A Book of Irish Verse Part 13

The wounded wood-dove lies dead at last!

The pine long bleeding, it shall not die!

This song is secret. Mine ear it pa.s.sed In a wind o'er the plains at Athenry.

_Aubrey de Vere_

SONG

She says: 'Poor Friend, you waste a treasure Which you can ne'er regain-- Time, health, and glory, for the pleasure Of toying with a chain.'

But then her voice so tender grows, So kind and so caressing; Each murmur from her lips that flows Comes to me like a blessing.

Sometimes she says: 'Sweet Friend, I grieve you-- Alas, it gives me pain!

What can I? Ah, might I relieve you, You ne'er had mourned in vain!'

And then her little hand she presses Upon her heart, and sighs; While tears, whose source not yet she guesses, Grow larger in her eyes.

_Aubrey de Vere_

THE BARD ETh.e.l.l

_Ireland in the Thirteenth Century_

I am Eth.e.l.l, the son of Conn: Here I bide at the foot of the hill: I am clansman to Brian, and servant to none: Whom I hated, I hate: whom I loved, I love still.

Blind am I. On milk I live, And meat, G.o.d sends it, on each Saint's Day; Though Donald Mac Art--may he never thrive-- Last Shrovetide drove half my kine away.

At the brown hill's base by the pale blue lake I dwell and see the things I saw: The heron flap heavily up from the brake; The crow fly homeward with twig or straw The wild duck a silver line in wake Cutting the calm mere to far Bunaw.

And the things that I heard, though deaf, I hear, From the tower in the island the feastful cheer; The horn from the wood; the plunge of the stag, With the loud hounds after him down from the crag.

Sweet is the chase, but the battle is sweeter, More healthy, more joyous, for true men meeter!

My hand is weak! it once was strong: My heart burns still with its ancient fire.

If any man smites me he does me wrong, For I was the bard of Brian Mac Guire.

If any man slay me--not unaware, By no chance blow, nor in wine and revel, I have stored beforehand, a curse in my prayer For his kith and kindred; his deed is evil.

There never was king, and never will be, In battle or banquet like Malachi!

The seers his reign had predicted long; He honoured the bards, and gave gold for song.

If rebels arose, he put out their eyes; If robbers plundered or burned the fanes, He hung them in chaplets, like rosaries, That others beholding might take more pains!

There was none to women more reverent-minded, For he held his mother, and Mary, dear; If any man wronged them, that man he blinded, Or straight amerced him of hand or ear.

There was none who founded more convents--none; In his palace the old and poor were fed; The orphan might walk, or the widow's son, Without groom or page to his throne or bed.

In his council he mused, with great brows divine, And eyes like the eyes of the musing kine, Upholding a sceptre o'er which men said, Seven spirits of wisdom like fire-tongues played.

He drained ten lakes, and he built ten bridges; He bought a gold book for a thousand cows; He slew ten princes who brake their pledges; With the bribed and the base he scorned to carouse.

He was sweet and awful; through all his reign G.o.d gave great harvests to vale and plain; From his nurse's milk he was kind and brave; And when he went down to his well-wept grave, Through the triumph of penance his soul arose To G.o.d and the saints. Not so his foes.

The King that came after, ah woe, woe, woe!

He doubted his friend, and he trusted his foe, He bought and he sold: his kingdom old He pledged and p.a.w.ned, to avenge a spite: No Bard or prophet his birth foretold: He was guarded and warded both day and night: He counselled with fools and had boors at his feast: He was cruel to Christian and kind to beast: Men smiled when they talked of him far o'er the wave: Well paid were the mourners that wept at his grave.

G.o.d plagued for his sake his people sore: They sinned; for the people should watch and pray, That their prayers like angels at window and door, May keep from the King the bad thought away!

The sun has risen: on lip and brow, He greets me--I feel it--with golden wand: Ah, bright-faced Norna! I see thee now: Where first I saw thee I see thee stand!

From the trellis the girl looked down on me: Her maidens stood near; it was late in spring; The grey priest laughed, as she cried in glee, 'Good Bard, a song in my honour sing.'

I sang her praise in a loud-voiced hymn, To G.o.d who had fas.h.i.+oned her face and limb, For the praise of the clan, and the land's behoof: So she flung me a flower from the trellis roof.

Ere long I saw her the hill descending, O'er the lake the May morning rose moist and slow, She prayed me, her smile with the sweet voice blending, To teach her all that a woman should know.

Panting she stood; she was out of breath; The wave of her little breast was shaking; From eyes still childish, and dark as death, Came womanhood's dawn through a dew-cloud breaking.

Norna was never long time the same; By a spirit so strong was her slight form moulded, The curves swelled out from the flower-like frame In joy; in grief to a bud she folded: As she listened, her eyes grew bright and large, Like springs rain-fed that dilate their marge.

