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diff --git a/75529-0.txt b/75529-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9553040 --- /dev/null +++ b/75529-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2001 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75529 *** + + + + + + DEIRDRE WED + + AND OTHER POEMS + + + + + WILT THOU ADVENTURE ON THE GULFS OF MORNING? + COME, THEN, AND SUFFER THESE + SELF-MUTTERING CITIES THAT HAVE LOST HORIZONS + TO SINK BEHIND THE MOUNTAINS AND THE TREES. + + + + + DEIRDRE WED + AND OTHER POEMS + + + BY + + HERBERT TRENCH + +[Illustration: [Logo]] + + METHUEN & CO. + 36 ESSEX STREET, STRAND + LONDON + 1901 + + + + + _Copyrighted in the United States of America_ + + + + + CONTENTS + + + DEIRDRE WED— + PAGE + 1. _The Chanters_ 3 + 2. _Fintan_ 5 + 3. _Cir_ 16 + 4. _Urmael_ 31 + 5. _Fintan_ 53 + Ode on a Silver Birch 59 + A Charge 64 + Song for the Funeral of a Boy 66 + Come, let us make love deathless 69 + Claviers at Night 70 + The Man Digging 75 + Schiehallion 76 + The Shell 78 + The Rock of Cloud 79 + She comes not when Noon is on the roses 85 + The Night 86 + Maurya’s Song 88 + Tired with the day’s monotony 90 + You were stay’d in heart on heaven 91 + The Bloom 92 + In the Roman Amphitheatre, Verona 94 + A Winter Song 95 + The Nutter 97 + Shakespeare 101 + + Notes 104 + + + + + DEIRDRE WED + + + I + THE CHANTERS + + I + _I stood on the Hill of Time when the sun was fled + And my vision sought where to rest, till it knew the plains + Of my country, the Night’s harp, and the moonless bed + Of rivers and bristling forests and sea-board chains._ + + + II + + _And from many a chanter’s mound—none is nameless there— + Could I hear, amid rumour eternal, the voice ascend: + With the bones of man endureth his floating hair + And the song of his spirit on earth is slow to end._ + + + III + + _Speak to me, speak to me, Fintan, dark in the south, + From the west Urmael, and Cir, lying under the pole, + Some chant that ye made, who never spake mouth to mouth, + But over the ridge of ages from soul to soul._ + + + IV + + _And a strain came out of Dun Tulcha, the yews’ shores, + From Fintan, the elder than yews, the too old for tears, + “Let us tell him of Deirdre wed, that his heart’s doors + Resound, as when kings arrive, with the trees of spears.”_ + + + II + VOICE OF FINTAN _out of the First Century_, + + O Sightless and rare-singing brotherhood! + It was the night of marriage. Word had sped, + Tokens gone out to every rath and ring + And every pasture on the woody knolls + Green about Eman, of the slaughter blithe + Of sheep and boar, of badger and of stag, + Reddening the ways up to the kingly house— + Of sheep and goats and of the stintless food + That should be poured out to his beggary + By Connachar, that all time should remember + The night he wed the girl from the elf-mound. + Yonside of Assaroe the swineherd found her + Bred in a peaty hillock of the west + By some old crone. Though tribeless she and wild— + Barefoot, and in the red wool chasing cattle— + Connachar saw and took, biding his time, + And let queens give her skill the winter long + In webs and brews and dyes and broideries + Up to this night of marriage. + + Fabulous, + O friends, and dark, and mighty, was his house, + The beam-work in its dome of forest trunks— + They that had been the chantries of the dawn + To blacken songless through a thousand years:— + But never since they sway’d buds in the glens + Or spun the silken-floating violet gleam + Had those spars groan’d above so fierce a breath + Rich with the vapour of the boar. For now + Hundreds with ruddy-glistening faces ran + Jostling round the nine shadows of the blaze + And spread with skins the lengthy beds of men + And soused warm spice of herbs in ale. Here—thither— + Was rousing of age-slumber’d horns, arranging + Smooth banks throughout the house, strawing of rushes, + And cauldrons humm’d before the empty throne + Set high in the shadow of the wall, and bubbled + Inaudible, impatient for the king. + + But while outside the black roof on the mount + Outwafted was the gold divinity + On swooning wings, the Lake of Pearls far down + Curdled beneath the unseen seed of rain. + Ramparts run there that misty prisoners + Bore once in bags of slime up from the lake + For barriers of the house they most abhorr’d. + And on the hill-side, where that rampart old + Dips lowest to the lakeward, Deirdre stood, + Hearing from distant ridges the faint bleat + Of lambs perturb the dusk—bleats shivering out + Like wool from thorns—there the young Deirdre stood, + Even she whose climbing beauty pales the world, + Looking far off on hills whence she was come. + Mountains that lift the holiness of Fire! + Fortitudes, ye that take the brunt of fate! + Send her across the bog a little cloud + Full of the ancient savours, full of peace, + And for its drops she will hold up her heart, + O ye that stand in heaven, far removed! + She ask’d aloud, Wherefore were greens so bare + That but an hour ago shook with the thud + Of racers and of hurlers? Was it late? + The wrinkled nurse replied, Had the child eyes? + Back from a hosting and a desperate prey + For corn and mares and rustless brass and beeves + Naois, with the rest of Usnach’s sons, + Had come. She had seen him weary go but now + Heavily up the steep through the king’s hedge. + Now on the hill-top while the woman spoke + So chanced it. Hanging on the young man’s lips + The hosts sway’d round him, and above the press + Connachar, glittering all in torques of gold + And writhen armlets, listen’d from the mound + Of judgment, by the doom-oak at his door. + His beak’d helm took the sunset, but he held + His flint-red eyes in shadow and averse. + And when before him, dark as a young pine, + Unmoved the son of Usnach had told all; + How half his folk had perish’d in the task + By plague or battle, and how poor a spoil + Was driven home, the king cried, Paragon! + We must go griddle cakes in honey for him, + Bring lavers of pale gold to wash off blood + So precious to us; since for many moons + This champion had forsworn the face of softness + And stretch’d his hungers to the sleety rock, + Call in the smile of women to unlatch + From his grim ribs the iron:—Faugh! Away! + Let Usnach’s sons take out again that night + Their broken clans, their piteous cattle thence; + Defeated men should see his gates no more. + + The son of Usnach turn’d and went. He ran + Down hill and to the loch to wash his wounds + Chanting—his dark curls waver’d in the wind— + Chanting he strode, tossing a brace of spears, + Lest we should think him humbled. Half-way down + The shapes of women loiter’d in the dusk + And one held backward out her arms to take + The latchets of a cloak. But as Naois + Pass’d by them, closely as is heard a sigh— + His vehement flood of soul fierce for the mere— + Glancing not right nor left, O then I saw + The foot of Deirdre stricken motionless— + I saw the stiff cloak many-colour’d sink + Slow to the grass, wrinkling its blazon’d skins + Behind her. + + Gloom suck’d in the banqueters; + And from the warmth of drinking at his feast + Connachar sent forth to the women’s house; + And heralds bade bring also the gray seer + Cathva, though Cathva had not will’d to come. + But hardly had those erranders gone out + When rose the door-hide: the gray seer came in + Noiseless. He was of fog the night hath spun, + Earth in his hair and on his meagre cheek, + Consumed and shaking, ragged as seaweed, + And to the throne he cried: “Why hast thou called + Me to carousal? Is this bed my work? + Nay—too great clearness underneath the thunder + Shew’d insupportably the things to be. + Too long have I, with glamours, drops and runes, + Shook round her cabin low my skirts of storm + To shield thee from that devastating face. + My fault is only that I slew her not. + Know! it was I that, seeing those cradled limbs + Bright with disaster for the realm and thee, + Flung her away among sea-warding mountains. + But Muilréa to Ben Gorm said: _What is this? + What glee is this disturbs our desolation? + I hear another than the wild duck sheering + Sidelong the wind. Tall as a rush is she, + Sweet as the glitter of the netted lakes!_ + And Ben Gorm answer’d: _We are sick alone: + Let us distil the heavens into a child: + Yea, let our bones appear, the black goat starve + Upon our heads, yet shall this wafted seed + Superabound with ripeness we forego. + Dark space shall come to heart—silver of mists— + And thou, blue depth of gorges!