Chapter V

What grief might now our spirits balk
Fades out before that high reproof;
And thro' the hushed and wavering talk
That fills the streets from roof to roof,

A fire from your high altar shines,
And kindles thro' our dusk of strife
A faith whose inner eye divines
That Death is minister to Life,

And all our years a moment's dream
In one great Mind that grasps the whole,
And Life and Death but waves that gleam
Along the ocean of the Soul.

A SCHOOLBOY PLAYS CUCHULAIN

'Way there! for one who hastens forth
To guard the Marches of the North,
Where Connacht's hosts with flame and brand
Hurl menace toward his native land,
And Macha's Curse on arm and will
Hangs dreadfully from hill to hill.

'Way there! Four valorous feet of height,
Twelve long, long years of age and fight,
He fronts without a thought of fear
Ten thousand with his wooden spear.
Soon shall he fling the charging field
Back on his puissant pasteboard shield,
And soon shall haughty Maeve bend down
A vassal to his tinsel crown.

'Way there! Who laughs has hardly heard
A hidden trumpet's secret word,
Or glimpsed through those poor arms he bears
The weapons that the spirit wears.
In that wild breast a thousand years
Rise up from ineffectual tears,
And kindle once again the flame
Of Freedom at a burning name.

What if for him no flag unfurled
Should shake red battle on the world;
On other fields, in other mood,
The ancient conflict is renewed,
And Michael and his warring clan
Tramp onward through the heart of man.
At Life's loud fires he shall anneal
A subtler blade than transient steel,
When Love, invincible in Faith,
Shall smile upon the face of Death,
And Will and Heart, as one, conspire
To dare the utmost of desire.
Then shall be, with his spirit's lance,
Unhorse cold Pride and Circumstance,
Shake Wrong's old strongholds to the ground,
And Right's victorious trumpet sound,
And light Earth's ramparts with the gleam
Of Ireland's unextinguished Dream
That burned in him who hastened forth
To guard the Marches of the North,
When Macha's Curse on arm and will
Hung dreadfully from hill to hill.

HOW THE MOUNTAINS CAME TO BE

A bird once came and said to me,
"Hear how the mountains came to be.
An angel from his crystal sphere
Fell to the earth. A chilly fear
Shot thro' his wings from tip to tip,
For there was neither boat nor ship,
Mountain nor stream, nor maid nor man,
Far as the angel's eye could scan;
Dead flatness far as he could see
Before the mountains came to be.
He stretched his wings to fly away,
But round his feet the oozy clay
Gripped fast, and held him to the ground.
He stretched and strove until a sound
Went thro' him from he knew not where
And said, 'The only way is prayer.'
He dropped his wings and raised his eyes,
And sent his soul into the skies.
He prayed and prayed, and as he prayed
A wind among his plumage played
And bore him upward toward his sphere.
Around his feet from far and near
There came a sound that seemed to say,
'Pray on! pray on! we too would pray.
Thy prayer has touched the sleeping Powers:
Pray on, thy prayer shall yet be ours;
We too have wings that pine for flight,
We too have eyes that long for light.'
Upward he moved, and still his eyes
Were fastened on the distant skies,
And as he rose toward heaven dim
He drew the earth up after him.
About his feet the oozy clay
Gripped fast, but could not stop or stay
His course, till on his skyey stair
He paused beyond the need for prayer,
While from the air beneath, around,
There rose a tumult of glad sound.
The angel turned the sound to seek,
And lo! his foot was on a peak
That fell away to where the world
Lay like a painted flag unfurled
And shaken out from sea to sea,--
And thus the mountains came to be."
So said the bird, and what the masque
Of meaning hid, I meant to ask;
But off he flew before I knew--
And yet I think the tale is true
If one could only hear aright,
And see with something more than sight.

LOVE IN ABSENCE

Hills crowned with age,
And solemn seas,
Are full of sage
Philosophies.
Yet, lacking thee,
I am not wise:
I need thine eyes
That I may see!

Insect and bird
Chant prose and verse,
God's passion-stirred
Interpreters.
Howe'er I seek,
Their meaning slips:
I need thy lips
That they may speak!

