FERDIAH.

Ere the setting of the sun, Ere shall come the darksome night, If again thou must be told, With a mountain thou shalt fight: Thee the Ultonians will extol, Thence impetuous wilt thou grow, Oh! their grief, when through their ranks Will thy spectre go!

CUCHULLIN.

Thou hast fallen in danger's gap, Yes, thy end of life is nigh; Sharp spears shall be plied on thee Fairly 'neath the open sky: Pompous thou wilt be and vain Till the time for talk is o'er, From this day a battle-chief Thou shalt be no more.

FERDIAH.

Cease thy boastings, for the world Sure no braggart hath like thee: Thou art not the chosen chief— Thou hast not the champion's fee:— Without action, without force, Thou art but a giggling page; Yes, thou trembler, with thy heart Like a bird's in cage.

CUCHULLIN.

When we were with Scatha once, It but seemed our valour's due That we should together fight, Both as one our sports pursue. Thou wert then my dearest friend, Comrade, kinsman, thou wert all,— Ah, how sad, if by my hand Thou at last should fall.

FERDIAH.

Much of honour shalt thou lose, We may then mere words forego:— On a stake thy head shall be Ere the early cock shall crow. O Cuchullin, Cuailgne's pride, Grief and madness round thee twine; I will do thee every ill, For the fault is thine.

"Good, O Ferdiah, 'twas no knightly act," Cuchullin said, "to have come meanly here, To combat and to fight with an old friend, Through instigation of the wily Mave, Through intermeddling of Ailill the king; To none of those who here before thee came Was victory given, for they all fell by me:— Thou too shalt win nor victory, nor increase Of fame in this encounter thou dost dare, For as they fell, so thou by me shall fall." Thus was he saying and he spake these words, To which Ferdiah listened, not unmoved.

CUCHULLIN.

Come not to me, O champion of the host, Come not to me, Ferdiah, as my foe, For though it is thy fate to suffer most, All, all must feel the universal woe.

Come not to me defying what is right, Come not to me, thy life is in my power; Ah, the dread issue of each former fight Why hast thou not remembered ere this hour?

Art thou not bright with diverse dainty arms, A purple girdle and a coat of mail? And yet to win the maid of peerless charms For whom thou dar'st the battle thou shalt fail.

Yes, Finavair, the daughter of the queen, The faultless form, the gold without alloy, The glorious virgin of majestic mien, Shalt not be thine, Ferdiah, to enjoy.

No, the great prize shall not by thee be won,— A fatal lure, a false, false light is she, To numbers promised and yet given to none, And wounding many as she now wounds thee.

Break not thy vow, never with me to fight, Break not the bond that once thy young heart gave, Break not the truth we both so loved to plight, Come not to me, O champion bold and brave!

To fifty champions by her smiles made slaves The maid was proffered, and not slight the gift; By me they have been sent into their graves, From me they met destruction sure and swift.

Though vauntingly Ferbaeth my arms defied, He of a house of heroes prince and peer, Short was the time until I tamed his pride With one swift cast of my true battle-spear.

Srub Daire's valour too had swift decline: Hundreds of women's secrets he possessed, Great at one time was his renown as thine, In cloth of gold, not silver, was he dressed.

Though 'twas to me the woman was betrothed On whom the chiefs of the fair province smile, To shed thy blood my spirit would have loathed East, west, or north, or south of all the isle.

"Good, O Ferdiah," still continuing, spoke Cuchullin, "thus it is that thou shouldst not Have come with me to combat and to fight; For when we were with Scatha, long ago, With Uatha and with Aife, we were wont To go together to each battle-field, To every combat and to every fight, Through every forest, every wilderness, Through every darksome path and dangerous way." And thus he said and thus he spake these words:

CUCHULLIN.

We were heart-comrades then,— Comrades in crowds of men, In the same bed have lain, When slumber sought us; In countries far and near, Hurling the battle spear, Chasing the forest deer, As Scatha taught us.