So I taught her the hymn of Patrick the Apostle, And the marvels of Bridget and Columbkille; Ere long she sang like the lark or the throstle, Sang the deeds of the servants of G.o.d's high will: I told her of Brendan, who found afar Another world 'neath the western star; Of our three great bishops in Lindisfarne isle; Of St. Fursey the wondrous, Fiacre without guile; Of Sedulius, hymn-maker when hymns were rare; Of Scotus the subtle, who clove a hair Into sixty parts, and had marge to spare.

To her brother I spake of Oisin and Fionn, And they wept at the death of great Oisin's son.

I taught the heart of the boy to revel In tales of old greatness that never tire; And the virgin's, up-springing from earth's low level, To wed with heaven like the altar fire.

I taught her all that a woman should know, And that none should teach her worse lore, I gave her A dagger keen, and taught her the blow That subdues the knave to discreet behaviour.

A sand-stone there on my knee she set, And sharpened its point--I can see her yet I held back her hair and she sharpen'd the edge, While the wind piped low through the reeds and sedge.

She died in the convent on Ina's height:-- I saw her the day that she took the veil: As slender she stood as the Paschal light, As tall and slender and bright and pale!

I saw her: and dropped as dead: bereaven Is earth when her holy ones leave her for heaven.

Her brother fell in the fight at Begh, May they plead for me both on my dying day!

All praise to the man who brought us the Faith!

'Tis a staff by day and our pillow in death!

All praise I say to that blessed youth, Who heard in a dream from Tyrawley's strand That wail, 'Put forth o'er the sea thy hand: In the dark we die: give us hope and Truth!'

But Patrick built not on Iorras' sh.o.r.e That convent where now the Franciscans dwell: Columba was mighty in prayer and war: But the young monk preaches as loud as his bell, That love must rule all, and all wrongs be forgiven, Or else he is sure we shall reach not heaven!

This doctrine I count right cruel and hard, And when I am laid in the old churchyard, The habit of Francis I will not wear: Nor wear I his cord or his cloth of hair In secret. Men dwindle: till psalm and prayer Had softened the land no Dane dwelt there!

I forgive old Cathbar who sank my boat: Must I pardon Feargal who slew my son: Or the pirate, Strongbow, who burned Granote, They tell me, and in it nine priests, a nun, And worse--St. Finian's old crozier staff?

At forgiveness like that, I spit and laugh!

My chief in his wine-cups forgave twelve men: And of these a dozen rebelled again.

There never was chief more brave than he!

The night he was born Loch Gar up-burst: He was bard-loving, gift-making, fond of glee, The last to fly, to advance the first.

He was like the top spray upon Uladh's oak, He was like the tap-root of Argial's pine: He was secret and sudden: as lightning his stroke: There was none that could fathom his hid design.

He slept not: if any man scorned his alliance He struck the first blow for a frank defiance, With that look in his face, half night, half light, Like the lake just blackened yet ridged with white!

There were comely wonders before he died: The eagle barked, and the Banshee cried, The witch-elm wept with a blighted bud, The spray of the torrent was red with blood: The chief returned from the mountains bound, Forgot to ask after Bran his hound.

We knew he would die: three days were o'er, He died. We _waked_ him for three days more: One by one, upon brow and breast, The whole clan kissed him: In peace may he rest!

I sang his dirge, I could sing that time Four thousand staves of ancestral rhyme: To-day I can scarcely sing the half: Of old I was corn, and I now am chaff!

My song to-day is a breeze that shakes Feebly the down on the cygnet's breast; 'Twas then a billow the beach that rakes, Or a storm that buffets the mountain's crest.

Whatever I bit with a venomed song, Grew sick, were it beast, or tree, or man: The wronged one sued me to right his wrong With the flail of the Satire and fierce Ode's fan.

I sang to the chieftains: each stock I traced, Lest lines should grow tangled through fraud or haste.

To princes I sang in a loftier tone Of Moran the just who refused a throne; Of Moran, whose torque would close, and choke The wry-necked witness that falsely spoke.

I taught them how to win love and hate, Not love from all; and to shun debate.

To maids in the bower I sang of love: And of war at the feastings in bawn or grove.

Great is our Order: but greater far Were its pomp and power in the days of old, When the five Chief Bards in peace or war Had thirty bards each in his train enrolled: When Ollave Fodla in Tara's hall Fed bards and kings; when the boy King Nial Was trained by Torna; when Britain and Gaul Sent crowns of laurel to Dallan Forgial.

To-day we can launch the clans into fight; That day we could freeze them in mid career!

Whatever man knows was our realm by right: The lore without music no Gael would hear.

Old Cormac the brave blind king was bard Ere fame rose yet of O'Daly and Ward.

The son of Milesius was bard--'Go back My People,' he sang, 'ye have done a wrong!

Nine waves go back o'er the green sea track, Let your foes their castles and coasts make strong.