Chapter I

Strong in the strength that finds in gentleness
A way to peace, King Eochaidh on the throne
Of Erin sits. Around his footstool press
Clansmen and chiefs. Some wind of thought has blown
Their eyes to flame. Some purpose, in the stress
Of travailing tongues, to birth finds not a way:
What all would utter, none has wit to say.

Into their midst one came, an aged bard
Upon whose flowing hair Wisdom had laid
Her gift of silver. On those faces, scarred
From old forgotten fights, he looked, and weighed
The meaning in their eyes, though sorely marred;
And from the tangled fibre of their thought
Into the web of speech their purpose wrought.

"Thy word, O King, has passed by hill and dale
Throughout all Erin, bidding to the Feast
Of Tara all thy people, with the tale
Of tribute due from greatest and from least.
Nor should this word than others less prevail,
But that the herald-spear thy will hath sent,
Against the shield of custom has been bent.

"Thou knowest, O King, that from most ancient years
No chieftain wifeless rules for thee the land,
Nor mateless at a festival appears;
But fixed in all experience doth stand:
And thus, made master of all human fears,
Fears not, but strongly round the camp-fires goes,
Full sharer of thy people's joys and woes.

"Equal in yoke and honour, as the day
And night, that are but breathings of the soul,
They on life's crooked journey take their way
Diverse in gift, in essence one and whole.
This is the custom, King! Yet custom may,
If but of man, be as a smith who twists
An iron chain to bind upon his wrists.

"But custom may, if fashioned to the Law
That made the world, be as the straitened string
From which the Master of the Feast may draw
Majestic speech, a living, wondrous thing
To rid the brow of pale contention's flaw,
And passing like the honey-cup along,
Gather their wandering lips to one great song.

"And such the custom that thy people plead:
For when of old the deathless Lord of Life
Dagda came forth, and knew the immortal need
That burned within his heart, he took to wife
Dana the Mother of all human seed.
In her his breath found music and a name.
In her his fire has blossomed into flame.

"Throughout the world that fire and music run
One sings within the maiden's wondering heart:
One stirs the veins of manhood, as the sun
Sets the spring's fingers thrilling with the smart
Of keen, ecstatic life that's but begun.
In every seed that breaks and wind that blows,
Each in the other seeks and finds repose.

"Wherefore, O King, since thou art yet unwed,
And thus in kingship standest incomplete,
Unfurnished in thy heart, from whence are fed
The streams of power and wisdom, it is not meet
That unto thee thy people bow the head,
And here thy sovereignty with tribute own
Till thou hast set a Queen upon thy throne."

He ceased, and all the faces of the crowd
Shone with the light that kindles when the boon
Of speech has eased the heart; as when a cloud
Falls from the labouring shoulder of the moon,
And all the world stands smiling silver-browed.
King Eochaidh for a moment bent his head
In thought; then smiling he arose and said:

"I am not careless of the ancient need
That moves your minds. Within my own it moves
Like a long-hidden, unforgotten seed
The spring has touched uneasily: like hooves
Long captive, when the trumpet has decreed
A royal pilgrimage, and in the liss
They dance to taste the highway's ringing bliss.

"So have I watched for that sure sign that fills
The horn of fate, that bending this our realm
Unto the Will that works behind our wills,
It may remain; as when storms overwhelm,
And leafy spray whirls over the roaring hills,
The swaying pine bends as the storm wars by,
And lives to shake proud arms against the sky.

"But now the horn is full, the hour is here.
Our wills as one move onward to their end.
Here now I lift on high the royal spear,
And thus through Erin proclamation send:
'Search for the promised maiden far and near
Whom the high Gods have destined at my side
To reign.' Go forth. The King awaits his bride.

"She shall be found in some most quiet place
Where Beauty sits all day beside her knee
And looks with happy envy on her face;
Where Virtue blushes, her own guilt to see,
And Grace learns new, sweet meanings from her grace;
Where all that ever was or will be wise
Pales at the burning wisdom of her eyes.

"When you at last, far off like worshippers
Within some holy circle, bow your heads,
You shall await till on that face of her's
A smile like spring's first morning slowly spreads;
And when her lip with wondrous music stirs,
Bear hither like the wind her deathless name,
That I may light my heart at its white flame."

Scarce had he ceased when from the royal tent
Broke the full tide of their loud ecstacy,
And through the woods like summer thunder went,
Full of great rumour of mighty things to be
That died far off like twilight breezes spent.
Then sang the bard in hidden wisdom skilled:
"Thus is the purpose of the Gods fulfilled.

"_Lift now the hands that may not bless
A wifeless feast, a queenless throne,
A court or council womanless,
Or life one-limbed and sideways grown,
That holds the hands that may not bless._

"_The starry Virgin of the east
Steps up the sky to lead the sign
Where most has kissed and mixed with least,
And one-in-twain life's torches shine
Behind the Virgin of the east._

"_Then lift the hands that gladly bless
Full life, to life's great fulness grown,
A power to stand through shock and stress,
And rear an everlasting throne
Held high on hands that gladly bless._"

Then on a night when on his hearth the gleam
Of crackling faggots flung a wavering glow
Along his red-yew roof from beam to beam
Like glancing eyes, King Eochaidh to and fro
Turned on his couch, dreaming a happy dream
Of snapping stems, and crisp leaves crushed by feet
With high desire made musical and fleet.

Out of the fire a swift and slender shaft
Of yellow flame pierced through the King's dropped lids,
And woke a murmur of bees whose eager craft
Rifled the treasures of blossomy pyramids;
Whereat the King, raising his hand, low laughed,
Then passed like some worn swimmer on the sweep
Of strong waves toward the unfathomed gulf of sleep.

At length in that white hour when dewy wings
Stir with new day's delight, there came a sound
As though a passion of voices and smitten strings
Mingled and swelled and flew along the ground,
Till at the utmost of its triumphings,
Through the King's sleep and on his door the dawn
Broke, and a mighty shout: "Etain! Etain!"