"O Cuchullin of the beautiful feats," Replied Ferdiah, "though we have pursued Together thus the arts of war and peace, And though the bonds of friendship that we swore Thou hast recalled to mind, from me shall come Thy first of wounds. O Hound, remember not Our old companionship, which shall not now Avail thee, shall avail thee not, O Hound!" "Too long here have we waited in this way," Again resumed Ferdiah. "To what arms, Say then, Cuchullin, shall we now resort?" "The choice of arms is thine until the night," Cuchullin made reply; "for so it chanced That thou shouldst be the first to reach the Ford." "Dost thou at all remember," then rejoined Ferdiah, "those swift missive spears with which We practised oft with Scatha in our youth, With Uatha and with Aife, and our friends?" "Them I, indeed, remember well," replied Cuchullin. "If thou dost remember well, Let us to them resort," Ferdiah said. Their missive weapons then on either side They both resorted to. Upon their arms They braced two emblematic missive shields, And their eight well-turned-handled lances took, Their eight quill-javelins also, and their eight White ivory-hilted swords, and their eight spears, Sharp, ivory-hafted, with hard points of steel. Betwixt the twain the darts went to and fro, Like bees upon the wing on a fine day; No cast was made that was not sure to hit. From morn to nigh mid-day the missiles flew, Till on the bosses of the brazen shields Their points were blunted, but though true the aim, And excellent the shooting, the defence Was so complete that not a wound was given, And neither champion drew the other's blood. "'Tis time to drop these feats," Ferdiah said, "For not by such as these shall we decide Our battle here this day." "Let us desist," Cuchullin answered, "if the time hath come." They ceased, and threw their missile shafts aside Into the hands of their two charioteers. "What weapons, O Cuchullin, shall we now Resort to?" said Ferdiah. "Unto thee," Cuchullin answered, "doth belong the choice Of arms until the night, because thou wert The first that reached the Ford." "Well, let us, then," Ferdiah said, "resume our straight, smooth, hard, Well-polished spears with their hard flaxen strings." "Let us resume them, then," Cuchullin said. They braced upon their arms two stouter shields, And then resorted to their straight, smooth, hard, Well-polished spears, with their hard flaxen strings.[50] 'Twas now mid-day, and thus 'till eventide They shot against each other with the spears. But though the guard was good on either side, The shooting was so perfect that the blood Ran from the wounds of each, by each made red. "Let us now, O Cuchullin," interposed Ferdiah, "for the present time desist." "Let us indeed desist," Cuchullin said "If, O Ferdiah, the fit time hath come." They ceased, and laid their gory weapons down, Their faithful charioteers' attendant care. Each to the other gently then approached, Each round the other's neck his hands entwined, And gave him three fond kisses on the cheek. Their horses fed in the same field that night, Their charioteers were warmed at the same fire, Their charioteers beneath their bodies spread Green rushes, and beneath the heads the down Of wounded men's soft pillows. Then the skilled Professors of the art of healing came With herbs, which to the scars of all their wounds They put. Of every herb and healing plant That to Cuchullin's wound they did apply, He would an equal portion westward send Over the Ford, Ferdiah's wounds to heal. So that the men of Erin could not say, If it should chance Ferdiah fell by him, That it was through superior skill and care Cuchullin was enabled him to slay.

Of each kind, too, of palatable food And sweet, intoxicating, pleasant drink, The men of Erin to Ferdiah sent, He a fair moiety across the Ford Sent northward to Cuchullin, where he lay; Because his own purveyors far surpassed In numbers those the Ulster chief retained: For all the federate hosts of Erin were Purveyors to Ferdiah, with the hope That he would beat Cuchullin from the Ford. The Bregians[51] only were Cuchullin's friends, His sole purveyors, and their wont it was To come to him and talk to him at night.

That night they rested there. Next morn they rose And to the Ford of battle early came. "What weapons shall we use to-day?" inquired Cuchullin. "Until night the choice is thine," Replied Ferdiah; "for the choice of arms Has hitherto been mine." "Then let us take Our great broad spears to-day," Cuchullin said, "And may the thrusting bring us to an end Sooner than yesterday's less powerful darts. Let then our charioteers our horses yoke Beneath our chariots, so that we to-day May from our horses and our chariots fight." Ferdiah answered: "Let it so be done." And then they braced their two broad, full-firm shields Upon their arms that day, and in their hands That day they took their great broad-bladed spears. And thus from early morn to evening's close They smote each other with such dread effect That both were pierced, and both made red with gore,— Such wounds, such hideous clefts in either breast Lay open to the back, that if the birds Cared ever through men's wounded frames to pass, They might have passed that day, and with them borne Pieces of quivering flesh into the air. When evening came, their very steeds were tired, Their charioteers depressed, and they themselves Worn out—even they the champions bold and brave. "Let us from this, Ferdiah, now desist," Cuchullin said; "for see, our charioteers Droop, and our very horses flag and fail, And when fatigued they yield, so well may we." And further thus he spoke, persuading rest:—

CUCHULLIN.

Not with the obstinate rage and spite With which Fomorian pirates fight Let us, since now has fallen the night, Continue thus our feud; In brief abeyance it may rest, Now that a calm comes o'er each breast:— When with new light the world is blest, Be it again renewed."

"Let us desist, indeed," Ferdiah said, "If the fit time hath come."—And so they ceased. From them they threw their arms into the hands Of their two charioteers. Each of them came Forward to meet the other. Each his hands Put round the other's neck, and thus embraced, Gave to him three fond kisses on the cheek. Their horses fed in the same field that night; Their charioteers were warmed by the same fire. Their charioteers beneath their bodies spread Green rushes, and beneath their heads the down Of wounded men's soft pillows. Then the skilled Professors of the art of healing came To tend them and to cure them through the night. But they for all their skill could do no more, So numerous and so dangerous were the wounds, The cuts, and clefts, and scars so large and deep, But to apply to them the potent charms Of witchcraft, incantations, and barb spells, As sorcerers use, to stanch the blood and stay The life that else would through the wounds escape:— Of every charm of witchcraft, every spell, Of every incantation that was used To heal Cuchullin's wounds, a full fair half Over the Ford was westward sent to heal Ferdiah's hurts: of every sort of food, And sweet, intoxicating, pleasant drink The men of Erin to Ferdiah sent, He a fair moiety across the Ford Sent northward to Cuchullin where he lay, Because his own purveyors far surpassed In number those the Ulster chief retained. For all the federate hosts of Erin were Purveyors to Ferdiah, with the hope That he would beat Cuchullin from the Ford. The Bregians only were Cuchullin's friends— His sole purveyors—and their wont it was To come to him, and talk with him at night.