_ Connachar, + I heard the plotters, but I let her live.” + And the king ask’d: “Hath any seen her there?” + And Cathva answer’d, “Till thy servant found her + She knew not that men were.” Then Connachar + Commanded yet again: “Bring us in Deirdre.” + Straightway a woman like the claw of birds, + Decrepit, bright of eye, and innocent, + Stood up beyond the fire. Her fingers play’d— + Play’d with a red stone at her breast. He ask’d + “Who gave thee, hag, the jewel of thy bosom?” + Now every drinker from the darkest stalls + Perceived the brooch was Deirdre’s, and a gift + To her from Connachar. Aghast, the woman + Fumbled at her sere breast, and wept and said: + “It was a gift to me, O Connachar, + This night.” And he, consummate lord of fear, + Our never-counsell’d lord, the Forest-odour’d, + That kept about his heart a zone of chill, + Smiled, though within the gateway of his fort + A surmise crept, as ’neath a load of rushes + Creeps in the stabber. “Fix the pin, Levarcham, + For she that loses such a brooch will grieve. + Why comes not Deirdre?” “Sir, she is not yet + Duly array’d, and so is loth to come.” + O, then, believe me, all the floor was hush, + But a mad discordancy like fifes, drums, brasses,— + Bondmen of old wars on the winds released— + Shook every beam and pillar of the house; + And the king said—“Thou hear’st out of the marsh + Scream of my stallions mounting on the gale?” + And she said “Yea.” “Thou knowest round these walls + How many chariots now are tilted up?” + And she said “Yea.” “Then, woman, bring with haste + Deirdre, thy charge, into this presence now + Or limb from limb upon the pleasant grass + Those wheels shall parcel thee at dawn.” And she + Lifted her hands and closed her eyes and sang, + “She will come back, but I, I shall not bring her! + O rainbow breathed into the dreadful pine, + Why art thou gone from me? Dearer to me + Than the sobbing of the cuckoo to the shore + Why art thou gone from me?” She bow’d and wept. + And Connachar came from the throne, and grasping + As if he felt no heat, the cauldron’s brims + Lean’d through its steams, watching the nurse and said, + “Will these afflicting tears bring Deirdre in?” + But she look’d up and said: “How shall I bring her? + Look now outside thy door, O Connachar! + The black oak with the vision-dripping boughs + Whose foot is in thy fathers’ blood of pride + Stagger’d as I came up in the night-blast. + In vain it stretches angers to the sky: + It cannot keep the white moon from escape + To sail the tempest; nor, O king, canst thou!” + The cheek of him that listen’d grew thrice-pale + And his thick nostrils swell’d, his half-shut eyes + Fang’d sheen, and slow dilated; stubbornly + He clutch’d to steady his convulsive frame + The sea-full cauldron; quick, with efforts vast, + Upheaved and swung and pillar’d it on high— + And hoarsely bade “Take torches.” Every man + Kindled in silence at the hearth divine. + Then Connachar pour’d out upon the blaze + The flood within the vat. The roofs were fill’d + With darkness foul, with hissings and with smoke.... + + + III + VOICE OF CIR _out of a Century more remote_, _but unknown_, + + As a horseman breaks on a sea-gulf enwomb’d in the amber woods + Where tide is at ebb, and out on the airy brim + Glass’d upon cloud and azure stand multitudes + Of the flame-white people of gulls—to the sky-line dim + + All breast to the sun,—and his hoofs expand the desolate strait + Into fevers of snows and ocean-wandering cries: + Even so, chanters divine, in some woman’s fate + At coming of him to be loved do her dreams arise. + + And Deirdre the exquisite virgin pale as the coat of swans + Took the flame of love in her heart at the time of dew + + And clad her in ragged wool from a coffer of bronze + And walked in the chill of night, for her soul was new. + + “Why thick with the berries of sweetness, ye barren thorns of the + spring? + I could drink up this tempest cold as a burning wine. + Why laugh, my grief, for art thou not bride of a king, + And the drinkers drink to a couch array’d to be thine?” + + Where the wounded toss without sleep in the warrior’s hive of stones— + The house Bron Bhearg—she laid her cheek to the wall + And bless’d them by stealth, with no pang at the sound of groans + Having that in her rich heart which could heal them all. + + To the fortress-gate on the steep that looketh toward Creeve Roe + She fled, and spied not a sling-cast off the flare + Of a torch, and the skull fixed over the gate. And lo, + To the right hand watchmen paced by the water there. + + And the shag-hair’d guard, with a mock, laid spears in their passage + house + Athwart, for who was this phantom over the grass + Like a filcher of food? And Deirdre uncover’d her brows + And cried: “I am Deirdre!” And sullen they gave her the pass. + + And towards Creeve Roe the dip of the cuckoo’s vale was dark + To blindness. She pluck’d her steps on that miry road + Through copses alive with storm, till at length a spark + Shew’d the forge where the smith on the heroes’ way abode. + + Now Culann the smith was wise; and leaping her spirit stirr’d + With the soft roar of his hide-wing’d fire as it soar’d: + “Has the son of Usnach pass’d?” “Yea, gone back!” With the word + He smote on a ribbon of iron to make him a sword. + + And the argentine din of anvils behind her steadily dwindling + The woman fled to the wastes, till she came to a Thorn + Black, by the well of a God, with stars therein kindling + And over it rags fluttering from boughs forlorn. + + And she knelt and shore with a knife a lock of her deathless hair, + And leash’d the black-shuddering branch with that tress, and pray’d: + “Sloe-tree, thou snow of the darkness, O hear my prayer, + And thou, black Depth, bubble-breather, vouchsafe thine aid; + + “From Connachar’s eyes of love let me hide as a gray mole, + Sons of the earth’s profound, that no weeper spurn! + I have look’d on a face, and its kindness ravish’t my soul + But deliverance pass’d; unto you for escape I turn.” + + And loud as the sloven starlings in winter whistle and swarm + Came the banish’d of Usnach nigh, thrice fifty strong + As they drove from Eman away on that night of storm + And Naois spoke with his brothers behind the throng: + + “O, Aillean, O, Ardan, hark! What cry was that? For some cry + Rang on my soul’s shield; hark! hear ye it now?” + But they rein’d not their weary chariots, shouting reply + “It was fate,’twas the curs’t hag that is crouch’d on a bough!” + + Tossing they drove out of sight, Naois the last, and his hood + Rain-dripping mantled the wind. One ran like a roe, + And call’d on that great name from the nightbound wood, + “Stay, long-awaited, stay! for with thee I go!” + + And his brothers cried “Halt not! the host of the air makes moan + Or a gang of the wild geese going back to the lake.” + But Naois rear’d up the deep-ribb’d Srōn, “Good Srōn, + Thou and I needs must turn for our fame’s sake.” + + And he heard a voice: “Son of Usnach, take me to be thy wife!” + He bent from the withers, the blaze of her trembling drew + The breath from his lips and the beat from his heart’s life; + And he said, “Who art thou, Queen?” But himself knew, + + And mutter’d “Return, return, unto him that I hate. For know + Him least of all I rob, least of all that live.” + But she cried: “Am I then a colt, that ye snare from a foe + With a bridle’s shaking? I am mine own to give.” + + “Thy beauty would crumble away in the spate of my wild nights, + And famine rake out thine embers, the lean paw + Of jeopardy find thee. He is not rich in delights + Whose harp is the gray fell in the winter’s flaw.” + + And she laid her arm round the neck of Srōn: “Hast heard, + Horse swollen-vein’d from battle, insulter of death— + Whose back is only a perch for the desert bird— + Whose fore-hooves fight—whose passage is torn with teeth, + + “And dost thou not shudder off the knees of a master deaf + To the grief of the weak?” And the lad, deeply-moved, rejoins + “Mount then, O woman, behind me,”—and light as a leaf + Drawing her up from his foot to the smoking loins + + Shook loose the ox-hide bridle. Even as the great gull dives + From Muilréa’s moon-glittering peak when the sky is bare, + Scraped naked by nine days’ wind, and sweepingly drives + Overnight-blurr’d gulfs and the long glens of the air, + + And feels up-tossing his breast an exhaustless breath bear on + Spouted from isleless ocean to aid his flight— + So fiercely, so steadily gallop’d the sinewy Srōn, + Braced by that double burden to more delight. + + Though his mane wrapp’d a wounded bridle-hand, fast, fast + As giddy foam-weltering waters dash’d by the hoof + Flee away from the weirs of Callan, even so pass’d + Dark plains away to the world’s edge, behind and aloof. + + And the rider stoop’d and whisper’d amidst the thunder of weirs + Such sweetness of praise to his horse in the swirl of the flood + That Srōn twitch’d back