Chapter VI: THE DEATH OF ADAM. (xii.) (1)

[Sidenote: l. 2021]

Adam's lifetime was not short;
that ye may know, without risk (of error),
thirty years had he, it was exactly proven,
with nine hundred years.[70]

Then came a complete sickness to Adam,
such as comes to everyone,
his wife Eve with every goodness
was receiving his last bequests.

Adam knew his destiny,
he spake to splendid Eve:
"I have parted from thee and from thy children;
of this sickness I die."

"It is hard of God,"
said she, said Eve, to Adam,
"that thou art not sojourning here,(?)
that it is not I who go first.

"My grief! that thou should'st change,"
said she, said Eve to Adam;
"that I should be here sorrowful without strength,
that thou should'st go first."

"O Eve of the pure clear form,
understand clearly in thy mind;
thou wilt not be any length, it is clear,
here in pain after my departure.

"Short was the time, though it be without deception,
between thy creation and mine,
thou wilt not be in danger of attack,[71] bright is the outlook,
but nine months after me."

"Tell me without error, O Husband,
what I shall do with thy fair dear body?
since thou deemest thy death is certain,
O my Lord, O Adam!"

"Let not foot or hand touch me,
let not any interfere with me,
till one is sent from God from heaven
to arrange my fair dear body.

"Leave my body (fair the fashion),
in its bonds without disturbance;
I am certain that the noble Artificer who formed me
will provide for the needs of my body.

"Arise, O Eve, cheerfully,
and begin a 'cross-vigil';[72]
send thou from thee, O Wife, to God's right hand
my pure soul to holy heaven.

"The soul that God created in me,
it is He who recalled it in its uncleanliness;
let it go to him perfectly to His dwelling
with the accompanying of angel-hosts.

"O Wife, I am not bold, in truth,
concerning the actions of my good King;
the wrath that He showed (pure His sway),
was an act of affection and mercy."

(Eve kneels and prays to God. A heavenly messenger is sent to her, to tell her that the soul of Adam is parted from the body, and that it is safe in the charge of the hosts of the archangel Michael.)

[Sidenote: l. 2105]

Then Eve went
quickly towards Adam;
until she found Adam (great the love)--
no longer inhaling breath.

When she heard not
the voice of Adam speaking to her with fair beauty,
her senses out of measure overpowered her,
with long lamentations, with lasting sorrow.

(_The heavenly messenger speaks_)

"O Eve, lift up thine eyes,
and suffer us to instruct thee;
set thy keen pure glance
upwards clearly to the heavenly ones.

"O Woman, raise thy pure face,
to behold the soul of Adam,
as it is uplifted brightly
between hosts of archangels."

On that Eve turned
to behold the soul of Adam,
and she saw the beautiful peaceful soul
of Adam in the company of Michael.

While Eve was thus
recognising the soul of Adam,
she beheld coming towards it along the ways
hosts of angels chorus-singing.

Eve beheld a Seraph
moving nobly in front of the host
on three golden wings;
fair was the beloved thing[73] which he bore.

Then Eve beheld
three white shining birds
(which) across the sky from holy heaven
had arrived (?) in their lustre.

While she was watching the birds,
Eve herself without great trouble,
as with a flash of the full sun,
she became unable to look at them.

Up unto cloudy heaven was heard
the choir of the holy angels around Michael;
they spread their pleasant ranks then
circling about the altar of Adam.

The angels sustained a fitting harmony
round about the altar;
before all the host they burned a herb
which is called "ornamentum."

The strong smoke[74] spread
directly through the air;
the doors of the firmament opened
without any force (?)[75]

God came in holiness from heaven
to the service of Adam's soul;
the Soverain King over every sphere
sat down on His royal throne.

There went before the pure King
a noble angel of the angels;
he sounded melodiously a clear, shrill note,
its beautiful report was heard throughout the seven heavens.[76]

Towards the sound of the trumpet, purely splendid,
went the host of the nine holy grades;
truly strong were their clear numbers,
before the royal throne of the Creator!

(The hosts unite in praising the Lord for His mercy to Adam)

[Sidenote: l. 2177]

Then the King of Wisdom[77]
sent from Him quickly a Seraph
across the slopes of the great mass of the hosts
with wings of red gold.

Until they took the soul of Adam without pain,
so that it was bathed
in the unpassable (?) river of the ever-living host[78]
"indatinum ciriasu."

So that he brought with him Adam's pure, clear soul
thus out of the stream,
then he placed himself as at the first
before the presence of the Creator.

Then the King laid His hand,
without any consuming (?) upon the soul of Adam.
He commended it to Michael,
fair is the tale!

"Be thou not harsh, O Michael,
towards its great bliss,
place thou the soul of Adam here
in Paradise.

"Bear the bright pure soul
of splendid Adam with his accompanying bands,
place it ...
in the third kingly division of Paradise."

"'In the third heaven,' said God,
'which is called Ficconicia;
let it be there without sign of pain
till the time of the Resurrection.'"

All the grades in every sphere
both of angels and archangels,
sweet was their pure chorus
praising the Creator;

For the remission to the soul of Adam
from its sins, from its vices;
that it should be brought
again to Paradise.

Let the oil of mercy
and the herb "ornamentum" be bestowed
about the body of Adam
to cleanse it from its vileness.

Around the body of Adam
let three wholesome linen cloths, of special honour, be arranged;
and let it be buried exactly
at the side of Abel's sepulchre.

The body of our fore-father Adam,
according to writings of manifold genius,
from afar, under the heavy, sorrowful bonds of death,
was buried in Hebron.

It was there under a strong, firm tower[79]
till the coming of the wave-strength of the flood,
the body of Adam, with honours in its sepulchre,
under assemblies of the strong.

The flood of the deluge over every land,
many countries did it upturn,
it carried his head from Adam
and brought it to Jerusalem.

There the head remained
before Jerusalem;[80]
without grief the cross of Christ afterwards
was planted in the flesh[81] of Adam.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: l. 2385]

High King of the Sun, clearly hath it been heard,
He it was who created Paradise;
He who is better than all kings, royal His form,
there is no limit to His existence.