They rested there that night. Next morn they rose, And to the Ford of battle forward came. That day a great, ill-favoured, lowering cloud Upon Ferdiah's face Cuchullin saw. "Badly," said he, "dost thou appear this day, Ferdiah, for thy hair has duskier grown This day, and a dull stupour dims thine eyes, And thine own face and form, and what thou wert In outward seeming have deserted thee." "'Tis not through fear of thee that I am so," Ferdiah said, "for Erin doth not hold This day a champion I could not subdue." And thus betwixt the twain this speech arose, And thus Cuchullin mourned and he replied:

CUCHULLIN.

O Ferdiah, if it be thou, Certain am I that on thy brow The blush should burn and the shame should rise, Degraded man whom the gods despise, Here at a woman's bidding to wend To fight thy fellow-pupil and friend.

FERDIAH.

O Cuchullin, O valiant man, Inflicter of wounds since the war began, O true champion, a man must come To the fated spot of his final home,— To the sod predestined by fate's decree His resting-place and his grave to be.

CUCHULLIN.

Finavair, the daughter of Mave, Although thou art her willing slave, Not for thy long-felt love has been Promised to thee by the wily queen,— No, it was but to test thy might That thou wert lured into this fatal fight.

FERDIAH.

My might was tested long ago In many a battle, as thou dost know, Long, O Hound of the gentle rule, Since we fought together in Scatha's school: Never a braver man have I seen, Never, I feel, hath a braver been.

CUCHULLIN.

Thou art the cause of what has been done, O son of Daman, Dare's son, Of all that has happened thou art the cause, Whom hither a woman's counsel draws— Whom hither a wily woman doth send To measure swords with thy earliest friend.

FERDIAH.

If I forsook the field, O Hound, If I had turned from the battleground— This battleground without fight with thee, Hard, oh, hard had it gone with me; Bad should my name and fame have been With King Ailill and with Mave the queen.

CUCHULLIN.

Though Mave of Croghan had given me food, Even from her lips, though all of good That the heart can wish or wealth can give Were offered to me, there does not live A king or queen on the earth for whom I would do thee ill or provoke thy doom.

FERDIAH.

O Cuchullin, thou victor in fight, Of battle triumphs the foremost knight; To what result the fight may lead, 'Twas Mave alone that prompted the deed; Not thine the fault, not thine the blame, Take thou the victory and the fame.

CUCHULLIN.

My faithful heart is a clot of blood, A feud thus forced cannot end in good; Oh, woe to him who is here to be slain! Oh, grief to him who his life will gain! For feats of valour no strength have I To fight the fight where my friend must die.

"A truce to these invectives," then broke in Ferdiah; "we far other work this day Have yet to do than rail with woman's words. Say, what shall be our arms in this day's fight?" "Till night," Cuchullin said, "the choice is thine, For yester morn the choice was given to me." "Let us," Ferdiah answered, "then resort Unto our heavy, sharp, hard-smiting swords, For we are nearer to the end to-day Of this our fight, by hewing, than we were On yesterday by thrusting of the spears." "So let us do, indeed," Cuchullin said. Then on their arms two long great shields they took, And in their hands their sharp, hard-smiting swords. Each hewed the other with such furious strokes That pieces larger than an infant's head Of four weeks' old were cut from out the thighs And great broad shoulder-blades of each brave chief. And thus they persevered from early morn Till evening's close in hewing with the swords. "Let us desist," at length Ferdiah said. "Let us indeed desist, if the fit time Hath come," Cuchullin said; and so they ceased. From them they cast their arms into the hands Of their two charioteers; and though that morn Their meeting was of two high-spirited men, Their separation, now that night had come, Was of two men dispirited and sad. Their horses were not in one field that night, Their charioteers were warmed not at one fire. That night they rested there, and in the morn Ferdiah early rose and sought alone The Ford of battle, for he knew that day Would end the fight, and that the hour drew nigh When one or both of them should surely fall.

Then was it for the first time he put on His battle suit of battle and of fight, Before Cuchullin came unto the Ford. That battle suit of battle and of fight Was this: His apron of white silk, with fringe Of spangled gold around it, he put on Next his white skin. A leather apron then, Well sewn, upon his body's lower part He placed, and over it a mighty stone As large as any mill-stone was secured. His firm, deep, iron apron then he braced Over the mighty stone—an apron made Of iron purified from every dross— Such dread had he that day of the Gaebulg. His crested helm of battle on his head He last put on—a helmet all ablaze From forty gems in each compartment set, Cruan, and crystal, carbuncles of fire, And brilliant rubies of the Eastern world. In his right hand a mighty spear he seized, Destructive, sharply-pointed, straight and strong:— On his left side his sword of battle swung, Curved, with its hilt and pommel of red gold. Upon the slope of his broad back he placed His dazzling shield, around whose margin rose Fifty huge bosses, each of such a size That on it might a full-grown hog recline, Exclusive of the larger central boss That raised its prominent round of pure red gold.