for an instant his moonëd ears— + Strain’d forth like a hare’s,—as his haunches up to the wood + + Wrested them. Beaks of magic, the wreckage of time, came out + And talon’d things of the forest would waft and sway + But Naois raised unforgotten that battle-shout + That scatters the thrilling wreath of all fears away. + + So they measured the Plain of the Dreamers, the Brake of the Black Ram, + Till the Crag of the Dances before them did shape and loom. + And the Meads of the Faery Hurlers in silver swam + Then up to the Gap of the Winds, and the far-seen tomb + + White on Slieve Fuad’s side. By many a marchland old + And cairn of princes—yea, to mine own bedside— + They adventured. Think ye, sweet bards, that I could lie cold + When my chamber of rock fore-knew that impassion’d stride? + + Had I, too, not pluck’d the webs of rain-sweet drops from the harp + And torn from its wave of chords an imperishable love + To sleep on this breast? Here, through the mountain sharp + My grave-chamber tunnell’d is, and one door from above + + Westward surveys green territories, gentle with flowers and charm, + But forth from the eastern face of the ridge is unquell’d + Wilderness, besown with boulders and grass of harm. + And even in my trance could I feel those riders approach and beheld + + Naois assault the ridge, to the wilderness setting his face + Expectant, unconscious, as one whom his foes arouse; + His heart was a forge—his onset enkindled space— + He shook off the gusty leagues like locks from his brows. + + What should he reck of Earth save that under his wounds he felt + Stolen round him, as dreamy water steals round a shore, + A girdle, the arms of Deirdre, clasp’d for a belt + That terror of main kings should unlock no more? + + I was caught from the grave’s high gate as that spume-flaked ecstacy + drew + Upward, and wing’d like the kiss of Aengus, strove + For utterance to greet them—encircling their heads that flew— + But who loops the whirlwind’s foot or out-dreameth love? + + He wheel’d round Srōn on the crest. Abrupt he flung back a hand + And spoke, “Dost thou know the truth? Look where night is low! + Soon the ants of that mound shall shake the ledge where we stand: + Now the tribes are summon’d, the Night prepares his blow. + + “Now wrath spurts, hot from the trumpet—the main beacon flares— + Now tackle the arrogant chariots—dogs in their glee + Hang on the leash-slaves, numb in the cockcrow airs. + Why, out of all that host, hast thou singled me?” + + I heard her behind him breathe, “Because out of all that host + Aptest art thou in feats, held in honour more + Than any save bright Cuchullain.”[1] He turn’d as one lost, + “Is this time a time to mock? Are there not fourscore + + “Better at feats than I, my masters, the noble teams, + The attemper’d knights of the Red Branch every one? + Nay, though I knead up the whole earth in my dreams, + Nought to such men am I, who have nothing done.” + + I heard the blowings of Srōn, and then lasting words: “I choose + Thee—wherefore? Ah, how interpret? To-day on the slope + Where first by the wall I saw thee at gloam of dews + I knew it was fated. It was not some leaf of hope + + Eddying. Thou wast the token—half of the potter’s shard— + That a chief beleaguer’d cons in his desperate camp + Pass’d in by some hand unseen to the outmost guard, + And fits to the other half by his wasted lamp. + + “Seeing thee, I knew myself to be shaped of the self-same clay— + Half of the symbol—and broken, mayhap, to serve + As language to them of the night from powers of the day.” + By the Path of the throbbing Curlew no step may swerve + + Where they rode through the Gap; and at last she murmur’d, “Dost grieve + at me still?” + And he said, “Glorious is it to me that behind us pursuit + Shall be wide as the red of the morning, for thou art my will! + To the beach of the world of the dead, and beyond it to boot, + + “Let me take and defend thee.” In silence the hearts of the twain were + screen’d,— + But crossing the mires and the torrents I saw strange ease + Afloat, like a spark, on the woman’s eyes as she lean’d + Forth, and a shadow betwixt her lips like peace. + +Footnote 1: + + Pronounced Cuhoollin. + + + IV + VOICE OF URMAEL _out of the Sixth Century_ + + The slender Hazels ask’d the Yew like night + Beside the river-green of Lisnacaun + “Who is this woman beautiful as light + Sitting in dolour on thy branchéd lawn; + With sun-red hair, entangled as with flight, + Sheening the knees up to her bosom drawn? + What horses mud-besprent so thirstily + Bellying the hush pools with their nostrils wide?” + And the Yew old as the long mountain-side + Answer’d, “I saw her hither with Clan Usnach ride.” + + “Come, love, and climb with me Findruim’s woods + Alone,” Naois pray’d. Through broom and bent + Strown with swift-travelling shadows of their moods, + Leaving below the camp’s thin cries, they went. + And never a tress, escaping from her snoods, + Made the brown river with a kiss content, + So safe he raised up Deirdre through the ford. + Thanks, piteous Gods, that no fore-boding gave, + He should so bear her after to the grave, + Breasting the druid ice, breasting the phantom wave. + + “O, bear me on,” she breathed, “for ever so!” + And light as notes the Achill shepherd plays + On his twin pipes they wanton’d, light and slow, + Up the broad valley. Birds sail’d from the haze + Far up, where darkling copses over-grow + Scarps of the gray cliff from his river’d base. + Diaphaneity, the spirit’s beauty, + Along the dimnéd coombes did float and reign, + And many a mountain’s scarry flank was plain + Through nets of youngling gold betrimm’d with rain. + + But when an upward space of grass—so free— + So endless—beckon’d to the realms of wind + Deirdre broke from his side, and airily + Fled up the slopes, flinging disdains behind, + And paused, and round a little vivid tree + The wolf-skins from her neck began to bind. + Naois watch’d below this incantation; + Then upward on his javelin’s length he swung + To catch some old crone’s ditty freshly sung, + Bidding that shoot be wise, for yet ’twas young. + + With gaze in gaze, thus ever up and on + Roved they unwitting of the world out-roll’d, + Their ears dinn’d by the breeze’s clarion + That quicks the blood while yet the cheek is cold; + Great whitenesses rose past them—brooks ran down— + And step by step Findruim bare and bold + Uplifted. So a swimmer is uplifted + Horsed on a streaming shoulder of the Sea— + Our hasty master, who to such as we + Tosses some glittering hour of mastery. + + They heard out of the zenith swoop and sting + Feathery voices, keen and soft and light: + “_Mate ye as eagles mate, that on the wing + Grapple—heaven-high—hell-deep, for yours is flight! + Souls like the granite candles of a king + Flaming unshook amid the noise of night + What of pursuit, that you to-day shouldst fear it?_” + Pursuit they reck’d not, save of wind that pours + Surging and urging on to other shores + Over the restless forest of a thousand doors. + + “Deirdre,” he cried, “the blowing of thy hair + Is of the clouds that everlasting stream + Forth from the castles of those islands rare + Black in the ragged-misted ocean’s gleam + And glimpsed by Iceland galleys as they fare + Northward!” But in her bosom’s open seam + She set the powder’d yew-sprig silently; + “Speak not of me nor give my beauty praise, + Whose beauty is to follow in thy ways + So that my days be number’d with thy days.” + + In the high pastures of that boundless place + Their feet wist not if they should soar or run + They turned, at earth astonish’d, face to face + Deeming unearthly blessedness begun. + And slow, mid nests of running larks, they pace + Drinking from the recesses of the sun + Tremble of those wings that beat light into music. + There the world’s ends lay open: open wide + The body’s windows. What shall them divide + Who have walk’d once that country side by side? + + She mused, “O why doth happiness too much + Fountains of blood and spirit seem to fill? + The woods, over-flowing, cannot bear that such + An hour should be so sweet and yet be still: + Even the low-tangled bushes at a touch + Break into wars of gleemen, thrill on thrill. + O son of Usnach, bring me not thy glories! + Bring me defeats and shames and secret woe; + That where no brother goeth I may go + And kneel to wash thy wounds in caverns bleak and low!” + + “Here, up in sight of the far shine of sea, + (He sang) once after hunting, by the fire + I knelt, and kindling brushwood raised up thee, + Deirdre, nor wist the star of my desire + Should ever walk Findruim’s head with me + Far from a king’s loud house and soft attire. + Fain would I thatch us here a booth of hazels, + Thatch it with drift and snow of sea-gulls’ wings: + And thy horn’d harp should wonder to its strings + _What spoil is it to-night Naois brings?