FOOTNOTES:

[70] _i.e._ 930 years; see Gen. v. 3.

[71] _Fogrís_ means "under attack" or "under warmth," "ardour," "heat"; could it mean "under the warmth of the sun," _i.e._ "alive"?

[72] A cross-vigil was a prayer uttered with the arms extended in the form of a cross, or sometimes with the body flat on the ground in the same position; such prayers were common in the ancient Irish Church.

[73] "Pet," or "champion."

[74] Or "incense."

[75] Without guardians or keepers?

[76] See p. 18. God is frequently called the "King of the Seven Heavens," _cf._ p. 120.

[77] Or "King of Victories."

[78] In the _Vision of Adamnan_ the river is of fire. In Dante's _Purgatorio_ (Canto xxxi.) the soul is bathed in the river of Lethe.

[79] _Tromthur_, in l. 906 of the poem, seems to refer to waves.

[80] Lit. "before the gate of Jerusalem," but see _Rev. Celt._, vi. p. 104.

[81] _i.e._ in his skull; this is a curious tradition.

ANCIENT PAGAN POEMS

"One day the young poet Nede fared forth till he stood on the margin of the sea, for the poets believed the brink of water to be the place of poetic revelation. He heard a sound in the wave, even a chant of wailing and sadness, and he marvelled thereat.

"So the youth cast a spell upon the wave, that it might reveal to him the cause of its moaning."--_Book of Leinster_, 186a.

THE SOURCE OF POETIC INSPIRATION

_A Colloquy between the Old Poet and the Young Poet. Time: The
beginning of the Christian era._

The old poet spake to the young poet:--

"Who is this sage around
whom is wrapped the robe of splendour?
and whence comes he?"

The young poet answered:

"I spring from the heel of a wise man,
From the meeting-place of wisdom I come forth;
From the place where goodness dwells serene.
From the red sunrise of the dawn I come,
Where grow the nine hazels of poetic art.
From the wide circuits of splendour
Out of which, according to their judgment, truth is weighed.
There is a land where righteousness is instilled,
And where falsehood wanes into twilight.
There is a land of varied colours[82]
Where poems are bathed anew.
And thou, O well-spring of Knowledge, whence comest thou?"

"Well can the answer be given:
I move along the columns of age,
Along the streams of inspiration,
Along the elf-mound of Nechtan's wife,
Along the forearm of the wife of Nuada,[83]
Along the fair land of knowledge
The bright country of the sun;
Along the hidden land which by day the moon inhabits;
Along the first beginnings of life.
I demand of thee, O wise youth, what it is that lies before thee?"

"That I can answer thee.
I travel towards the plain of age,
Through the mountain-heights of youth.
I go forward to the hunting-grounds of old age,
Into the sunny dwelling of a king (death?),
Into the abode of the tomb;
Between burial and judgment,
Between battles and their horrors
Among Tethra's mighty men.[84]
And thou, O master of Wisdom, what lies before thee?"

"I pass into the lofty heights of honour,
Into the community of knowledge,
Into the fair country inhabited of noble sages,
Into the haven of prosperities,
Into the assembly of the king's son.
Into contempt of upstarts,
Into the slopes of death where great honour lies.
O Son of Instructions, whose son art thou?"

"I am the son of Poetry,
Poetry son of investigation,
Investigation son of meditation,
Meditation son of lore,
Lore son of research,
Research son of enquiry,
Enquiry son of wide knowledge,
Knowledge son of good sense,
Good sense son of understanding,
Understanding son of wisdom,
Wisdom son of the three gods of Poetry.
O Fount of Wisdom, of whom art thou the son?"

"I am the son of the man who has lived, but has never been born;
Of him who was buried in the womb of his own mother;[85]
Of him who was baptized after his death.[86]
He of all living, was first betrothed to death,
His is the first name uttered by the living,
His the name lamented by all the dead:
Adam, the High One, is his name."[87]

FOOTNOTES:

[82] The colours denote the qualities of the inhabitants.

[83] Two poetic names for the River Boyne; Nuada was the deified ancestor of the Kings of Leinster. In the Boyne dwelt the "salmon of knowledge," which the poet must consume, and at its source grew the hazels of poetic inspiration. Its tumuli were believed to be the haunts of gods or fairies.

[84] Tethra was god of the assemblies of the dead.

[85] Explained in the gloss to mean "the Earth."

[86] _i.e._ "in the Passion of Christ."

[87] The above translation is founded on Dr. Whitley Stokes edition of the Colloquy (see note, p. 349).

AMORGEN'S SONG

Amorgen _sang_:

I am the wind on the sea (for depth);
I am a wave of the deep (for weight);
I am the sound of the sea (for horror);
I am a stag of seven points (? for strength);
I am a hawk on a cliff (for deftness);
I am a tear of the sun (for clearness);
I am the fairest of herbs;
I am a boar for valour;
I am a salmon in a pool (_i.e._ the pools of knowledge);
I am a lake on a plain (for extent);
I am a hill of Poetry (and knowledge);
I am a battle-waging spear with trophies (for spoiling or
hewing);
I am a god, who fashions smoke from magic fire for a head (to
slay therewith);
(Who, but I, will make clear every question?)
Who, but myself, knows the assemblies of the stone-house[88] on
the mountain of Slieve Mis?
Who (but the Poet) knows in what place the sun goes down?

Who seven times sought the fairy-mounds without fear?
Who declares them, the ages of the moon?
Who brings his kine from Tethra's house?[89]
Who segregated Tethra's kine?
(For whom will the fish of the laughing sea be making welcome,
but for me?)
Who shapeth weapons from hill to hill (wave to wave, letter to
letter, point to point)?

Invoke, O people of the waves,[90] invoke the satirist, that he may
make an incantation for thee!
I, the druid, who set out letters in Ogham;
I, who part combatants;
I, who approach the fairy-mounds to seek a cunning satirist, that
he may compose chants with me. I am the wind
on the sea.

FOOTNOTES:

[88] Or dolmen? Professor John MacNeill, on whose readings the above is founded, notes that a dolmen near Slieve Mis in Co. Antrim is called Ticloy (_toigh cloiche_), and in the local Scotch dialect "the stane-hoose."