Full many noble, varied, wondrous feats Ferdiah on that day displayed, which he Had never learned at any tutor's hand, From Uatha, or from Aife, or from her, Scatha, his early nurse in lonely Skye:— But which were all invented by himself That day, to bring about Cuchullin's fall.

Cuchullin to the Ford approached and saw The many noble, varied, wondrous feats Ferdiah on that day displayed on high. "O Laegh, my friend," Cuchullin thus addressed His charioteer, "I see the wondrous feats Ferdiah doth display on high to-day: All these on me in turn shall soon be tried, And therefore note, that if it so should chance I shall be first to yield, be sure to taunt, Excite, revile me, and reproach me so, That wrath and rage in me may rise the more:— If I prevail, then let thy words be praise, Laud me, congratulate me, do thy best To stimulate my courage to its height." "It shall be done, Cuchullin," Laegh replied.

Then was it that Cuchullin first assumed His battle suit of battle: then he tried Full many, various, noble, wondrous feats He never learned from any tutor's hands, From Uatha, or from Aife, or from her, Scatha, his early nurse in lonely Skye. Ferdiah saw these various feats, and knew Against himself they soon would be applied.

"Say, O Ferdiah, to what arms shall we Resort in this day's fight?" Cuchullin said. Ferdiah answered, "Unto thee belongs The choice of weapons now until the night." "Let us then try the Ford Feat on this day," Replied Cuchullin. "Let us then, indeed," Rejoined Ferdiah, with a careless air Consenting, though in truth it was to him The cause of grief to say so, since he knew That in the Ford Feat lay Cuchullin's strength, And that he never failed to overthrow Champion or hero in that last appeal.

Great was the feat that was performed that day In and beside the Ford: the mighty two, The two great heroes, warriors, champions, chiefs Of western Europe—the two open hands Laden with gifts of the north-western world,— The two beloved pillars that upheld The valour of the Gaels—the two strong keys That kept the bravery of the Gaels secure— Thus to be brought together from afar To fight each other through the meddling schemes Of Ailill and his wily partner Mave. From each to each the missive weapons flew From dawn of early morning to mid-day; And when mid-day had come, the ire of both Became more furious, and they drew more near. Then was it that Cuchullin made a spring From the Ford's brink, and came upon the boss Of the great shield Ferdiah's arm upheld, That thus he might, above the broad shield's rim, Strike at his head. Ferdiah with a touch Of his left elbow, gave the shield a shake And cast Cuchullin from him like a bird, Back to the brink of the Ford. Again he sprang From the Ford's brink, and came upon the boss Of the great shield once more, to strike his head Over the rim. Ferdiah with a stroke Of his left knee made the great shield to ring, And cast Cuchullin back upon the brink, As if he only were a little child. Laegh saw the act. "Alas! indeed," said Laegh, "The warrior casts thee from him in the way That an abandoned woman would her child. He flings thee as a river flings its foam; He grinds thee as a mill would grind fresh malt; He fells thee as the axe does fell the oak; He binds thee as the woodbine binds the tree; He darts upon thee as a hawk doth dart Upon small birds, so that from this hour forth Until the end of time, thou hast no claim Or title to be called a valorous man: Thou little puny phantom form," said Laegh. Then with the rapid motion of the wind, The fleetness of a swallow on the wing, The fierceness of a dragon, and the strength Of a roused lion, once again up sprang Cuchullin, high into the troubled air, And lighted for the third time on the boss Of the broad shield, to strike Ferdiah's head Over the rim. The warrior shook the shield, And cast Cuchullin mid-way in the Ford, With such an easy effort that it seemed As if he scarcely deigned to shake him off.

Then, as he lay, a strange distortion came Upon Cuchullin; as a bladder swells Inflated by the breath, to such a size And fulness did he grow, that he became A fearful, many-coloured, wondrous Tuaig— Gigantic shape, as big as a man of the sea, Or monstrous Fomor, so that now his form In perfect height over Ferdiah stood.

So close the fight was now, that their heads met Above, their feet below, their arms half-way Over the rims and bosses of their shields:— So close the fight was now, that from their rims Unto their centres were their shields cut through, And loosed was every rivet from its hold; So close the fight was now, that their strong spears Were turned and bent and shivered point and haft; Such was the closeness of the fight they made That the invisible and unearthly hosts Of Spirits, Bocanachs and Bananachs, And the wild wizard people of the glen And of the air the demons, shrieked and screamed From their broad shields' reverberating rim, From their sword-hilts and their long-shafted spears: Such was the closeness of the fight they made, They forced the river from its natural course, Out of its bed, so that it might have been A couch whereon a king or queen might lie, For not a drop of water it retained, Except what came from the great tramp and splash Of the two heroes fighting in its midst. Such was the fierceness of the fight they waged, That a wild fury seized upon the steeds The Gaels had gathered with them; in affright They burst their traces and their binding ropes, Nay even their chains, and panting fled away. The women, too, and youths, by equal fears Inspired and scared, and all the varied crowd Of followers and non-combatants who there Were with the men of Erin, from the camp South-westward broke away, and fled the Ford.