_” + + “Listen,” quoth he, when scarce those words were gone + (A neck of the bare down it was, a ledge + Of wind-sleek turf, the lovers roam’d upon + And sent young rabbits scuttling to the edge + Of underwoods beneath) “I think that yon + Some beast—haply a stag—takes harbourage.” + And Deirdre at a word come back from regions + Of bliss too close to pain, snatch’d with no fear + Out of his hand the battle-haunted spear + And, questing swiftly down the pasture sheer, + + Enter’d the yew’s black vault: therein profound + Green-litten air, and there as seeking fresh + Enemies, one haunch crush’d against the ground + The grey boar slew’d, tusking the tender flesh + Of shoots, his ravage-whetted bulk around: + But when his ear across the straggling mesh + Of feather’d sticks report of Deirdre found + He quiver’d, snorted; from his jaws like wine + Foam dripp’d; along the horror of his spine + The bristles grew up like a ridge of pine. + + Mortals, the maiden deem’d that guise a mask— + Believed that in that beast sate to ensnare + He of the red eye—little need to ask + The druid-wrinkled hide, the sluttish hair: + This was to escape—how vain poor passion’s task!— + Connachar of the illimitable lair! + He crash’d at her; she heaved the point embrown’d + In blood of dragons. Heavily the boar + Grazed by the iron, reel’d, leapt, charged once more + And thrice in passage her frail vesture tore. + + As when a herd-boy lying on the scar + (Who pipes to flocks below him on the steep + Melodies like their neckbells, scattering far, + Cool as the running water, soft as sleep) + Hurls out a flint from peril to debar + And from the boulder’d chasm recall his sheep— + So with a knife Naois leapt and struck. + Strange, in the very fury of a stride + The grey beast like a phantom from his side + Plunged without scathe to thickets undescried. + + Naois sheathed his iron with no stain + And laugh’d “This shall be praised in revels mad + Around Lug’s peak, when women scatter grain + Upon the warriors. Why shouldst thou be sad + Pale victory?” But she, “Ah, thus again + Ere night do I imperil thee, and add + Burden to burden.” And he strove to lead her + From grief, and said “What, bride! thy raiment torn?” + “Content thee, O content thee, man of scorn, + I’ll brooch it with no jewel but a thorn!” + + They seek down through the Wood of Awe that hems + Findruim, like the throng about his grave, + Dusk with the swarth locks of ten thousand stems + In naked poise. These make no rustle save + Some pine-cone dropt, or murmur that condemns + Murmur; bedumb’d with moss that giant nave. + But let Findruim shake out overhead + His old sea-sigh, and when it doth arrive + At once their tawny boles become alive + With flames that come and go, and they revive + + The north’s Fomorian roar.—“I am enthrall’d,” + He said, “as by the blueness of a ray + That, dropping through this presence sombre-wall’d + Burns low about the image of a spray— + Of some poor beech-spray witch’d to emerald. + Wilt thou not dance, daughter of heaven, to-day + Free, at last free? For here no moody raindrop + Can reach thee, nor betrayer overpeer; + And none the self-delightful measure hear + That thy soul moves to, quit of mortal ear.” + + Full loth she pleads, yet cannot him resist + And on the enmosséd lights begins to dance. + Away, away, far-floating like a mist, + To fade into some leafy brilliance; + Then, smiling to the inward melodist, + Over the printless turf with slow advance + Of showery footsteps, makes she infinite + That crowded glen. But quick, possess’d by strange + Rapture, wider than dreams her motions range + Till to a span the forests shrink and change. + + And in her eyes and glimmering arms she brings + Hither all promise,—all the unlook’d-for boon + Of rain-bow’d life—all rare and speechless things + That shine and swell under the brimming Moon. + Who shall pluck tympans? For what need of strings + To waft her blood who is herself the tune— + Herself the warm and breathing melody? + Art come from the Land of the Ever-Young? O stay! + For his heart, after thee rising away, + Falls dark and spirit-faint back to the clay. + + Griefs, like the yellow leaves by winter curl’d, + Rise after her—long-buried pangs arouse— + About that bosom the grey forests whirl’d, + And tempests with her beauty might espouse,— + She rose with the green waters of the world + And the winds heaved with her their depth of boughs. + Then vague again as blows the beanfield’s odour + On the dark lap of air she chose to sink, + As, winnowing with plumes, to the river-brink + The pigeons from the cliff come down to drink. + + Sudden distraught, shading her eyes, she ceased, + Listening, like bride whom cunning faery strain + Forth from the trumpet-bruited spousal feast + Steals. But she beckon’d soon, and quick with pain + He ran, he craved at those white feet the least + Pardon; nor, till he felt her hand again + Descend flake-soft, durst spy that she was weeping + Or kneel with burning murmurs to atone. + For sleep she wept. Long fasting had they gone + And ridden from the breaking of the dawn. + + It chanced that waters, nigh to that selve grove, + From Sleep’s own lake as from a cauldron pass; + He led towards their sound his weary love + And lay before her in the fresh of grass + Resting—the white cirque of the cliffs above— + Against a sun-abandon’d stem there was. + Spray from the strings of water spilling over + The weir of rock, their fever’d cheeks bewet; + And to its sound a voiceless bread they ate, + And drank the troth that is unbroken yet. + + Out in the mere—brown—unbesilver’d now + By finest skimming of the elfin breeze— + An isle was moor’d, with rushes at its prow + And fraught with haze of deeply-mirror’d trees; + And knowing Deirdre still was mindful how + The boar yet lived, that she might sleep at ease + Naois swore to harbour on that islet. + Nine strides he waded in, on footings nine + Deep, deeper yet, until his basnet’s shine + Sank to the cold lips of the lake divine. + + Divine; for once the sunk stones of that way + Approach’d the pool-god, and the outermost + Had been the black slab whereon druids slay + With stoop and mutter to the water’s ghost, + Though since to glut some whim malign the fay + Had swell’d over the flags. Of all the host + Few save Naois, and at sore adventure + Had ta’en this pass. But who would not have press’d + Through straits by the chill-finger’d fiend possess’d + To bear unto that isle Deirdre to rest? + + “Seal up thy sight; my shield of iron rims + Unhook; cast in this shatter’d helm for spoil.” + ’Twas done, and then with rush of cleaving limbs + He swam and bore her out with happy toil + Secret and fierce as the flat otter swims + Out of the whistling reeds as if through oil. + And Deirdre, whiter than the wave-swan floating, + Smiled that he suffer’d her no stroke to urge. + At length they reach the gnarl’d and ivied verge + And from the shallows to the sun emerge. + + She spreads her wolf-skins on the rock that glows + And sun-tears wrings out of the heavy strands + Of corded hair. He, watching to the close, + Sees not the white silk tissue as she stands + Clinging bedull’d to the clear limbs of rose. + She turn’d and to him stretch’d misdoubting hands: + “Tell me, ere thou dissolve, O wordless watcher, + Am I that Deirdre that would sit and spin + Beside Keshcorran? Dost thou love me? Then + I touch thee. For I, too, have love within.” + + O sacred cry! Again, again the first + Love-cry! How the steep woods thirst for thy voice, + O never-dying one! That voice, like the outburst + And gush of a young spring’s delicious noise + Driven from the ancient heights whereon ’twas nursed! + Yet, as death’s heart is silent, so is joy’s. + His mouth spake not; for, as in dusk Glen Treithim + Smelters of bubbling gold brook not to breathe + Reek of the colour’d fumes whose hissings wreathe + The brim, he choked at his own spirit’s seethe. + + Sternly he looked on her and strangely said + “What touch is thine? It hath unearthly powers. + I think thou art the woman Cairbre made + Out of the dazzle and the wind of flowers. + Behold, the flame-like children of the shade, + The buds, about thee rise like servitors! + It seems I had not lipp’d the cup of living + Till thou didst stretch it out. Vaguely I felt + Irreparable waste. Why hast thou dwell’d + Near me on earth so long, yet unbeheld?” + + Chanters! The Night brings nigh the deeps far off, + But Twilight shows the distance of the Near; + And with a million dawns that pierce above + Mixes the soul of suns that disappear, + To make man’s eyes approach the eyes of love + In simpleness, in mystery and fear. + All blooms both bright and pale are in her gardens, + All chords both shrill and deep under her hand + Who, sounding forth the richness of the land, + Estrangeth all, that we may understand. + + So still it was, they heard in the evening skies + Creak as of eagles’ wing-feathers afar + Coasting the grey cliffs. On him slowly rise, + As to Cuchullain came his signal star, + Out of the sheeted rivers, Deirdre’s eyes. + And who look’d in them well was girt for war; + Seeing in that gaze all who for love had perish’d: + The queens calamitous unbow’d at last— + The supreme fighters that alone stood fast— + Fealties obscure, unwitness’d, and long past, + + Cloud over cloud—the host that had attain’d + By love,—in very essence, force, heat, breath + Now, now arose in Deirdre’s eyes and deign’d + Summons to him—“_Canst follow us?