[89] See note, p. 349.

[90] _i.e._ the fish, here also called "Tethra's kine"; this poem is generally followed by an incantation for good fishing, to which these phrases doubtless refer.

THE SONG OF CHILDBIRTH

O Ness, let all men stand,
The hour of thy peril is at hand;
Pale daughter of old Eochad Buidhe the mild
We rise to greet thy child!
Wife of the ruddy palms
Let not thy mind be filled with terror's qualms;
The head of hosts, the one
Whom thousands shall extol, shall be thy son.

In the same timely hour upon this earth
He and the King of the World have their birth;
Through the long ages' gloom
Now and to the day of doom
Praises shall echo through the realm of life.
Heroes, at sight of him, cease their strife;
Hostages they twain shall never be
The Christ and he.

On the plain of Inisfáil he shall come forth,
On the flagstone of the meadow to the North.
Hostages every battle-chief to him will send,
Through the great world his glory will extend;
The king of grace is he,
The Hound of Ulster he;
But and if he falls,
Darkness and woe descend on Erin's halls.

Conchobhar, son of Ness "ungentle," is his name;
Raids and red routs his valour will proclaim.
There he will find his death
Where the expiring breath
Of the suffering God his vengeful sword demands,
In the dark hour upon the Holy Lands;[91]
Shining his red sword's track,
Over the sloping plain of Liam's back.

FOOTNOTES:

[91] King Conchobhar was believed to be born in the same year as Jesus Christ, and to have met his death in endeavouring to avenge the death of Christ.

GREETING TO THE NEW-BORN BABE

Welcome, little stranger,
Born in pain and danger,
He will be our gracious Lord,
Son of gentle Cathva.

Son of gentle Cathva,
From the fort of Brug na Brat;
Son of valorous Ness the Young,
My son, and my grandson.

My son, and my grandson,
Of the world the shining One,
He of old Rath Line the king,
Poet-prince, my offspring.

Poet-prince, my offspring,
Overseas thy hosts thou wilt fling;
Little songster from the Brug,
Little kid, we welcome you.

WHAT IS LOVE?

From the "Wooing of Etain."

A love much-enduring through a year is my love,
It is grief close-hidden,[92]
It is stretching of strength beyond its bounds,
It is (fills?) the four quarters of the world;
It is the highest height of heaven;
It is breaking of the neck,
It is battle with a spectre,
It is drowning with water,
It is a race against heaven,
It is champion-feats beneath the sea,
It is wooing the echo;
So is my love, and my passion, and my devotion to her to whom
I gave them.

FOOTNOTES:

[92] Lit. "beneath the skin."

SUMMONS TO CUCHULAIN

From the "Sickbed of Cuchulain."

Arise, O Champion of Ulster!
In joyous health mayest thou awake;
Look thou on Macha's King, beloved,
Thy heavy slumber likes him not.

Behold his shoulder full of brightness,
Behold his horns for battle-array,[93]
Behold his chariots sweeping the glens,
Behold the movement of his chess-warriors.[94]

Behold his champions in their might,
Behold his maiden-troop, tall and gentle,
Behold his kings--a storm of war--
Behold his honourable queens.

Look forth! the winter has begun!
Note thou each wonder in its turn,
Behold, for it avails thee well,
Its cold, its length, its want of colour!

This heavy slumber is decay, it is not good;
Exhaustion from unequal strife;
Repose too lengthened is "a drop when one is filled,"[95]
Weakness like this is next to death.[96]

Awake from sleep, the peace which drinkers seek,
With mighty ardour throw it off;
Many smooth speeches woo thee here,
Arise, O Champion of Ulster!

FOOTNOTES:

[93] Or "his drinking-horns filled with ale" according to another reading.

[94] Lit. "chess-Fians."

[95] This seems to be a proverb or saw.

[96] _Tanaisi d'éc_, lit. "second to death." The "tanist" stood next to the chief, and was his successor.

LAEGH'S DESCRIPTION OF FAIRY-LAND

From the "Sickbed of Cuchulain."

I came with joyous sprightly steps,
--Wondrous the place, though its fame was known,--
Till I reached the cairn where, 'mid scores of bands,
I found Labra of the flowing hair.

I found him seated at the cairn,
Ringed round by thousands of weaponed men,
Yellow the hair on him, beauteous its hue,
A ball of ruddy gold enclosing it.

After a time he recognised me,
In the purple, five-folded mantle,
He spake to me, "Wilt thou come with me
To the house wherein is Failbe Fand?"

Two kings are in the house,
Failbe Fand and Labra,
Three fifties surround each one of them,
That the full sum of the one house.

Fifty beds on the right side,
With fifty nobles (?) in them,
Fifty beds on the left side,
With fifty in them also.

Copper are the borders of the beds,
White the pillars overlaid with gold;
This the candle in their midst,
A lustrous precious stone.

At the door westward
In the place where sets the sun,
Stand a herd of grey palfreys, dappled their manes,
And another herd purple-brown.

There stand at the Eastern door
Three ancient trees of purple pure,
From them the sweet, everlasting birds
Call to the lads of the kingly rath.

At the door of the liss there is a tree,
Out of which there sounds sweet harmony,
A tree of silver with the shining of the sun upon it,
Its lustrous splendour like to gold.

Three twenties of trees are there,
Their crests swing together but do not clash,
From each of those trees three hundred are fed
With fruits many-tasted, that have cast their rind.

There is a well in the noble (?) sídh;
There are thrice fifty mantles of various hue,
And a clasp of gold, all lustrous,
Holds the corner[97] of each coloured cloak.

A vat there is of heady mead
Being dispensed to the household;
Still it lasts, in unchanged wise,
Full to the brim, everlastingly.

There is a maiden in the noble (?) house
Surpassing the women of Éire,
She steps forward, with yellow hair,
Beautiful, many-gifted she.

Her discourse with each in turn
Is beauteous, is marvellous,
The heart of each one breaks
With longing and love for her.