At the edge-feat of swords they were engaged When this surprise occurred, and it was then Ferdiah an unguarded moment found Upon Cuchullin, and he struck him deep, Plunging his straight-edged sword up to the hilt Within his body, till his girdle filled With blood, and all the Ford ran red with gore From the brave battle-warrior's veins outshed. This could Cuchullin now no longer bear Because Ferdiah still the unguarded spot Struck and re-struck with quick, strong, stubborn strokes; And so he called aloud to Laegh, the son Of Riangabra, for the dread Gaebulg. The manner of that fearful feat was this: Adown the current was it sent, and caught Between the toes: a single spear would make The wound it made when entering, but once lodged Within the body, thirty barbs outsprung, So that it could not be withdrawn until The body was cut open where it lay. And when of the Gaebulg Ferdiah heard The name, he made a downward stroke of his shield, To guard his body. Then Cuchullin thrust The unerring thorny spear straight o'er the rim, And through the breast-plate of his coat of mail, So that its farther half was seen beyond His body, after passing through his heart.

Ferdiah gave an upward stroke of his shield, His breast to cover, though it was "the relief After the danger." Then the servant set The dread Gaebulg adown the flowing stream; Cuchullin caught it firmly 'twixt his toes, And from his foot a fearful cast he threw Upon Ferdiah with unerring aim. Swift through the well-wrought iron apron guard It passed, and through the stone which was as large As a huge mill-stone, cracking it in three, And so into his body, every part Of which was filled with the expanding barbs "That is enough: by that one blow I fall," Ferdiah said. "Indeed, I now may own That I am sickly after thee this day, Though it behoved not thee that I should fall By stroke of thine;" and then these dying words He added, tottering back upon the bank:

FERDIAH.

O Hound, so famed for deeds of valour doing, 'Twas not thy place my death to give to me; Thine is the fault of my most certain ruin, And yet 'tis best to have my blood on thee.

The wretch escapes not from his false position, Who to the gap of his destruction goes; Alas! my death-sick voice needs no physician, My end hath come—my life's stream seaward flows.

The natural ramparts of my breast are broken, In its own gore my struggling heart is drowned:— Alas! I have not fought as I have spoken, For thou hast killed me in the fight, O Hound!

Cuchullin towards him ran, and his two arms Clasping about him, lifted him and bore The body in its armour and its clothes Across the Ford unto the northern bank, In order that the slain should thus be placed Upon the north bank of the Ford, and not Among the men of Erin, on the west. Cuchullin laid Ferdiah down, and then A sudden trance, a faintness on him came When bending o'er the body of his friend. Laegh saw the weakness, which was seen as well By all the men of Erin, who arose Upon the moment to attack him there. "Good, O Cuchullin," Laegh exclaimed, "arise, For all the men of Erin hither come. It is no single combat they will give, Since fair Ferdiah, Daman's son, the son Of Dare, by thy hands has here been slain." "O servant, what availeth me to rise," Cuchullin said, "since he hath fallen by me?" And so the servant said, and so replied Cuchullin, in his turn, unto the end;

LAEGH.

Arise, Emania's slaughter-hound, arise, Exultant pride should be thy mood this day:— Ferdiah of the hosts before thee lies— Hard was the fight and dreadful was the fray.

CUCHULLIN.

Ah, what availeth me a hero's pride? Madness and grief are in my heart and brain, For the dear blood with which my hand is dyed— For the dear body that I here have slain.

LAEGH.

It suits thee ill to shed these idle tears, Fitter by far for thee a fiercer mood— At thee he flung the flying pointed spears, Malicious, wounding, dripping, dyed with blood.

CUCHULLIN.

Even though he left me crippled, maimed, and lame, Even though I lost this arm that now but bleeds, All would I bear, but now the fields of fame No more shall see Ferdiah mount his steeds.

LAEGH.

More pleasing is the victory thou hast gained, More pleasing to the women of Creeve Rue, He to have died and thou to have remained, To them the brave who fell here are too few.

From that black day in brilliant Mave's long reign Thou camest out of Cuailgne it has been— Her people slaughtered and her champions slain— A time of desolation to the queen.

When thy great plundered flock was borne away, Thou didst not lie with slumber-seal'ed eyes,— Then 'twas thy boast to rise before the day:— Arise again, Emania's Hound, arise!

