
Against me. Never had you put me down
Without this plague whose fangs burn in me now.”
“Curse not my mother—though she laid on me
The vow that slays me! Curse this worm of pain
Your blind desire of victory loosed on me—
Base weapon for a champion! Curse the false heart
That held my father's eyes from knowing me!
Wonder is in my mind you knew me not,
When my spear turned from you. Not mine the shame
90
Against me. Never had you put me down
Without this plague whose fangs burn in me now.”
His tortured eyes looked in his father's face,
And saw such love and anguish of remorse,
It touched his heart. Faintly he smiled, and said:
“The pity and the sorrow of the world
Wail in my breast for you, seeing your grief.
Take my forgiveness, father—and give me now
The mercy of your sword!”
And saw such love and anguish of remorse,
It touched his heart. Faintly he smiled, and said:
“The pity and the sorrow of the world
Wail in my breast for you, seeing your grief.
Take my forgiveness, father—and give me now
The mercy of your sword!”
Cuchullain groaned
And pierced his heart with ruthful steel. The light
Fled from his eyes, as his young life gushed forth,
Following the blade withdrawn. From his marred flesh
His father drew the spear, and shuddering
Flung it away; then crouched upon the ground,
Pale as the dead, and weak with wild remorse,
Moaned o'er his murdered son: “Ochone for thee,
Son of my youth! Madness was in my brain,
Base wrath in my heart, slaying thee! In thy fall
I am fallen below the beasts; the championship
Flies these red hands of shame! Curst be the spear
That slew thee! Curst am I who gave thee death,
And knew not him I slew! I am grown grey
In aging grief! An outcast o'er the earth
Now must I wander, black upon my brow,
Where honour shone, the brand of infamy!”
And pierced his heart with ruthful steel. The light
Fled from his eyes, as his young life gushed forth,
Following the blade withdrawn. From his marred flesh
His father drew the spear, and shuddering
Flung it away; then crouched upon the ground,
Pale as the dead, and weak with wild remorse,
Moaned o'er his murdered son: “Ochone for thee,
Son of my youth! Madness was in my brain,
Base wrath in my heart, slaying thee! In thy fall
I am fallen below the beasts; the championship
Flies these red hands of shame! Curst be the spear
91
And knew not him I slew! I am grown grey
In aging grief! An outcast o'er the earth
Now must I wander, black upon my brow,
Where honour shone, the brand of infamy!”
Meanwhile the men who stood by Conchobar,
Watching the end in horror and strange fear,
Had heard that anguished cry: “My son! my son!”
But Conchobar to Cathvah whispered low:
“Let us be gone—leave him to mourn his boy
While sorrow tames his heart and makes his limbs
Weaker than rushes bent before the blast.
But when the hour of tears goes by, his grief
Eased, as he chants with music of sad words
Keening above the dead, madness may fall
Again upon him; the raging of his mind
Urge him to turn his fury on ourselves,
And many deaths may hap, ere he be slain
By us or his own sword. Lay thou a spell
Upon him. Let him quench his agony
Fighting the woundless waves on Bala's Strand.”
Watching the end in horror and strange fear,
Had heard that anguished cry: “My son! my son!”
But Conchobar to Cathvah whispered low:
“Let us be gone—leave him to mourn his boy
While sorrow tames his heart and makes his limbs
Weaker than rushes bent before the blast.
But when the hour of tears goes by, his grief
Eased, as he chants with music of sad words
Keening above the dead, madness may fall
Again upon him; the raging of his mind
Urge him to turn his fury on ourselves,
And many deaths may hap, ere he be slain
By us or his own sword. Lay thou a spell
Upon him. Let him quench his agony
Fighting the woundless waves on Bala's Strand.”
They left him there with his dead son alone,
And sought the booths; while he with many a moan
Closed the dim eyes, straightened the cramp-wrung limbs;
And from afar they heard him raise the keene.
And sought the booths; while he with many a moan
Closed the dim eyes, straightened the cramp-wrung limbs;
And from afar they heard him raise the keene.
92
CUCHULLAIN'S LAMENTATION
I
Ochone, bad are the daysWithout my son, without my son!
Ochone for the days before me,
And the love slain in my heart!
II
My curse on thy Mother, my curseI lay, because in her fury
The Kings of my race she slew
When she drank the blood of thy body.
III
My lap sad rest for the head,My arms round the body's beauty,
My hands red with the blood
Of him I slew in my madness!
IV
The father that slew his son,I lay my curse on that father,
May every spear from his hand
Come back, my torture and wounding!
V
In a bad field I plantedThis valiant slip of my body,
In a bitter field it was nourished,
To bring this curse upon me!
93
VI
A man's wrath is a flameThat burns and is quenched in sorrow;
But like venom never cured
Is the jealousy of a woman!
VII
If thou and I, O my son,Were playing war-feats together
O Conlaoch, boy of my heart,
We would ride on the waves of battle!
VIII
But now death-pale are thy cheeks,Death-cold is thy fair white body,
And the agony of my love
Devours my heart like death!