The noble maiden said:
"Who is that youth whom we do not know?
If thou be he, come hither awhile--
The gillie of the Man from Murthemne."[98]

I went to her slowly, slowly,
Fear for my honour seized me,
She asked me, "Comes he hither,
The famous son of Dechtire?"

(LAEGH _addresses_ CUCHULAIN)

Alas, that he[99] went not long ago,
And every person asking it,
That he might see, as it is,
The mighty house that I have seen.

If all Éire were mine,
And the kingdom of Magh Breg of gold,
I would give it (no small test)
Could I frequent the place where I have been!

FOOTNOTES:

[97] Lit. "ear."

[98] _i.e._ Cuchulain, whose home-lands lay in the Plain of Murthemne, in the district of Co. Louth; Laegh was Cuchulain's charioteer.

[99] _i.e._ Cuchulain himself.

THE LAMENTATION OF FAND WHEN SHE IS ABOUT TO LEAVE CUCHULAIN

From the "Sickbed of Cuchulain."

It is I who must go on this journey,
Ou great necessity were best for me;
Though another should have an equal fame
Happier for me could I remain.

Happier it were for me to be here,
Subject to thee without reproach,
Than to go,--though strange it may seem to thee,--
To the royal seat of Aed Abrat.

The man is thine, O Emer,
He has broken from me, O noble wife,
No less, the thing that my hand cannot reach,
I am fated to desire it.

Many men were seeking me
Both in shelters and in secret places;
My tryst was never made with them,
Because I myself was high-minded.

Joyless she who gives love to one
Who does not heed her love;
It were better for her to be destroyed
If she be not loved as she loves.

With fifty women hast thou come hither,
Noble Emer, of the yellow locks,
To overthrow Fand, it were not well
To kill her in her misery.

Three times fifty have I there,
--Beautiful, marriageable women,--
Together with me in the fort:
They will not abandon me.

MIDER'S CALL TO FAIRY-LAND

From the "Wooing of Etain."

O Befind, wilt thou come with me,
To the wondrous land of melody?
The crown of their head like the primrose hair,
Their bodies below as the colour of snow.

There in that land is no "mine" or "thine,"
White the teeth there, eyebrows black,
Brilliant the eyes--great is the host--
And each cheek the hue of the foxglove.

How heady soever the ale of Inis Fál
More intoxicating is the ale of the Great Land;
A marvel among lands the land of which I speak,
No young man there enters on old age.

Like the purple of the plains each neck,
Like the ousel's egg the colour of the eye;
Though fair to the sight are the Plains of Fál
They are a desert to him who has known the Great Plain.

Warm, sweet streams across the country,
Choice of mead and wine,
Distinguished beings who know no stain,
Conception without sin, without lust.

We behold everyone on every side,
And none beholds us;
The gloom of Adam's transgression it is
Conceals us from their reckoning.

O Woman, if thou come among my strong people,
A golden top will crown thy head;
Fresh swine-flesh, new milk and ale for drink
Thou shalt have with me, O woman fair!

THE SONG OF THE FAIRIES

_When they made the road across the bog of Lamrach for
Mider, their King_.

Pile on the soil; thrust on the soil:
Red are the oxen around who toil:
Heavy the troops that my words obey;
Heavy they seem, and yet men are they.
Strongly, as piles, are the tree-trunks placed:
Red are the wattles above them laced:
Tired are your hands, and your glances slant;
One woman's winning this toil may grant!

Oxen ye are, but revenge shall see;
Men who are white shall your servants be;
Rushes from Teffa are cleared away;
Grief is the price that the man shall pay:
Stones have been cleared from the rough Meath ground;
Where shall the gain or the harm be found?
Thrust it in hand! Force it in hand!
Nobles this night, as an ox-troop, stand;
Hard is the task that is asked, and who
From the bridging of Lamrach shall gain, or rue?

A. H. LEAHY.

THE GREAT LAMENTATION OF DEIRDRE FOR THE SONS OF USNA

"As to Deirdre, she was a year in the household of Conchobar, after the death of the Sons of Usna. And though it might be a little thing to raise her head or to bring a smile over her lip, never once did she do it through all that space of time.... She took not sufficiency of food or sleep, nor lifted her head from her knee. When people of amusement were sent to her, she would break out into lamentation:--

Splendid in your eyes may be the impetuous champions
Who resort to Emain after a foray;
More brilliant yet was the return
Of Usna's heroes to their home!

Noisi bearing pleasant mead of hazel-nuts;
I myself bathed him at the fire;
Ardan bore an ox or boar of goodly size,
Ainle, a load of faggots on his stately back.

Sweet though the excellent mead be found
Drunk by the son of Ness of mighty conflicts;
I have shared ere now, from a chase on the borders,
Abundant provender more delicious!

When for the cooking-hearth noble Noisi
Unbound the faggots on the forest hero-board,
More pleasant than honey was each food,
Better than all other the spoil brought in by Usna's sons.

How melodious soever at every time
May be the sound of pipes and horns,
Here to-day I make my confession,
I have heard music sweeter far!

Here with Conchobar the king
Sweet the sound of pipes and horns;
More melodious to me the music,
Famous and entrancing, of Usna's sons.

The sound of the wave was the voice of Noisi,
Melodious music that wearied not ever;
Mellow the rich-toned notes of Ardan,
Or the deep chant of Ainle through the hunting-booth.

They have laid Noisi in the grave;
Woeful to me was that convey,[100]
The company whose act poured out for them
The venomed draught from which they died.

Loved one of the well-trimmed beard! most fair is thy renown!
Shapely one, though thy renown be fair!
Alas! to-day I rise not up
To greet the coming of Usna's sons.

Beloved thy firm and upright mind!
Beloved, high champion, modest-hearted,
After our wandering through the forests of Fál,[101]
Gentle the caress of midnight.

Dear the grey eye, a woman's love;
Though stern of aspect to the foe!
As we passed through the trees to the simple tryst,
Delightful thy deep notes across the sombre woods!

I sleep no more!
No more I stain my finger-nails with red;
No greeting comes to me who watch--
The sons of Usna return no more.

I sleep not!
Through half the wakeful night
My mind is wandering out amongst the hosts;
Yet more than that, I neither eat nor smile.