So Laegh addressed the hero, though he seemed To hear him not, but mourned his friend the more. And thus he spoke these words, and thus he moaned:

"Alas! Ferdiah, an unhappy chance It was for thee that thou didst not consult Some of the heroes who my prowess knew, Before thou camest forth to meet me here, In the hard battle combat by the Ford. Unhappy was it that it was not Laegh, The son of Riangabra, thou didst ask About our fellow-pupilship—a bond That might the unnatural combat so have stayed; Unhappy was it that thou didst not ask Honest advice from Fergus, son of Roy; Or that it was not battle-winning, proud, Exulting, ruddy Connall thou didst ask About our fellow-pupilship of old. For well do these men know there will not be A being born among the Conacians who Shall do the deeds of valour thou hast done From this day forth until the end of time. For if thou hadst consulted these brave men About the places where the assemblies meet, About the plightings and the broken vows Uttered too oft by Connaught's fair-haired dames; If thou hadst asked about the games and sports Played with the targe and shield, the sword and spear, If of backgammon or the moves of chess, Or races with the chariots and the steeds, They never would have found a champion's arm As strong to pierce a hero's flesh as thine, O rose-cloud hued Ferdiah! None to raise The red-mouthed vulture's hoarse, inviting croak Unto the many-coloured flocks, nor one Who will for Croghan combat like to thee, O red-cheeked son of Daman!" Thus he said, Then standing o'er Ferdiah he resumed: "Oh! great has been the treachery and fraud The men of Erin practised upon thee, Ferdiah, thus to bring thee here to fight With me, 'gainst whom it is no easy task Upon the Tain Bo Cuailgne to contend." And thus he said, and thus again he spake:

CUCHULLIN.

O my Ferdiah, O my friend, forgive: 'Tis not my hand but treachery lays thee low:— Thou doomed to die and I condemned to live, Both doomed for ever to be severed so!

When we were far away in our young prime, With Scatha, dread Buannan's chosen friend, A vow we made, that till the end of time, With hostile arms we never should contend.

Dear was thy lovely ruddiness to me, Dear was thy gray-blue eye, so bright and clear,— Thy comely, perfect form how sweet to see! Thy wisdom and thy eloquence how dear!

In body-cutting combat, on the field Of spears, when all is lost or all is won, None braver ever yet held up a shield, Than thou, Ferdiah, Daman's ruddy son.

Never since Aife's only son I slew, Not knowing who the gallant youth might be,— Ah! hapless deed, that still my heart doth rue!— None have I found, Ferdiah, like to thee.

Thy dream it was to win fair Finavair, From Mave her beauteous daughter's hand to gain; As soon might'st thou in the wide fields of air The glancing sunbeam's swift-winged flight restrain.

He paused awhile, still gazing on the dead, Then to his charioteer he spoke: "Friend Laegh, Strip now Ferdiah, take his armour off, That I may see the golden brooch of Mave, For which he undertook the fatal fight." Laegh took the armour then from off his breast, And then Cuchullin saw the golden pin That cost so dear, and then these words he spake:

CUCHULLIN.

Alas! O brooch of gold! O chief, whose fame each poet knows, O hero of stout slaughtering blows, Thy arm was brave and bold.

Thy yellow flowing hair, Thy purple girdle's silken fold Still even in death around thee rolled,— Thy twisted jewel rare.

Thy noble beaming eyes, Now closed in death, make mine grow dim, Thy dazzling shield with golden rim, Thy chess a king might prize.

Oh! piteous to behold, My fellow-pupil falls by me: It was an end that should not be, Alas! O brooch of gold!

After another pause Cuchullin spoke:— "O Laegh, my friend, open Ferdiah now, And from his body the Gaebulg take out, For I without my weapon cannot be."

Laegh then approached, and with a strong, sharp knife Opened Ferdiah's body, and drew out The dread Gaebulg. And when Cuchullin saw His bloody weapon lying red beside Ferdiah on the ground, again he thought Of all their past career, and thus he said:

CUCHULLIN.

Sad is my fate that I should see thee lying, Sad is the fate, Ferdiah, I deplore,— I with my weapon which thy blood is dyeing, Thou on the ground a mass of streaming gore.

When we were young, where Scatha's eye hath seen us Fond fellow-pupils in her schools of Skye, Never was heard the angry word between us, Never was seen the angry spear to fly.

Scatha, with words of eloquent persuading, Roused us in many a glorious feat to join; "Go," she exclaimed, "each other bravely aiding, Go forth to battle with the dread Germoin."

I to Ferdiah said: "Oh, come, my brother," I to the ever-generous Luaigh said, I to fair Baetan's son, and many another: "Come, let us go and fight this foe so dread."

Crossing the sea in ships of peaceful traders, All of us came to lone Lind Formairt's lake, With us we brought four hundred brave invaders Out of the islands of the Athisech.

I and Ferdiah were the first to enter, Where he himself, the dread Germoin, held rule, Rind, Nial's son, I clove from head to centre, Ruad I killed, the son of Finniule.

First on the shore, as swift our fleet ships flew there, Blath, son of Calba of red swords, was slain; Struck by Ferdiah, Luaigh also slew there Fierce rude Mugarne of the Torrian main.

Bravely we battled against that court enchanted, Full four times fifty heroes fell by me: He, by their savage onslaught nothing daunted, Slew ox-like monsters clambering from the sea.