_” it saith— + Till from that great contagion he hath gain’d + An outlook like to conquest over death. + Then he discerns the solemn-rafter’d world + By this frail brazier’s glowings, wherein blend + Coals that no man hath kindled, without end + Born and re-born, from ashes to ascend. + + And face to face to him unbared she cleaves + Woman no more—scarce-breathing—infinite, + Grave as the fair-brow’d priestess Earth receives + In all her lochs and plains and invers bright + And shores wide-trembling where one image heaves, + Him that is lord of silence and of light. + Slow the God sigh’d himself from rocks and waters + But in his soft withdrawals from the air + No creature in the weightless world was there + Uttered its being’s secret round the pair. + + Ah! them had Passion’s self-enshrouding arm + Taken, as a green fury of ocean takes, + Through the dense thickets smitten with alarm + To the islet’s trancéd core. And Deirdre wakes, + Lifting hot lids that shut against the storm, + Lying on a hillock, amid slender brakes + Of grey trees, to the babble of enchantments + From mouths of chill-born flowers. The place was new + To rapture. Branchéd sunbursts plashing through + After, had laid the mound with fire and dew. + + Naois cuts down osiers. Now he seeks + A narrow grass-plot shorn as if with scythe + And over two great boulders’ wrinkled cheeks + Draws down and knots a hull of saplings lithe, + Well-staunch’d with earthy-odour’d moss and sticks + Known to the feet of birds. This darkness blithe + He frames against the stars for forest sleepers. + The living tide of stars aloft that crept + Compassion’d far below. No wavelet leapt; + And deep rest fell upon them there. They slept. + + Long, long, the melancholy mountains lay + Aware; mute-rippling shades that isle enwound. + Naois fell through dreams, like the snapt spray + That drops from branch to branch,—that stillest sound!— + And while from headlands scarce a league away + The din of the sea-breakers come aground + Roll’d up the valley, he in vision govern’d + His ribbéd skiff under Dun Aengus sweeping, + Triumphing with his love, and leaping, leaping, + Drew past the ocean-shelves of seals a-sleeping. + + But over starr’d peat-water, where the flag + Rustles, and listens for the scud of teal; + Over coast, forest, and bethunder’d crag + Night—mother of despairs, who proves the steel + In men, to see if they be dross and slag + Or fit with trusts and enemies to deal + Uneyed, alone—diffusing her wide veils + Bow’d from the heavens to his exultant ear: + _A questioner awaits thee: rouse!_ The mere + Slept on, save for the twilight-footed deer. + + “Those antler’d shadows of the forest-roof + Nigh to the shore must be assembled thick,” + He thought, “and bringing necks round to the hoof + Or being aslaked and couching, seek to lick + The fawns. Some heady bucks engage aloof, + So sharp across the water comes the click + Of sparring horns.” But was it a vain terror, + Son of the sword, or one for courage staunch, + That the herd, dismay’d, at a bound, with a quivering haunch + Murmur’d away into night at the crack of a branch? + + And Deirdre woke. Reverberate from on high + Amongst the sullen hills, distinct there fell + A mournful keen, like to the broken cry + From the house of hostage in some citadel + Of hostages lifting up their agony + After the land they must remember well, + “Deirdre is gone! Gone is the little Deirdre!” + And she knowing not the voice as voice of man + Stood up. “Lie still, lest thee the spirit ban + O vein of life, lie still!” But Deirdre ran + + Like the moon through brakes, and saw where nought had been + On the vague shore what seem’d a stone that stood; + Faceless, rough-hewn, it forward seem’d to lean + Like the worn pillar of Cenn Cruaich the God. + She cried across “If thou with things terrene + Be number’d, tell me why thy sorrowful blood + Mourneth, O Cathva, father!” But the stone + Shiver’d, and broke the staff it lean’d upon, + Shouting, “What! livst thou yet? Begone, begone!” + + + V + VOICE OF FINTAN _again, out of the First Century_, + + Let my lips finish what my lips began.— + Then to the two beclouded in black boughs + The third across the water cried “Speak once! + Though the earth shake beneath you like a sieve + With wheels of Connachar, answer me this: + Naois, could she understand his hate + Whose arm requiteth—far as runs the wind— + By me, that blow away the gaze and smile + From women’s faces; O could Deirdre have guess’d— + Mourning all night the fading of her kingdoms + Fled like a song—what means, _a banished man_; + That he and I must hound thee to the death; + That thou shalt never see the deep-set eaves, + The lofty thatch familiar with the doves, + On thy sad mother Usnach’s house again; + But drift out like some sea-bird, far, far, hence, + Far from the red isle of the roes and berries, + Far from sun-galleries and pleasant dúns + And swards of lovers,—branded, nationless; + That none of all thy famous friends, with thee + Wrestlers on Eman in the summer evenings, + Shall think thee noble now; and that at last + I must upheave thy heart’s tough plank to crack it— + Knowing all this, would this fool follow thee?” + + Then spoke Naois, keeping back his wrath, + “Strange is it one so old should threat with Death! + Are not both thou and I, are not we all, + By Death drawn from the wickets of the womb— + Seal’d with the thumb of Death when we are born? + As for friends lost (though I believe thee not), + A man is nourish’d by his enemies + No less than by his friends. But as for her, + Because no man shall deem me noble still,— + Because I like a sea-gull of the isles + May be driven forth—branded and nationless,— + Because I shall no more, perhaps, behold + The deep-set eaves on that all-sacred house,— + Because the gather’d battle of the powers + Controlling fortune, breaks upon my head,— + Yea! for that very cause, lack’d other cause, + In love the closer,—quenchless,—absolute, + Would Deirdre choose to follow me. Such pains, + Seër, the kingdoms are of souls like hers!” + He spoke; he felt her life-blood at his side + Sprung of the West, the last of human shores, + Throbbing, “Look forth on everlastingness! + Through the coil’d waters and the ebb of light + I’ll be thy sail!” + + Over the mist like wool + No sound; the echo-trembling tarn grew mute. + But when through matted forest with uproar + The levy of pursuers, brazen, vast, + Gush’d like a river, and torch’d chariots drew + With thunder-footed horses on, and lash’d + Up to the sedge, and at the Druid’s shape + Their steamy bellies rose over the brink + Pawing the mist, and when a terrible voice + Ask’d of that shape if druid ken saw now + The twain,—advanced out of the shade of leaves + Nor Deirdre nor Naois heard reply; + And like a burning dream the host, dissolving, + Pass’d. On the pale bank not a torch remain’d. + They look’d on one another, left alone. + + + THE END + + + + + OTHER POEMS + + + + + ODE ON A SILVER BIRCH + _in St James’ Park_ + + + 1 + + Muse, I will show thee, on a grassy mound + Moving with tufted shadows, albeit bare + Herself, for yet young April primes the air + And bloom snow-laden boughs, the tree I love. + London doth compass it with shores of sound + And thrills the buds when there’s no breath above + To shake its fountain beauty. Thus I came + Along the courtly mere of thicket isles, + And Spring entoil’d me in a hundred wiles, + Bringing the heart content without a name. + Broods, russet-plumed and emerald, steer’d on + With arrowy wake adown the placid tide + And in that gloomy pool there rode enskied, + Aloof, the stately languor of a swan. + But now the lake sets hither with a breeze + And crooks the peel’d bole of its planes.—Ah, there + Thou shall find audience—yon’s my shadowy love!