For me to-day no instant of deep joy,
Nor noble house, nor rich adornments please;
In Emain's gatherings of her mighty men
I find no peace, nor pleasure, nor repose.

Splendid as in your eyes may be the impetuous champions
Who resort to Emain after a foray;
More brilliant yet was the return
Of Usna's heroes to their home!"

When King Conchobar sought to soothe her, she would answer:

"What, O Conchobar, of thee?
To me nought but tears and lamentation hast thou meted out;
This is my life, so long as life shall last;
Thy love for me is as a flame put out.[102]

He who to me was fairest under heaven,
He who was most beloved,
Thou hast torn him from me, great was the injury,
I see him not until I die.

The secret of my grief, that it is gone,
The form of Usna's son revealed to me;
A pile I see dark-black above a corpse,
Bright and well known to me beyond all else.

* * * * *

Break not, my heart, to-day!
I sink ere long into an early grave;
Like to the strong sea-wave
The grief that binds me, if thou but knowest, O King!

What, O Conchobar, of thee?
To me nought but tears and lamentation hast thou meted out;
This is my life, so long as life shall last;
Thy love, methinks, is as a flame put out."

FOOTNOTES:

[100] _i.e._ Fergus mac Roy and his sons, who induced the sons of Usna to return with them to Ireland, where they were slain by King Conchobar.

[101] _Fál_ is a poetic name for Ireland; _Inisfáil_ means "the Island of destiny" or of "knowledge."

[102] Lit. "is not lasting."

OSSIANIC POETRY

"Were but the brown leaf which the wood sheds from it gold--were but the white billow silver--Fionn would have given it all away."--_The Colloquy with the Ancients._

FIRST WINTER-SONG

Take my tidings!
Stags contend;
Snows descend--
Summer's end!

A chill wind raging;
The sun low keeping,
Swift to set
O'er seas high sweeping.

Dull red the fern;
Shapes are shadows:
Wild geese mourn
O'er misty meadows.

Keen cold limes
Each weaker wing.
Icy times--
Such I sing!
Take my tidings!
ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES.

SECOND WINTER-SONG

Cold till Doom!
Glowers more fearfully the gloom!
Each gleaming furrow is a river,
A loch in each ford's room.

Each pool is deepened to a perilous pit,
A standing-stone each plain, a wood each moor;
The clamouring flight of birds no shelter finds,
White snow winds towards the door.

Like to a spectral host each sharp slim shape,
Each leaping lake swelled to a mighty main;
Wide as a wether's skin each falling flake,
Shield-broad, each drop of rain.

Swift frost again hath fastened all the ways,
It strove and struggled upwards o'er the wold,
About Colt's standing-stone the tempest sways,
Shuddering, men cry, "'Tis cold!"

IN PRAISE OF MAY

Ascribed to Fionn mac Cumhaill.

May-day! delightful day!
Bright colours play the vale along.
Now wakes at morning's slender ray
Wild and gay the blackbird's song.

Now comes the bird of dusty hue,
The loud cuckoo, the summer-lover;
Branchy trees are thick with leaves;
The bitter, evil time is over.

Swift horses gather nigh
Where half dry the river goes;
Tufted heather clothes the height;
Weak and white the bogdown blows.

Corncrake sings from eve to morn,
Deep in corn, a strenuous bard!
Sings the virgin waterfall,
White and tall, her one sweet word.

Loaded bees with puny power
Goodly flower-harvest win;
Cattle roam with muddy flanks;
Busy ants go out and in.

Through the wild harp of the wood
Making music roars the gale--
Now it settles without motion,
On the ocean sleeps the sail.

Men grow mighty in the May,
Proud and gay the maidens grow;
Fair is every wooded height;
Fair and bright the plain below.

A bright shaft has smit the streams,
With gold gleams the water-flag;
Leaps the fish, and on the hills
Ardour thrills the leaping stag.

Loudly carols the lark on high,
Small and shy, his tireless lay,
Singing in wildest, merriest mood,
Delicate-hued, delightful May.

T. W. ROLLESTON.

THE ISLE OF ARRAN

Arran of many stags!
Her very shoulders washed by ocean's foam;
Of companies of hardy men the home,
Whose blue spears reddened oft along her crags
Where the quick-leaping deer doth roam.
Beneath her russet oaks the acorns fall,
Cool water in her streams, and, scattered all,
Dark berries lurk, like down-dropped hidden tears,
Beneath her slowly-moving grasses tall.

Greyhounds there were in her, and beagles brown;
And, when the winding horn her stillness shocks,
From out the friendly shelter of her rocks
The startled stag leaps down.
Around her noble crags, in thickening flocks,
To one another wheeling sea-mews cry;
Yet, all unmoved, the fawns feed silently,
Unconscious of the storm-cloud's gathering frown
That spreads across the leaden autumn sky.

Smooth were her level lands and sleek her swine,
Cheerful her fields (true is the tale I tell)
The heavy hazel-boughs remembered well,
The purple crop, where bramble-trails entwine.
Above the nestling homesteads of the dell.
Her whispering streams, her clear deep pools I miss,
Where brown trout browse beneath the fairy liss;
Pleasant thine isle, Arran of bounding stags,
On such a sultry summer's day as this.

THE PARTING OF GOLL FROM HIS WIFE

_When they are shut up by Fionn on a sea-girt rock,
without chance of escape_.

A DIALOGUE

(GOLL _speaks_)

The end is come; upon this narrow rock
To-morrow I must die;
Wife of the ruddy cheeks and hair of flame,
Leave me to-night and fly.

Seek out the camp of Fionn and of his men
Upon the westward side;
Take there, in time to come, another mate.
Here I abide.

(GOLL'S _wife replies_)

Which way, O Goll, is my way, and thou perished?
Alas! few friends have I!
Small praise that woman hath whose lord is gone
And no protector nigh!

What man should I wed? I whom great Goll cherished
And made his wife?
Where in the East or West should one be sought
To mend my broken life?

Shall I take Oísin, son of Fionn the Wise?
Or Carroll of the blood-stained hand?
Shall I make Angus, son of Hugh, my prize?
Or swift-foot Corr, chief of the fighting-band?