Wily Germoin, amid so many slaughters, We took alive as trophy of the field, Him o'er the broad, bright sea of spangled waters We bore to Scatha of the bright broad shield.

She, our famed tutoress, with kind endeavour, Bound us from that day forth with heart and hand, When met fair Elgga's tribes, that we should never In hostile ranks before each other stand.

Oh, day of woe! oh, day without a morrow! Oh, fatal Tuesday morning, when the bud Of his young life was scattered! Oh! the sorrow, To give the friend I loved a drink of blood!

Ah, if I saw thee among heroes lying Dead on some glorious battlefield of Greece, Soon would I follow thee, and proudly dying, Sleep with my friend triumphant and at peace.

We, Scatha's pupils, ah, how sad the story! Thou to be dead and I to be alive: I to be wounded here, all gashed and gory, Thou never more thy chariot's steeds to drive.

We, Scatha's pupils, ah! how sad the story; Sad is the fate to which we both are led: I to be wounded here, all gashed and gory, And thou, alas! my friend, to lie here dead.

We, Scatha's pupils, ah, how sad the story! Sad is the deed and sorrowful the wrong: Thou to be dead without thy meed of glory, And I, oh! shame, to be alive and strong!

Laegh interposed at length, and thus he said: "Good, O Cuchullin, let us leave the Ford, For long have we been here, by far too long." "Let us then leave it now," Cuchullin said, "O Laegh, my friend, but know that every fight In which I hitherto have drawn my sword, Has been but as a pastime and a sport Compared with this one with Ferdiah fought." And he was saying, and he spake these words:

CUCHULLIN.

Until Ferdiah sought the Ford, I played but with the spear and sword: Alike the teaching we received, Alike were glad, alike were grieved, Alike were we by Scatha's grace Deemed worthy of the highest place.

Until Ferdiah sought the Ford, I played but with the spear and sword: Alike our habits and our ways, Alike our prowess and our praise, Alike the trophies of the brave, The glittering shields that Scatha gave.

Until Ferdiah sought the Ford, I played but with the spear and sword: How dear to me, ah! who can know? This golden pillar here laid low, This mighty tree so strong and tall, The chief, the champion of us all!

Until Ferdiah sought the Ford, I played but with the spear and sword: The lion rushing with a roar, The wave that swallows up the shore, When storm-winds blow and heaven is dim, Could only be compared to him.

Until Ferdiah sought the Ford, I played but with the spear and sword: Through me the friend I loved is dead, A cloud is ever on my head— The mountain form, the giant frame, Is now a shadow and a name.

The countless legions of the 'Tain,' Those hands of mine have turned and slain: Their men and steeds before me died, Their flocks and herds on either side, Though numerous were the hosts that came From Croghan's Rath of fatal fame.

Though less than half the foes I led, Before me soon my foes lay dead: Never to gory battle pressed, Never was nursed on Bamba's breast, Never from sons of kings there came A hero of more glorious fame.[52]

28. This poem is now published for the first time in its complete state.

29. Autumn; strictly the last night in October. (See O'Curry's "Sick Bed of Cuchullin," "Atlantis," i., p. 370).

30. Culann was the name of Conor MacNessa's smith, and it was from him that Setanta derived the name of Cu-Chulainn, or Culann's Hound.

31. Iorrus Domnann, now Erris, in the county of Mayo. It derived its name ("Bay of the Domnanns," or "Deep-diggers,") from the party of the Firbolgs, so called, having settled there, under their chiefs Genann and Rudhraighe. (See "The Fate of the Children of Lir," by O'Curry, Atlantis, iv., p. 123; Dr. Reeve's "Adamnan's Life of St. Columba," note 6, p. 31; O'Flaherty's "Ogygia," p. 280; and Hardiman's "West Connaught," by O'Flaherty, published by the Irish Archaeological Society.)

32. The name of Scatha, the Amazonian instructress of Ferdiah and Cuchullin, is still preserved in Dun Sciath, in the island of Skye, where great Cuchullin's name and glory yet linger. The Cuchullin Mountains, named after him, "those thunder-smitten, jagged, Cuchullin peaks of Skye," the grandest mountain range in Great Britain, attract to that remote island of the Hebrides many worshippers of the sublime and beautiful in nature, whose enjoyments would be largely enhanced if they knew the heroic legends which are connected with the glorious scenes they have travelled so far to witness. Cuchullin is one of the foremost characters in MacPherson's "Ossian," but the quasi-translator of Gaelic poems places him more than two centuries later than the period at which he really lived. (Lady Ferguson's "The Irish before the Conquest," pp. 57, 58.)

33. For a description of this mysterious instrument, see Dr. Todd's "Additional Notes to the Irish version of Nennius," p. 12.

34. On the use of mail armour by the ancient Irish, see Dr. O'Donovan's "Introduction and Notes to the Battle of Magh-Rath," edited for the Archaeological Society.