Long days that shine,
Or richly weep;
The dreamful mine
Of happy sleep,
Without thee, give
A slender part:
I need thy heart
That life may live!

Hear then my cry,
And hasten, sweet!
The world and I
Are incomplete;
Poor with all pelf;
Bound most when freed:
Thy Self I need,
To be my Self!

TREES IN WINTER

Gaunt and spare,
The silly trees
Strip them bare
To winter's breeze;

Yet when July
Sweltered red,
Dressed unduly
Heel to head!

Who will whisper
Unto me,
Why is this
Perversity?

Bent his head
A stately beech:
Slowly said
In gentle speech:

"Why, O man! not
Find a moral
(Though you cannot
In the laurel,)

"In our vigour
And our pelf,
Type and figure
Of yourself?

"Sun-kissed amity
Conceals
What calamity
Reveals:

"Summer glozes
Stain and scar;
Winter shows us
As we are.

"Well if thou,
In trying hour,
Stand, or bow,
In naked power,

"Like the spare
But sinewy trees
Standing bare
To winter's breeze!"

A SPRING CAPRICE BY A ROBIN

_Rubato_

Who, on such a day of spring,
Would be careful how he sing?
Let the overflowing heart
Get a start,
Who shall care if no one knows
How to find a perfect close
To his strain,
When the brain--
Drunk with sun and hyacinth,
Primroses and bursting oak,
And the sower's puffs of smoke
Over fields of brown--
Stumbling down
A melodious labyrinth,
Somehow, nohow, finds a way out,
Has his say out--
And begins it all again,
Caring nothing how he sing
When the brain,
Wild with Spring,
Gives a start
To his mad, melodious, overflowing heart?

_Kilcarberry, Wexford._

A SPRING RONDEL BY A STARLING

I clink my castanet,
And beat my little drum;
For spring at last has come,
And on my parapet
Of chestnut, gummy-wet,
Where bees begin to hum,
I clink my castanet,
And beat my little drum.

"Spring goes," you say, "suns set."
So be it! Why be glum?
Enough, the spring has come;
And without fear or fret
I clink my castanet,
And beat my little drum.

THE FAIRY RING

Enfolded in the Fairy Ring
My loved one sleeping lies,
To simple souls a dreadful thing,
For half a hundred eyes
Peep out from where among the grass
Floats up a magic lay
To call the souls of all who pass,
To fairyland away.

But I who know her heart's desire,
Fear neither spell nor frown;
For not till fire shall stifle fire,
Or water water drown,
Or love hate love, can any harm
In kindred hearts abide.
Oh! she can combat charm with charm,
My elfin-hearted bride!

And ye, whose minds are set to win
Fame's leaf or fortune's prize!
Beware the spell that lurks within
The circle of her eyes;
For she has power to blow like straws
Earth's baubles from the hand,
And call the souls of all who pause,
Away to fairyland.

"LABORARE EST ORARE,"

A RONDEAU OF FIELD-LABOURERS

"To labour is to pray." We heave
The heavy clay; we dig and cleave;
And knees and hands deep in the sod,
Search out and shape the Will of God
Creation's purpose to achieve.

Slant showers may wound, sharp winds bereave--
We lift no soiled and suppliant sleeve:
(Sure God and Mary bless the rod:)
To labour is to pray.

And so we are content to leave
Prayers for long-headed folk to weave.
We work His Will in ear and pod;
And when His harvest-eyes applaud,
We know--what others but believe--
To labour is to pray.

_Ballymore, Donegal._

PARAPHRASES AND INTERPRETATIONS

DAEDALUS AND ICARUS

_The Builder of the Cretan Labyrinth and his Son_

Quote Daedalus to Icarus:
"With rule and plumbline,--thus, and--thus,
We space and build our labyrinth,
And build, besides, a graven plinth
To bear the future fame of Us,"
Quote Daedalus to Icarus.

Quoth Icarus to Daedalus:
"Before these Cretans make a fuss,
And set our names up with a shout,
Perhaps we'd better first get out,
And show the master-mind of Us,"
Quoth Icarus to Daedalus.