I am as good as they; aye, good and better,
Daughter of Conall, Monarch of the West,
Fostered was I with Conn the Hundred-Fighter,
Best among all the best.

Thee out of all I loved, thee my first master,
Gentlest and bravest thou;
Seven years we lived and loved, through calm and tumult,
And shall I leave thee now?

From that night till to-night I found thee never
Of harsh and churlish mind;
And here I vow, no other man shall touch me,
Kind or unkind.

Here on this narrow crag, foodless and sleepless,
Thou takest thy last stand;
A hundred heroes, Goll, lie rotting round thee,
Slain by thy dauntless hand.

In the wide ocean near us, life is teeming;
Yet on this barren rock
I sink from hunger, and the wild briny waters
My thirst-pangs mock.

Fierce is our hunger, fierce are the five battalions
Sent here to conquer thee;
But fiercer yet the drought that steals my beauty
Midst this surrounding sea.

Though all my dear loved brothers by one caitiff
Lay slaughtered in my sight,
That man I'd call my friend, yea, I would love him,
Could my thirst ease to-night.

Eat, Son of Morna, batten on these dead bodies,
This is my last behest;
Feast well, gaunt Goll, then quench thy awful craving
Here at my breast.

Nought is there more to fear, nought to be hoped for,
Of life and all bereft
High on this crag, abandoned and forsaken,
Nor hope nor shame is left.

(GOLL _speaks_)

King Conall's daughter, cease this mad entreaty,
Cease thou, I pray;
Never have I a woman's counsel asked for,
Far less to-day.

Oh! pitiful how this thing hath befallen,
Little red mouth!
Lips that of old made speech and happy music,
Now dry and harsh with drouth.

Ever I feared this end; my haunting terror
By wave and land
Was to be caught by Fionn and his battalions
On some stark, foodless strand.

Depart not yet; upon this barren islet,
Beneath this brazen sky,
Sweet lips and gentle heart, we sit together
Until we die.

YOUTH AND AGE

From the "Poem-book of Fionn."

Once I was yellow-haired, and ringlets fell,
In clusters round my brow;
Grizzled and sparse to-night my short grey crop,
No lustre in it now.

Better to me the shining locks of youth,
Or raven's dusky hue,
Than drear old age, which chilly wisdom brings,
If what they say be true.

I only know that as I pass the road,
No woman looks my way;
They think my head and heart alike are cold--
Yet I have had my day.

CHILL WINTER

Nipping this winter's night, the snow drifts by,
Below the hill the boisterous billows roar;
'Tis bitter cold to-night the mountain o'er,
Yet still the ungovernable stag bells forth his cry.

To-night laid not his side upon the ground
The deer of Slievecarn of the hundred fights;
He, with the stag of Echtge's frozen heights,
Caught the wolves' snarl, and quivered at the sound.

I, Caoilte, wakeful lie, and Dermot Donn,
We, with keen Oscar of the footsteps fleet,
Watch the slow hours of moving night retreat,
Whilst the dread pack of hungry wolves comes on.

Well rests the ruddy deer in dawn's dim light,
Deep breathing near the covering earthen mound,
Hidden from sight, as 'twere beneath the ground,
All in the latter end of chilly night.

I sit to-night amongst the ancient race,
And of the younger men but few I know,
Though, in the ice-bound mornings long ago,
From my firm grasp the javelin flew apace.

I thank Heaven's King, I thank sweet Mary's Son,
My hand it was that silenced countless men;
They lie stretched out beneath us in the glen,
Colder than we, death-cold, lies many and many an one.

THE SLEEP-SONG OF GRAINNE OVER DERMUID

_When fleeing from Fionn_

From the "Poem-book of Fionn."

Sleep a little, a little little, thou needest feel no fear or dread,
Youth to whom my love is given, I am watching near thy head.

Sleep a little, with my blessing, Dermuid of the lightsome eye,
I will guard thee as thou dreamest, none shall harm while I am by.

Sleep, O little lamb, whose homeland was the country of the lakes,
In whose bosom torrents tremble, from whose sides the river breaks.

Sleep as slept the ancient poet, Dedach, minstrel of the South,
When he snatched from Conall Cernach Eithne of the laughing mouth.

Sleep as slept the comely Finncha 'neath the falls of Assaroe,
Who, when stately Slaine sought him, laid the Hardhead Failbe low.

Sleep in joy, as slept fair Aine, Gailan's daughter of the west,
Where, amid the flaming torches, she and Duvach found their rest.

Sleep as Degha, who in triumph, ere the sun sank o'er the land,
Stole the maiden he had craved for, plucked her from fierce Deacall's
hand.

Fold of Valour, sleep a little, Glory of the Western world;
I am wondering at thy beauty, marvelling how thy locks are curled.

Like the parting of two children, bred together in one home,
Like the breaking of two spirits, if I did not see you come.

Swirl the leaves before the tempest, moans the nightwind o'er the lea,
Down its stony bed the streamlet hurries onward to the sea.

In the swaying boughs the linnet twitters in the darkling light,
On the upland wastes of heather wings the grouse its heavy flight.

In the marshland by the river sulks the otter in his den;
While the piping of the peeweet sounds across the distant fen.

On the stormy mere the wild-duck pushes outward from the brake,
With her downy brood beside her seeks the centre of the lake.

In the east the restless roe-deer bellows to his frightened hind;
On thy track the wolf-hounds gather, sniffing up against the wind.

Yet, O Dermuid, sleep a little, this one night our fear hath fled,
Youth to whom my love is given, see, I watch beside thy bed.

THE SLAYING OF CONBEG

_A beloved hound of Fionn's which Goll mac Morna drowned
in despite of Fionn_.

CAOILTE _sang this_:

Mournful to me the slaying of Conbeg,[103]
Little hound, great was his brightness;
Never was one more deft of paw
Seen in the chase of swine or deer.

Tribulation to me the slaying of Conbeg,
Little hound, of the baying voice;
Never was one more deft of paw
Found in the running down of the deer.

Tribulation to me the drowning of Conbeg
Upon the mighty grey-green seas;
His cruel loss, it brought contention,[104]
A "fill of sorrow" was his death.