IX
My grief will go from me neverTill my bones in the cairn shall crumble;
It feeds upon my heartstrings
Like fire in the hoar hill-grasses!
X
Ochone, bad are my daysWithout my son, without my son!
Ochone for the days before me
And the love slain in my heart!
94
He rose, and his red eyes were shot with blood,
Ghastly his working face; and dreadful thoughts
Raged in his brain. And now he might have turned
His sword against himself; save that he found
The fatal spear clotted with Conlaoch's gore,
And fury seized him. But Cathvah's druid spells
Against him sent a cloud of magic smoke,
And rushing o'er the sandhills to the Strand
Of Bala, there he fought against the waves
All the night long, till far into the sea
He cast the baleful spear, and the sane mind
Came to him once more. Then slow, back o'er the hills
He paced in the cool dawn.
Ghastly his working face; and dreadful thoughts
Raged in his brain. And now he might have turned
His sword against himself; save that he found
The fatal spear clotted with Conlaoch's gore,
And fury seized him. But Cathvah's druid spells
Against him sent a cloud of magic smoke,
And rushing o'er the sandhills to the Strand
Of Bala, there he fought against the waves
All the night long, till far into the sea
He cast the baleful spear, and the sane mind
Came to him once more. Then slow, back o'er the hills
He paced in the cool dawn.
Three days they kept
Young Conlaoch's funeral feast, and where he fell
They raised his cairn. Not long Cuchullain lived;
But on Murthemny heath, wanting that spear,
With spear and sword was basely slain, unarmed,
By Lugaid's hand; and Aifé died avenged.
Young Conlaoch's funeral feast, and where he fell
They raised his cairn. Not long Cuchullain lived;
But on Murthemny heath, wanting that spear,
With spear and sword was basely slain, unarmed,
By Lugaid's hand; and Aifé died avenged.
95
THE CURSE OF THE BARD
Princess Enna:Truth is not in thee, Brian the Bard,
Thy tongue is bitter, thy heart is hard!
Because my Father will not strip off
From his breast the brooch of sovereignty,
Wilt thou dare to curse, wilt thou dare to scoff
At the golden gifts he has proffered thee?
Brian:
Let him keep the pledge that he made to me!
Enna:
No pledge he has given thee, thou Tongue of Blight!
Hence with thy Pot of Avarice—hence!
Begone from his threshold; for at his door,
Brian the Bard, thou shalt crouch no more,
Starving for pride, and cursing for spite.
Thy pride and thy wrongs are a vain pretence,
Thy curses fall on thy head this night,
If now thou drink not, for love of me,
The Peace of the Bards, and the end of hate,
In this cup of mead I bear to thee,
Brian the Bard, is my word too late?
96
I drink derision for love of thee!
King's Daughter, for thee I have borne the spite,
While in my heart is a quenchless flame,
As here I starve on ye day and night.
I crave not gifts, I crave not gold,
I crave not the brooch of sovereignty.
I crave that here I may die consoled,
When here I lie dying for love of thee.
Enna:
Brian the Bard, thy pride is great!
Brian:
Kiss then the cup in thy white hand,
And kiss my lips ere it be too late,
And rove with me, as I rove the land,
And I'll pledge in that cup an end of hate.
Enna:
Brian the Bard, thou art mad with pride!
Shall I, a King's Daughter, fly with thee?
Shall I wander the world by a greybeard's side?
A shameful thing thou hast asked of me!
Brian:
I tear this beard from off my chin,
Fling this patched cloak from off my back;
97
Laugh in my face, and bid me pack!
Not Brian the Bard in sooth am I,
But Brian, the King of Munster's son,
And as thine own is my dignity.
As children our fathers pledged our hands,
And now thy father his pledge would break,
Would kindle strife between friendly lands;
But here I lie starving for thy sake,
And here I starve till thy heart be won!
Enna:
A starveling at my father's door
Might move my pity, not win my heart;
But never a royal suitor before
Played with such cunning a madman's part.
If thou canst play the prince as well,
Thou might'st scape laughter—I cannot tell.
Stand up, and look me in the face!
In sooth thou seemest in woeful case.
Brian:
In woeful case for love of thee,
And the curse of our fathers' enmity.
I dreamed of thee in my father's land;
Yet what form was on thee I could not tell,
What heart, what mind might in thee dwell,
What fate for me was in that white hand.
98
The Beauty of the World thou art!
I have come through foes for the love of thee,
I would pass through fire to win thy heart,
Rose of the World, wilt thou come with me?
Enna:
A hostage wouldst thou have me be?
Brian:
No hostage; but my chosen bride!
And if thou wilt not come with me,
Here as a hostage will I bide,
Whatever my fate I will bide with thee.
Take me then to thy father's hall,
And let me stand before his face,
Whether he free me or hold me in thrall,
Whether he slay me or grant me grace:
Or kiss the cup in thy white hand,
Let me kiss thy lips ere it be too late,
And pledge we now an end of hate!
Choose now, I bow to thy heart's decree.
Enna:
Brian the Bold, I will go with thee!
| From the Land of Dreams | |