— + O’er head a rose-grey pigeon beat his wings + About his ’lighted mate, and wooed the bough + And passion born of sight of mortal things + In warmth of living, moved and moves me now + As from the careless height that sways above + Floateth his voice, the soul of greening trees. + + + 2 + + Approaching ’twixt the herald saplings pale + Whose light arrayment is a whirl of green + Of flamelets dropping for a virgin veil, + I come. Though Hades’ crocus-jets are stayed, + Soft! for a golden troop instead upsprung + Gossips apart in yon unfooted glade. + Broke we on earshot of that frolic tongue + Straightway would all be husht, they being afraid + To sing’t to simple ear of mutest maid. + + + 3 + + But thou, still silver Spirit, unappall’d + Standest alone, and with thy senses dim + Feeling the first warmth fledge the unleaféd limb + Hearest not tread of mine, O Sun-enthrall’d! + What buried God conceived thee, and forestall’d + In the dull depth thy white and glistering graces— + That fume of netted drops and subtle laces + And listening statue-air, by men miscall’d? + Shower o’er the blue, and sister of blown surf! + Dream-daughter of the silences of turf! + Couldst thou but waken and recall the Mind + Lifts thee to image, then could I reveal + Wherefore thou seem’st remember’d and I feel + In thee mine own dream risen and divined! + + + 4 + + Surely the hymn that charm’d thee from the grass + Fashion’d me also, and the selfsame lyre + Sounded accords that out of darkness pass + And in thy beauty and my song conspire? + The drum of streets, the fever of our homes, + Clangours and murk metallurgy of gnomes, + All are by thee unheard, who dost ignore + The wisdom of the wise, in dead pasts now + Dungeon’d as never to ascend; but thou + Whose being is for the light, and hath no care + To know itself nor root from whence it sprang, + Wouldst only murmur, in the heavenly air, + “_The sun, the sun!_” if but thy spirit sang! + + + 5 + + O might I show thee by the lute’s devising + Man, from thy soft turf, flown with light, arising! + Him, too, doth hope, the boon without a pang, + Summon with thrilling finger forth to hang— + To cast a heaving soul to the wave of wind, + Sun-passion’d and earth-lodged. Ah, Tree serene + Dilating in the glow of the unseen, + We and our roofs and towers magnifical— + Our Fame’s heroic head against the sky— + Our loves—and all + That, with our briefness perfect, rise and die,— + Like thee must find + Beauty in a besieging of the dark; + Our glories on expectancy embark, + And the height of our ecstasy— + The touch of infinity— + Is blind. + + + + + A CHARGE + + + If thou hast squander’d years to grave a gem + Commission’d by thy absent Lord, and while + ’Tis incomplete, + Others would bribe thy needy skill to them— + Dismiss them to the street! + + Shouldst thou at last discover Beauty’s grove, + At last be panting on the fragrant verge, + But in the track, + Drunk with divine possession, thou meet Love— + Turn, at her bidding, back. + + When round thy ship in tempest Hell appears, + And every spectre mutters up more dire + To snatch control + And loose to madness thy deep-kennell’d Fears— + Then, to the helm, O Soul! + + Last; if upon the cold green-mantling sea + Thou cling, alone with Truth, to the last spar, + Both castaway + And one must perish—let it not be he + Whom thou art sworn to obey! + + + + + SONG FOR THE FUNERAL OF A BOY + + + 1 + + On stems from silver woods + Carry him, young companions, to the glen + Where white Olympus broods; + Flushes of rustlers shall precede you then + By bush and glade + Low-thrilling and afraid; + And as along its curve of shore ye pass + The dark tarn ruddied with the pine shall glass, + Moving to hymns out of its lonely ken, + The boy’s light bier, with beaded rushes laid. + + + 2 + + In beeches shall the fawn + An hoof suspend, to learn from that clear sound + His eager mate withdrawn + For ever unto free and sylvan ground. + Up in her hold + The wide-wing’d Azure cold + Mantling in gyre on gyre shall mark him come + By root-paven paths borne, and great bee’s hum + Swing through your brief procession, winding round + The endless alleys up that Mountain old. + + + 3 + + In some low space of green + Where fleecy mists, bright runnels newly rain’d, + And springing wands are seen + But nothing yet to gnarlëd eld attain’d + Let his head nigh + The chrisom violet lie; + And put at hand the sling to him most dear, + The sheaf of arrows light, the dauntless spear, + The lute untroubled on the heart unstain’d; + Then, taking hands around him, sing good-bye. + + + 4 + + Praise limbs that robb’d the cloud + Of vengeful eagles, and for this rough nest, + This egg, embraced the loud + And everlasting sea-crag’s salty breast! + Praise to the face + That smiled on nothing base! + Hymn ye the laughter of his happy soul— + His secret kindness to your secret dole; + The heavenly-minded brook shall mourn him best + When ye have kiss’d his cheek, quitting the place. + + + 5 + + This ditty from the brake, + This rainbow from the waters, fades; and Night + That little pyre shall take + In flame and cloud;—but O! when the bloom of light + With breathless glow + Along the tops of snow + Tells out to all the valleys Night is done,— + Think of the boy, ye young companions bright, + Not without joy; for he hath loved and gone + As dews that on the uplands shine and go! + + + + + COME, LET US MAKE LOVE DEATHLESS + + + Come, let us make love deathless, thou and I, + Seeing that our footing on the Earth is brief— + Seeing that her multitudes sweep out to die + Mocking at all that passes their belief. + For standard of our love not theirs we take: + If we go hence to-day + Fill the high cup that is so soon to break + With richer wine than they! + + Ay, since beyond these walls no heavens there be + Joy to revive or wasted youth repair, + I’ll not bedim the lovely flame in thee + Nor sully the sad splendour that we wear. + Great be the love, if with the lover dies + Our greatness past recall, + And nobler for the fading of those eyes + The world seen once for all. + + + + + CLAVIERS AT NIGHT + + + _I watch’d a white-hair’d Figure like a breeze + Pass, with a smile, down the bare galleries + And heard his ancient fingers, as he went, + Muse on the heart of each blind instrument._ + + + SPINET + + Shoaling through twilight to my silver tinglings + The great-ruff’d ladies beset with pearl + Come out with the gallants in gems of Cadiz + In lofty capriols with loud spur-jinglings + In Roman galliard and in blithe coranto + Learnt in far Otranto + Brought home in the galleys of the Earl— + Storm-riding galleys of the haughty Earl— + To English vallies. + They come + With reverences stately at meeting + In mockeries sedately retreating + And stomachers and buckles and rings + Shake a maze of jewels to the measured strings, + Of trembling jewels. + + Ay, moonlight’s fair in yew-clipt alleys, + And young Love fledges + His shafts ’twixt cypress hedges. + Follow the rout, and watch in gentle wind + The springing moonbeam of the fountain sway’d + Like to a mountain maid + Who turns with poisëd jar + From bubbling hollow cool. + + “Behold, how’t tosses rain of Pleiads hither + Into main blackness of the pool— + Rings ever shimmering out and sheen reborn; + So, thou and I, lady, must die + To wake, as echoes wake, of yonder horn + With voiceless over the hills of morn. + Ah, satin-quilted kirtle, + Ah, pearled bosom, + Let slip one flake of blossom, + Deign but a sprig of myrtle, + To the poor Fool, panting on his bended knee!” + But silent grow the long swards cedar-shaded + Where the young loves were sitting; + And lo, in the silver-candled hall + The bat is flitting, flitting. + The tapestries are dusk upon the wall + And the ladies bright, brocaded, + All, with their blushes, faded. + + + HARPSICHORD + + Now ye, the delicate patterers of the hush, + Wings, hither! + Scarce-rustlers of the sere involvéd leaf + Who mourn for summers past with elfin grief, + Ye who can hear along the inmost lawn + Ebbings and flowings shrill + When subtle ballads net the rime-cold daffodil + And drift over the blue turf so nigh dumb + They startle not from’s gloom e’en the airy fawn. + Old Antony on his Nile-barge at dawn + Caught your deck-walkings countless overhead + And eased with ye a heart eclipsed and dead. + Come swift, come soon + Drift, like a veil over the moon, + And rising round this crumbling Keep + Shed ye, upon the sleepless, sleep. + + + CLAVICHORD + + Wherefore, poor Fool, dost lie— + Love, cap and bells put by— + On thy pallet-bed so stark? + “I am girt, soul and limb, + Gainst horror dim. + Ear tense to hark + Mine eyeballs strain and swim + Drowning in foamy dark. + Comes no shock + Nor earthly feet + But the heart’s blood, ebb’d with the chill tower-clock + To a single beat, + Clots to a fear + That God may appear— + None other eye being near— + And bare of his mantle of law + Stand, a giant Spirit beautiful + Sombre, pale, in avenging mail, + Wings folded, on this planet’s skull; + And before Him dropping like fine rain, + A veil o’ the cloud o’ the dust of kings + Noiseless descending the old Abyss ... + Ah then, after this + How gentle through the dark paths of the brain + Comes the faint noise of outer things; + The whirr and shower of wings— + Satin shufflings of ivy leaves + Ranging like bees the leaden pane— + Jolting of carters, cries of falconers— + The blessed courtyard stirs + That do in mercy say + Thou hast another day.” + + + + + THE MAN DIGGING + + + The isle was barren. Far as hawk may scan + In moors it roll’d up to a headland bare + Save for one narrow patch, by ceaseless care + Sumptuous with corn. Against the sky a Man + Digging the waste I saw,—bow’d veteran + A stubborn spade he drave in stubborn ground + And root and rock flung sheer without a sound + Over the bleak edge.... Then anew began. + + “You, who have lodged in the teeth of the abyss + Your cabin low, and triumph rich as this + Wrung from the ocean-bitter mountain side, + What help’d you most to bring such treasure out?” + He stood, and after scrutiny replied, + “The thing on which I lean, the Spade of Doubt.” + + + + + SCHIEHALLION + + + Far the grey loch runs + Up to Schiehallion. + Lap, lap the water flows + Where my wee boatie rows; + Greenly a star shows + Over Schiehallion. + + She that I wander’d wi’ + Over Schiehallion,— + How far ayont your ken, + Crags of the merry glen, + Stray’d she, that wander’d then + Down fra Schiehallion! + + Sail of the wild swan + Turn to Schiehallion! + Here where the rushes rise + Low the black hunter lies; + Beat thou the pure skies + Back to Schiehallion! + + + + + THE SHELL + + + I am a Shell out of the Asian sea, + But my sad Pearl is gone, + Risen to be Goddess—Venus green is she + And I cast up alone. + + Yet some night shall her brilliance stoop and take + Unto her ear this shell, + And hear the whisper of her own heart-break ... + All that I serve to tell. + + + + + THE ROCK OF CLOUD + + + We heard a chanting in the fog + On the frore face of the sea, + And stay’d the galley like a log + To sound that mystery. + + And men throng’d up into the bow + And hail’d the curling rack, + “_What demon or what spirit thou?_” + And the lone voice came back, + + Came as of one so evil-starr’d + That he hath done with grief, + In monotone as keen and hard + As the bell swung from a reef: + + “Human I am—would I were foam— + Row hither; ye may hear + Yet shall not save nor bring me home + Seek ye a thousand year.” + + “_Keep a stout hope._” “I keep no hope.” + “_Man alive_” “Spare your toil—” + “_We are upon thee!_” “Nay, no rope + Over the gap shall coil.” + + “_Who art thou?_” “I was Pilot once + On many a ship of mark: + Went aboard—spoke to none—but steer’d; + And dropt off in the dark. + + “But one night—Christ!—we struck—we sank. + I reach’d this rock of wings + Whereby from every boulder’s flank + The brown sea-ribbon swings. + + “Here, where the sole eye of the Sun + Did scorch my body bare, + A great Sea-Spirit rose, and shone + In the water thrill’d with hair.... + + “She lay back on the green abyss + Beautiful; her spread arms + Soothed to a poise—a sob—of bliss + Huge thunders and alarms. + + “Her breasts as pearl were dull and pure, + Her body’s chasted light + Swam like a cloud; her eyes unsure + From the great depths were bright. + + “There was no thing of bitterness + In aught that she could say; + She call’d my soul, as down a coast + The Moon calls bay beyond bay + And they rise—back o’ the uttermost— + Away, and yet away:— + + “‘I chose thee from the sinking crews— + I bore thee up alive— + Now durst thou follow me and choose + Under the world to dive? + + “‘Come! we will catch when stars are out + The black wave’s spitting crest + And still, when the Bull of Dawn shall spout, + Be washing on abreast; + + “‘Or thee a flame under the seas + Paven with suns I’ll hide, + Deathless and boundless and at ease + In any shape to glide. + + “‘All waters that on Earth have well’d + At last to me repair,— + All mountains starr’d with cities melt + Into my dreamy air. + + “‘Set on thy peak under the brink + I’ll shew thee Storms above, + The stuff of kingdoms:—they shall sink + While thou dost teach me love; + On beaches white as the young Moons + I’ll sit, and fathom love.’”... + + · · · · · + + “_And what saidst thou?_” “From over sea + I felt a sighing burn + That made this jagg’d rock seem to me + More delicate than fern; + + “And faint as moth-wings I could hear + Tops of the pine-tree sway + And the last words spoken in mine ear + Before the break of day. + + “And I cried out agonied at heart + For her that sleeps at home, + ‘Brightness, I will not know thine art, + Nor to thy country come!’ + + “Straightway she sank—smiling so pale— + But from the seethe up-broke— + Never thrash’d off by gust or gale— + White, everlasting smoke. + + “It feels all over me with stealth + Of languor that appals; + It laps my fierce heart in a wealth + Of soft and rolling walls; + + “This mist no life may pass, save these + Wave-wing’d, with shrieking voice; + Stars I discern not, nor the seas—” + “_O, dost not rue thy choice?_” + + “Rue it? Now get back to the Deep, + For I doubt if men ye be: + No;—I must keep a steady helm + By the star I cannot see.” + + Passion o’ man! we sprang to oars, + And sought on, weeping loud, + All night in earshot of the shores + But never through the cloud. + + + + + SHE COMES NOT WHEN NOON IS ON THE ROSES + + + She comes not when Noon is on the roses— + Too bright is Day. + She comes not to the Soul till it reposes + From work and play. + + But when Night is on the hills, and the great Voices + Roll in from Sea, + By starlight and by candlelight and dreamlight + She comes to me. + + + + + THE NIGHT + + + I put aside the branches + That clothe the Door in gloom; + A glow-worm lit the pathway + And a lamp out of her room + Shook down a stifled greeting: + How could it greet aright + The thirst of years like deserts + That led up to this night? + + But she, like sighing forests, + Stole on me—full of rest, + Her hair was like the sea’s wave, + Whiteness was in her breast,— + (_So does one come, at night, upon a wall of roses._) + + As in a stone of crystal + The cloudy web and flaw + + Turns, at a flash, to rainbows, + Wing’d I became—I saw + I sang;—but human singing + Ceased, in a burning awe. + + Slow, amid leaves, in silence— + Rapt as the holy pray— + Flame into flame we trembled + And the world sank away. + + + + + MAURYA’S SONG + + + Rushes that grow by the black water + When will I see you more? + When will the sorrowful heart forget you, + Land of the green, green shore? + When will the field and the small cabin + See us more + In the old country? + + What is to me all the gold yonder? + She that bore me is gone. + Knees that dandled and hands that blessed me + Colder than any stone; + Stranger to me than the face of strangers + Are my own + In the old country. + + Vein o’ my heart, from the lone mountain + The smoke of the turf will die + And the stream that sang to the young childer + Run down alone from the sky: + On the door-stone, grass,—and the cloud lying + Where they lie + In the old country. + + + Tired with the day’s monotony of dreaméd joys + I turn to a requickening voice, + A voice whose low tone devastates with nightly thrill + The cities I have wrought at will: + Stone forts depart, and armies heroic flee away + Like the wild snow of spray. + Deep down the green Broceliande’s branch’d corridors + That voice of April pours; + Light as a bird’s light shadow fled across my pages + A touch disturbs the ages, + And the crags and spears of Troy and the courts of Charlemain, + Odin, and the splendid strain + Of Cuchullain’s self, that with his heart’s high brother strove,— + Fade, at the low voice I love. + + + + + YOU WERE STAY’D + + + You were stay’d in heart on heaven, + I by none but you forgiven,— + You unto your Light are taken, + I of all, in you, forsaken. + + Where the night is never broken + Where for long no speech hath spoken, + There the ears no longer hearken, + There the eyeballs wane and darken. + + Yet at hours my soul—so bounded— + By that gloom like blood surrounded— + Sees in ancient daylight burning— + Hears departed feet returning. + + + + + THE BLOOM + + + Who are these ancients, gnarl’d and moss’d and weigh’d + This way and that, under the sluggard blue + And shine of morning—these whose arms are laid + Low to the grasses and