FOOTNOTES:

[103] Conbeg means "little hound."

[104] _i.e._ between Fionn and Goll; Goll was leader of the Connacht Fians and the deadly enemy of Fionn.

THE FAIRIES' LULLABY

My mirth and merriment, soft and sweet art thou,
Child of the race of Conn art thou;
My mirth and merriment, soft and sweet art thou,
Of the race of Coll and Conn art thou.

My smooth green rush, my laughter sweet,
My little plant in the rocky cleft,
Were it not for the spell on thy tiny feet
Thou wouldst not here be left,
Not thou.

Of the race of Coll and Conn art thou,
My laughter, sweet and low art thou;
As you crow on my knee,
I would lift you with me,
Were it not for the mark that is on your feet
I would lift you away,
and away,
with me.

SONG OF THE FOREST TREES

O man that for Fergus of the feasts dost kindle fire,
Whether afloat or ashore burn not the king of woods.

Monarch of Innisfail's forests the woodbine is, whom none may hold
captive;
No feeble sovereign's effort is it to hug all tough trees in his
embrace.

The pliant woodbine if thou burn, wailings for misfortune will
abound,
Dire extremity at weapons' points or drowning in great waves will
follow.

Burn not the precious apple-tree of spreading and low-sweeping bough;
Tree ever decked in bloom of white, against whose fair head all men
put forth the hand.

The surly blackthorn is a wanderer, a wood that the artificer burns
not;
Throughout his body, though it be scanty, birds in their flocks
warble.

The noble willow burn not, a tree sacred to poems;
Within his bloom bees are a-sucking, all love the little cage.

The graceful tree with the berries, the wizard's tree, the rowan,
burn;
But spare the limber tree; burn not the slender hazel.

Dark is the colour of the ash; timber that makes the wheels to go;
Rods he furnishes for horsemen's hands, his form turns battle into
flight.

Tenterhook among woods the spiteful briar is, burn him that is so
keen and green;
He cuts, he flays the foot, him that would advance he forcibly drags
backward.

Fiercest heat-giver of all timber is green oak, from him none may
escape unhurt;
By partiality for him the head is set on aching, and by his acrid
embers the eye is made sore.

Alder, very battle-witch of all woods, tree that is hottest in the
fight--
Undoubtedly burn at thy discretion both the alder and whitethorn.

Holly, burn it green; holly, burn it dry;
Of all trees whatsoever the critically best is holly.

Elder that hath tough bark, tree that in truth hurts sore;
Him that furnishes horses to the armies from the _sídh_ burn so that
he be charred.

The birch as well, if he be laid low, promises abiding fortune;
Burn up most sure and certainly the stalks that bear the constant
pods.

Suffer, if it so please thee, the russet aspen to come headlong down;
Burn, be it late or early, the tree with the palsied branch.

Patriarch of long-lasting woods is the yew, sacred to feasts, as is
well-known;
Of him now build ye dark-red vats of goodly size.

Ferdedh, thou faithful one, wouldst thou but do my behest:
To thy soul as to thy body, O man, 'twould work advantage.

STANDISH HAYES O'GRADY.

EARLY CHRISTIAN POEMS

ST. PATRICK'S BREASTPLATE

I arise to-day
Through the strength of heaven:
Light of sun,
Radiance of moon,
Splendour of fire,
Speed of lightning,
Swiftness of wind,
Depth of sea,
Stability of earth,
Firmness of rock.

I arise to-day
Through God's strength to pilot me:
God's might to uphold me,
God's wisdom to guide me,
God's eye to look before me,
God's ear to hear me,
God's word to speak for me,
God's hand to guard me,
God's way to lie before me,
God's shield to protect me,
God's host to save me
From snares of devils,
From temptations of vices,
From every one who shall wish me ill,
Afar and anear,
Alone and in a multitude.

Christ to shield me to-day
Against poison, against burning,
Against drowning, against wounding,
So that there may come to me abundance of reward.
Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,
Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ on my right, Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down, Christ when
I arise,
Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of every one who speaks of me,
Christ in every eye that sees me,
Christ in every ear that hears me.

I arise to-day
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through belief in the threeness,
Through confession of the oneness
Of the Creator of Creation.

KUNO MEYER.

PATRICK'S BLESSING ON MUNSTER

Blessing from the Lord on High
Over Munster fall and lie;
To her sons and daughters all
Choicest blessings still befall;
Fruitful blessing on the soil
That supports her faithful toil!

Blessing full of ruddy health,
Blessing full of every wealth
That her borders furnish forth,
East and west and south and north;
Blessings from the Lord on high
Over Munster fall and lie!

Blessing on her peaks in air,
Blessing on her flag-stones bare;
Blessing from her ridges flow
To her grassy glens below;
Blessings from the Lord on High
Over Munster fall and lie!

As the sands upon her shore
Underneath her ships, for store,

Be her hearths, a twinkling host
Over mountain, plain and coast!
Blessing from the Lord on High
Over Munster fall and lie!

ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES.

COLUMCILLE'S FAREWELL TO ARAN OF THE SAINTS

St. Columcille, or Columba, was born 521, died 597 A.D.

Farewell from me to Ara's Isle,
Her smile is at my heart no more,
No more to me the boon is given
With hosts of heaven to walk her shore.

How far, alas! How far, alas!
Have I to pass from Ara's view,
To mix with men from Mona's fen,
With men from Alba's mountains blue.

O Ara, darling of the West,
Ne'er be he blest who loves not thee!
O God, cut short her foeman's breath,
Let hell and death his portion be.

O Ara, darling of the West,
Ne'er be he blest who loves not thee,
Herdless and childless may he go,
In endless woe his doom to dree.

O Ara, darling of the West,
Ne'er be he blest who loves thee not,
When angels wing from heaven on high,
And leave the sky for this dear spot.

DOUGLAS HYDE.

ST. COLUMBA IN IONA

From an Irish MS. in the Burgundian Library, Brussels.