Then round and round went Daedalus,
And out and in went Icarus.
They parted for an hour's whole space....
They met upon the selfsame place!
"I think we're stuck," quoth Icarus,
"I think we are," quoth Daedalus.

In short, to be perspicuous,
Like this old tale of Daedalus;
'Spite of our mouths with freedom filled,
From life's poor trivial things we build
A maze about the feet of us
That shuts us in like Daedalus.

But Daedalus and Icarus
Made wings, and set them--thus, and--thus;
And that blind maze that hemmed them in
They sloughed, as drops the snake its skin:
And so at last shall all of us,
Like Daedalus and Icarus.

A PARAPHRASE

_From the Prose of Jeremy Taylor_

As the silk-worm, shut from sight,
Cuts a pathway into light;
Makes on mottled leaves repast
Till its wormy coat is cast;
Winds itself in silken weed;
Sheds the future's pearly seed;
Leaves behind its dower of silk,
And with wings as white as milk
Spread for flight, completes its span;
So evolves the soul of man.

HOSPITALITY

_From the Irish, Seventh to Tenth Century_

O king of stars that watch the night!
Whether my house be dark or bright,
Its door to none shall barred be,
Lest Christ should close his house to me.

And if thy house shall hold a guest,
And aught from him thou hast suppressed,
Not all to him the wrong is done:
Thou hast concealed from Mary's Son.

THE STUDENT

_From the Irish, Seventh to Tenth Century_

High on my hedge of bush and tree
A blackbird sings his song to me,
And far above my lined book
I hear the voice of wren and rook.

From the bush-top, in garb of grey,
The cuckoo calls the hours of day.
Right well do I--God send me good!--
Set down my thoughts within the wood.

AT A HOLY WELL

He dragged his knees from flag to flag,
And prayed for health with awe-struck brow,
Then hung his ill's discarded rag
On the o'erhanging hawthorn bough.

And in the adoring hush that fell,
I, from the form set inly free,
Knelt at my heart's most holy well
And worshipped mine own mystery.

_Templemanaghan, Kerry._

THE PRIEST'S LAKE

Beneath the bridge, with noisy rout,
The Atlantic fills the quiet lake ...
A pause ... a turn ... then with a shout
Seaward the brimming waters break.

"Open thy gates," the Spirit saith,
"O Soul! My wave thy shore shall sweep,
Then back across the pause of death
Draw thee with shoutings to the deep!"

_Ardbear, Connemara._

SONNETS

A PAPER-SELLER

Clearly, and iterant as a swinging bell,
I heard across the surges of the Strand
A woman's voice, and saw a woman's hand
With "Votes for Women." A sudden vision fell
Across my path, and made my pulses swell
With agony of joy: I seemed to stand
At some far hill, from whence was faintly fanned
A whisper, "He descended into Hell."

Sister! with foot in gutter, foot on kerb,
Tasting humiliations's bitter herb
In thy great calm of self laid wholly down!
Thine are the thorns of Christly souls who bend
To lift the world; and thou too shalt ascend
To thine own Heaven and everlasting crown!

_Strand, London._

TO ONE IN PRISON

Dear! on Love's altar thou hast laid thee down,
Priestess and Victim of such Sacrifice
As might melt praise from very hearts of ice,
But wins the scoff of sycophant and clown.
Yet in that band, whose glory is the frown
Of sceptred tyranny and stained device,
Thou hast a place; and thee it shall suffice
To tread with them the path to high renown.

And I--even I, unworthy though I be--
For these my wounds of utter loneliness,
Tired head and sleepless eyes, some part would claim
In the deep rubric of thy mystery;
So may I, in proud years that rise to bless,
Stand in the shadow of thine honoured name.

_Nov. 23--Dec. 23, 1910._

A HOME-COMING

What flags are these?... what trumpets?... Oh! what drums?
What pride august?... what solemn minstrelsy?
Hush! drums, ecstatic drums: say who is she
That in the midst majestically comes.
Is she some queen whose haughty eye benumbs
Proud potentates; whose word can lift the sea
Of shattering war, and fling red misery
Across the world?... Speak, drums! Oh! aching drums!