the sheets of dew— + These bowers ruggëd within and thickly knit + But feather’d over with a roseate white + So frail that the breeze’s touch dismantles it + And brings from cradled nurseries in flight— + Snow-soft—the petals down + In shadows green to drown? + + We are the matrons. Bent are we and riven + Under such years of ripeness manifold + That unto us a special grace is given,— + To wear a virgin’s beauty being old. + Noiseless we wear it; round us in the croft + These whisperers are leaves of other trees, + Babblers that have not learn’d by fruitage oft + To shade the heart with wide serenities + On tendons knit to bear + Sweetness in stormy air. + + + + + IN THE ROMAN AMPHITHEATRE, VERONA + + + Two architects of Italy—austere + Men who could fashion nothing small—refused + To die with life, and for their purpose used + This dim and topless Amphitheatre. + + Some Cæsar trench’d the orb of its ellipse + And call’d on distant provinces to swell + Resonant arches whence his World could scan, + Tier above tier, the fighters and the ships. + + But Dante—having raised, as dreamer can, + Higher tenfold these walls immutable— + Sole in the night arena, grew aware + He was himself the thing spectacular + Seized by the ever-thirsting gaze of Hell,— + Here, on the empty sand, a banish’d man. + + + + + A WINTER SONG + + + _To Alice Meynell_ + + Lady, through grasses stiff with rime + And wraith-hung trees I wander + Where the red sun at pitch of prime + Half of his might must squander; + Narrow the track + As I look back + On traces green behind me,— + I go alone + To think upon + A face, where none + Shall find me. + + Birds peal; but each grim grove its shroud + Retains, as to betoken + Though the young lawn should wave off cloud + These would have Night unbroken,— + Desire no plash + Of the Lake awash— + No gold but gold that’s glinted + In still device + From the breast of ice + Whose summer cries + Have stinted. + + But in a great and glittering space + The black Elm doth restore me + To you. Empower’d with patient grace + Musing she stands before me,— + Her webs divine + Ghosted with fine + Remembrance few can capture; + Her very shade + On greenness laid + Is white,—is made + Of rapture! + + + + + THE NUTTER + + + 1 + + I am the Autumn. Rising from the throne + I watch the pageant of my courtiers pass; + Chestnuts’ canary-feather’d beauty strown— + The lime’s gold tribute at his foot amass— + Then fragile jewels from the larches blown + Enrich with disarray the trembling grass, + Until the beggar’d elms, too proud to bend, + Emblaze a hundred winds with my rash kingdom’s end. + + + 2 + + But look! within the beech’s burning house + Some Nutter, deaf to shouts of fellow-thieves, + Hath flung him with his crook to dream and drowse + Flush-cheek’d, alone, upon the mounded leaves. + The curious squirrel headlong from his eaves + Creeps down to mark: then drops with sudden souse; + The still-come culvers burst away—and flits + The beechmast-feasting multitude of shadowy tits. + + + 3 + + Where are thy friends? Gone on to sack the glades, + My rooms of tatter’d state, not to return. + No moth-bright brambles and no rainy braids + Of ivy, mid the sheen and smoke of fern, + Could trammel-up the tempest of their raids. + Up, boy! pursue them down the misty burn! + But on his bosom tann’d, in slumber fast, + Patter’d the mimic shower of ever-dropping mast. + + + 4 + + What, lad? The last of my poor banquet lose + To thy wild kin of air? For them the dell + O’er-briar’d hath lean rose-berries and yews + And scarlet fruits of ash, that ere they swell + The missel-thrushes, fluttering, poise to choose,— + Privet is theirs and briony as well, + And redwings wait for the frost-mellow’d sloe, + Their orchard is the spinney-side—Awake, and go! + + + 5 + + Leaf-driven, my young October in a while + Awoke bemazed—on ragged knee arose + Snatch’d at his crook, and hid a shaméd smile + Vaulting the ruddy brambles. As he goes + Far off I hear his voice; so freshet flows + Warbling to wander many a forest mile— + So Dryad may her rooty pool forsake + Afraid, or antler’d shadow melt into the brake. + + + 6 + + And I go too,—ah! not with mortal things + Naked of riches here to flutter down— + But soar and tremble in a million wings + Above the fen, the coastland, and the town + Forth by the dark sea’s sunken islands boune + Sweeping to choir Apollo where he sings + Unslain! The midsea lamp, that hears the sky + Roaring all night with passage, knows that it is I. + + + + + SHAKESPEARE + + + If many a daring spirit must discover + The chartless world, why should they glory lack? + Because athwart the skyline they sank over + Few, few, the shipmen be that have come back. + + Yet one, wreck’d oft, hath by a giddy cord + The rugged head of Destiny regain’d— + One from the maelstrom’s lap hath swum aboard— + One from the polar sleep himself unchain’d. + + But he, acquainted well with every tone + Of madness whining in his shroudage slender, + From storm and mutiny emerged alone + Self-righted from the dreadful self-surrender: + + Rich from the isles where sojourn long is death + Won back to cool Thames and Elizabeth, + Sea-weary, yes, but human still, and whole,— + A circumnavigator of the soul. + + + + + NOTES + + +_Deirdre Wed._ This episode of thirty hours, delivered by the Three +Voices, does not occur in any of the versions of the famous “Tragical +tale of the Sons of Usnach.” But the manner of Deirdre’s wooing of Naois +is based on an incident in a Gaelic version of that tale, in which, on a +day (not her marriage day) Deirdre and her women companions “were out on +the hillock behind the house enjoying the scene and drinking in the +sun’s heat. What did they see coming but three men a-journeying. Deirdre +was looking at the men that were coming, and wondering at them. When the +men neared them, Deirdre remembered the language of the huntsmen and she +said to herself that these were the three sons of Usnach, and that this +was Naois, he having what was above the bend of his two shoulders above +the men of Erin all.” The three brothers went past without taking any +notice of them, and without even glancing at the young girls on the +hillock. “What happened but that love for Naois struck the heart of +Deirdre, so that she could not but follow after him. She trussed her +raiment and went after the three men that went past the base of the +knoll, leaving her women attendants there. Aillean and Ardan had heard +of the women that Connachar, King of Ulster, had with him, and they +thought that if Naois their brother saw her he would have her himself, +more especially as she was not married to the king.” They perceived the +woman coming and called on one another to hasten their steps as they had +a long distance to travel and the dusk of night was coming on. They did +so. She cried three times “Naois, son of Usnach, wilt thou leave me?” +“What cry is that which it is not well for me to answer, and not easy +for me to refuse?” Twice the brothers put him off with excuses. “But the +third time Naois and Deirdre met, and Deirdre kissed Naois three times +and a kiss to each of his brothers.” All other incidents in the episodic +poem _Deirdre Wed_ are new. + +_Fintan_; _Urmael_; _Cir_. These were old bards. I have myself found and +explored a tomb like that of Cir, caverned through a hill-ridge, not far +from Eman and Armagh, just as it is described in the poem. But the +curious may rediscover it for themselves. + +_Connachar._ This king, or terrestrial divinity, is generally known as +Conchobar, or Conor, King of Ulster (Uladh) and Arch-King of Ireland. He +is chronicled as reigning about the time of the Incarnation of Christ. + +_Eman_, or Emain Macha, was the chief palace of Connachar. It is still +seen and named in the “Navan Ring”—enormous earthworks on a hill about +two miles west of Armagh. The people from the town and country side +still go up to dance there on holidays. Traces of the Lake of +Pearls—where jewels were cast in on a sudden flight, lie in a marsh +under Eman. The _Callan_, or “loud-sounding” river, runs not very far +off. + +_Dun Aengus._ A prehistoric stone fortress—singularly vast—on the edge +of the cliffs of Arran Môr, an island in the Atlantic, west of Galway. +The walls are very massive, and lie half-circle-wise, as if half had +broken off and fallen into the sea. + + + + + PRINTED BY + TURNBULL AND SPEARS, + EDINBURGH + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES + + + Page Changed from Changed to + + 71 With volcelest over the hills of With voiceless over the hills of + morn morn + + ● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. + ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75529 *** |