Delightful would it be to me
On a pinnacle of rock,
That I might often see
The face of the ocean;
That I might watch its heaving waves
Over the wide sea
When they chant music to their Father
Upon the world's course;
That I might see its level sparkling strand,
It would be no cause of sorrow;
That I might hear the song of the wonderful birds,
Source of happiness;
That I might hear the thunder of the clamorous waves
Upon the rocks;
That I might hear the roar by the side of the church
Of the surrounding sea;
That I might watch its noble bird-flocks
Flying over the watery surf;
That I might see the ocean-monsters,
Greatest of all wonders;
That I might observe its ebb and flood
In their cycles;
That my mystical name might be, i'faith,
"Cul ri Erin."
That on my heart contrition might fall
On looking upon her;
That I might bewail my evils all,
Though it were not easy to number them;
That I might bless the Lord
Who orders all;
Heaven with its countless bright orders
Land, strand and flood;
That I might search in all the books
That which would help my soul;
At times kneeling to the Heaven of my heart,
At times singing psalms;
At times meditating on the King of Heaven,
Chief of the Holy Ones;
At times at work without compulsion
This would be delightful.
At times plucking duilisc from the rocks;
At other times fishing;
At times distributing food to the poor,
At times in a hermitage;
The best guidance from the presence of God
Has been vouchsafed to me;
The King whom I serve will keep from me
All things that would deceive me.

EUGENE O'CURRY.

HYMN TO THE DAWN

Ascribed to St. Cellach of Killala, when imprisoned in a hollow oak on the morning before his murder by his old comrades, _circa_ 540.

Hail to the morning fair, that falls as a flame on the greensward;
Hail, too, unto Him who bestows her, the morn ever fruitful in
blessings.

Robed in her pride she comes, the brilliant sun's little sister,
Hail to thee, Dawn, thrice hail! that lightest my book of the
hours.

Thou searchest the secret dwelling, on clansman and kindred thou
shinest;
White-necked, beautiful, hail! who makest thine uprising golden!

The chequered page of my booklet tells me my life was erring;
Melcroin, 'tis thee whom I fear, 'tis from thee that shall come my
undoing.

Scallcrow, thou paltry fowl, sharp-beaked, grey-coated and cruel,
Full well do I guess thy desire, no friendship hast thou unto
Cellach.

Raven, O Raven, that croakest, from the top of the rath thou art
watching,
Wait but awhile, bird of death, and most surely my flesh will
suffice thee.

Fiercely the kite of Cluain Eo will take his part in the scramble,
His talons filled with my flesh, flying off to his haunt in the
yew-tree.

Swift through the darkling woodland the foxes will scent out my
slaughter,
They on the confines trackless my flesh and my blood will devour.

The mighty wolf from his lair 'neath the rath on the East of
Drumm Dara,
To the banquet of bones will betake him, prime chief of the curs he
will boast him.

Wednesday night past I saw visions, the wild dogs troubled my
slumbers,
Hither and thither they dragged me through russet ferns of the
coppice.

'Twas in a dream I saw it; to the lonely green glen men bore me;
Five men were we who went thither, I saw only four returning.[105]

'Twas in a dream I saw it; to their dwelling my comrades allured me;
They poured out the cup of old friendship, they quaffed to my luck
and long living.

Scant is thy tail, tiny wren; thy doleful pipe is prophetic;
Perhaps it is thou art the traitor; thou, and not they, my destroyer.

For why should Mac Deora deceive me? His father and mine were
brothers;
Oh! monstrous deed and unholy, that he should desire to harm me!

Or why should Meldalua hurt me? my cousin, is he by his mother;
Twin sisters his mother and mine, yet in truth it was he who
betrayed me.

What ill can I get from Melsenig? For a pure man's son I have held
him;
Melsenig, the son of Melibar, 'tis he who hath plotted my downfall.

Melcroin, my playfellow Melcroin, the crime of thy act is yet deeper;
For ten thousand ingots of gold would not Cellach have stooped to
betray thee.

Vain pelf hath allured thee, O Melcroin, the love of this world's
fleeting pleasures,
For the guerdon of hell hast thou sold me, hast sold me, thy friend
and thy brother!

All precious things that I had, my treasures, my sleek-coated horses,
Would I have given to Melcroin, to win him away from this treason!

Yet in high heaven above me, the great Son of Mary is speaking;
"Thou art forsaken on earth; but a welcome awaits thee in heaven."

FOOTNOTES:

[105] Compare "So the two brothers and their murdered man rode past fair Florence," in Keats' _Isabella or the Pot of Basil_, Stanza xxvii.

THE SONG OF MANCHAN THE HERMIT

Abbot of Liath Manchan, now Lemanaghan, in King's Co.
Died 665 A.D.

I wish, O Son of the Living God, O Ancient Eternal King,
For a hidden hut in the wilderness, a simple secluded thing.

The all-blithe lithe little lark in his place, chanting his
lightsome lay;
The calm, clear pool of the Spirit's grace, washing my sins away.

A wide, wild woodland on every side, its shades the nursery
Of glad-voiced songsters, who at day-dawn chant their sweet psalm
for me.

A southern aspect to catch the sun, a brook across the floor,
A choice land, rich with gracious gifts, down-stretching from my
door.

Few men and wise, these I would prize, men of content and power,
To raise Thy praise throughout the days at each canonical hour.

Four times three, three times four, fitted for every need,
To the King of the Sun praying each one, this were a grace, indeed.

Twelve in the church to chant the hours, kneeling there twain and
twain;
And I before, near the chancel door, listening their low refrain.

A pleasant church with an Altar-cloth, where Christ sits at the
board,
And a shining candle shedding its ray on the white words of the
Lord.

Brief meals between, when prayer is done, our modest needs supply;
No greed in our share of the simple fare, no boasting or ribaldry.

This is the husbandry I choose, laborious, simple, free,
The fragrant leek about my door, the hen and the humble bee.

Rough raiment of tweed, enough for my need, this will my King allow;
And I to be sitting praying to God under every leafy bough.

A PRAYER

Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart,
Naught is all else to me, save that Thou art.

Thou my best thought by day and by night,
Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light.

Be Thou my Wisdom, Thou my true Word;
I ever with Thee, Thou with me, Lord.