Hush! hush! wild drums, drums in my happy heart!
Not thus she comes, my life's exalted queen,
But in sweet silence far outlauding praise.
Her's not the flaming sword that puts apart,
But Right's resistless blade, whose stroke unseen
Wounds but to heal, and crown with Freedom's bays!

LOVE, THE DESTROYER

Come from behind those eyes, that I may see
Thyself, beloved! not lip, or hand, or brain.
These are not thou. These are the servile train
That crowd me from thine inmost mystery.
Show me thy naked soul!... or it may be
That, lacking this, I shall, in Love's mad strain,
Shatter the form, and sift it grain by grain
To find thine utter Self--thee--very Thee!...

Ah! Love, forgive!... Be this my penitence
That in my passion I have glimpsed the goal
Of all calamity, and surely scanned
In flood and flame, earthquake and pestilence,
Love raging forth, to find Love's inmost soul,
With bridal gifts in Ruin's awful hand!

ENVOY

_THE LOVING CUP_

_I_

_I raise to you, O Queen, this Loving Cup, this Mether,
Filled with Mead
Made from honey of the heather,
Brought by many a humming wing,
And with water from the spring;
Mixed by cunning hands together
In a foamy ferment
Thou would lead
Sullen tongues to song,
If along
Harpstrings now a rousing air went._

_II_

_But in this our souls' espousal
Axe nor skeen
Throb and bleed
For the spear-clash of carousal,
Spoils of slaughter
Ravening:
No, for peace has mixed our mether,
With its Mead,
O my Queen,
Made from honey of the heather,
And with water
From the spring._

_III_

_Ah! but what avail
Song and ale,
If beneath our quaffing
Moves not something deeper than our laughing?_

_IV_

_So to you, O Queen,
Here with hands unseen
I raise my Heart's deep Mether,
Where together,
Sweetness brought on Fancy's wing
From the flowers
Of happy hours,
And a draught from Thought's cool spring,
Blend in song's melodious ferment,
With an undertone
Caught in deeper hours alone,
When along Life's solemn harp the Spirit's air went._

NOTES

_Etain the Beloved_:--This poem is founded on an ancient Irish myth. It is not a translation from the Gaelic; but rather is an attempt at transfiguration, by seeking to "unfold into light" the spiritual vision that was the inspiration, and is the secret of the persistence and resilience, of the Celt. Such modifications as I have made in the story have neither archaeological nor philological significance: they arise entirely from whatever measure of insight into artistic necessity, on the side of pure literature, has been granted to me; and also from obedience to a view of the universe which is embodied in the ancient Irish mythology, and whose operations the personages of the story body forth as Psyche bodied forth the soul of humanity to the Greek.

The names of the personages may be pronounced thus: Etain--Etawn', Eochaidh--Yo'hee, Ailill--Al'yil, Mider--Mid'yir.

Dagda is the Irish God of Day, Balor the Irish God of Night.

A dun is a fortified dwelling, a liss is a place for domestic animals.

_Death and Life_:--On Friday, August 13, 1909, the author went by currach from Dunquin to the Great Blasket Island, Kerry, to visit Miss Eveleen Nicolls, M.A., who was spending a holiday on the island. Instead of joining her, as was intended, in music and conversation amongst the islanders, he had to participate in an endeavour, alas! unsuccessful, to restore her to life. She had been bathing with a fisher-girl. The latter got into difficulties in the strong Atlantic current, and an effort by Miss Nicolls to save the girl ended in the heroic sacrifice of her own life.

_A Schoolboy plays Cuchulain_:--Cuchulain, the supreme hero of Celtic romance, who, single-handed, defended his province against the army of Queen Maeve. Maeve had chosen for a foray the time when the Ulster chiefs lay in weakness under a curse by the warrior Goddess, Macha.

_Hospitality_: _The Student_:--Put into verse from the literal translations of Kuno Meyer in "Ancient Irish Poetry."

_To One in Prison_: _A Home-coming_:--Occasioned by the imprisonment of the author's wife for taking part in the active movement for the political enfranchisement of women.

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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:

Text in italics is surrounded with underscores: _italics_.

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.