35. For an interesting account of this sovereign, so famous in Irish story, see O'Curry's "Lectures," pp. 33, 34. Her Father, according to the chronology of the "Four Masters," is supposed to have reigned as monarch of Erin about a century before the Christian era. "Of all the children of the monarch Eochaidh Fiedloch," says O'Donovan (cited in O'Mahony's translation of Keating's "History," p. 276) "by far the most celebrated was Meadbh or Mab, who is still remembered as the fairy queen of the Irish, the 'Queen Mab' of Spenser."

36. "The belief that a 'ferb' or ulcer could be produced," says Mr. Stokes, in his preface to 'Cormac's Glossary,' "forms the groundwork of the tale of Nede mac Adnae and his uncle, Caier." The names of the three blisters (Stain, Blemish, and Defect) are almost identical with those Ferdiah is threatened with in the present poem.

37. A 'cumal' was three cows, or their value. On the use of chariots, see "The Sick Bed of Cuchullin," Atlantis, i., p. 375.

38. "The plains of Aie" (son of Allghuba the Druid), in Roscommon. Here stood the palace of Cruachain (O'Curry's "Lectures," p. 35; "Battle of Magh Leana," p. 61).

39. "Fair-brow" (O'Curry, "Exile of the Children of Uisnech," Atlantis, ii., p. 386).

40. Here in the original there is a sudden change from prose to verse. "It is generally supposed that these stories were recited by the ancient Irish poets for the amusement of their chieftains at their public feasts, and that the portions given in metre were sung" ("Battle of Magh Rath," p. 12). The prose portions of this tale are represented in the translation by blank verse, and the lyrical portions by rhymed verse.

41. "Ugaine Mor exacted oaths by the sun and moon, the sea, the dew, and colours . . . that the sovereignty of Erin should be invested in his descendants for ever" (Ib. p. 3).

42. The high dignity of Domnal may be inferred from the following lines, quoted from MacLenini, in the preface to "Cormac's Glossary," p. 51:— "As blackbirds to swans, as an ounce to a mass of gold, As the forms of peasant women to the forms of queens, As a king to Domnal . . . As a taper to a candle, so is a sword to my sword."

43. She was the wife of Ned, the war-god. See O'Donovan's "Annals of the Four Masters," vol. i., p. 24.

44. Etan is said to have been 'muime na filed,' nurse of the poets ("Three Irish Glossaries," preface, p. 33).

45. At Rathcroghan was the palace of the Kings of Connacht.

46. A name of Ireland ("Battle of Magh Leana," p. 79).

47. So the night before the battle of Magh Rath, "the monarch, grandson of Ainmire, slept not, in consequence of the weight of the battle and the anxiety of the conflict pressing on his mind; for he was certain that his own beloved foster-son would, on the morrow, meet his last fate."

48. In the "Battle of Magh Leana" these mysterious beings are called "the Women of the Valley" (p. 120).

49. For this line and for many valuable suggestions throughout the poem I am indebted to the deep poetical insight and correct judgment of my friend, Aubrey de Vere.

50. "Derg Dian Scothach saw this order, and he put his forefinger into the string of the spear." "Fate of the Children of Tuireann," by O'Curry, Atlantis, iv., p. 233. See also "Battle of Magh Rath," pp. 140, 141, 152.

51. Bregia was the ancient name of the plain watered by the Boyne.

52. According to the marginal note of the learned editor, the last four lines appear to be a sort of epilogue, in which the poet extols the victor.



THE VOYAGE OF ST. BRENDAN. A.D. 545.

[We are informed that Brendan, hearing of the previous voyage of his cousin, Barinthus, in the western ocean, and obtaining an account from him of the happy isles he had landed on in the far west, determined, under the strong desire of winning heathen souls to Christ, to undertake a voyage of discovery himself. And aware that all along the western coast of Ireland there were many traditions respecting the existence of a western land, he proceeded to the islands of Arran, and there remained for some time, holding communication with the venerable St. Enda, and obtaining from him much information relating to his voyage. Having prosecuted his inquiries with diligence, Brendan returned to his native Kerry; and from a bay sheltered by the lofty mountain that is now known by his name, he set sail for the Atlantic land; and, directing his course towards the south-west, in order to meet the summer solstice, or what we should call the tropic, after a long and rough voyage, his little bark being well provisioned, he came to summer seas, where he was carried along, without the aid of sail or oar, for many a long day. This, which it is to be presumed was the great gulf-stream, brought his vessel to shore somewhere about the Virginian capes, or where the American coast tends eastward, and forms the New England States. Here landing, he and his companions marched steadily into the interior for fifteen days, and then came to a large river, flowing from east to west: this, evidently, was the river Ohio. And this the holy adventurer was about to cross, when he was accosted by a person of noble presence—but whether a real or visionary man does not appear—who told him he had gone far enough; that further discoveries were reserved for other men, who would, in due time, come and Christianise all that pleasant land. It is said he remained seven years away, and returned to set up a college of three thousand monks, at Clonfert.—"Caesar Otway's Sketches in Erris and Tyrawley," note, pp. 98, 99.]

THE VOCATION.

[When St. Brendan was an infant, says Colgan, he was placed under the care of St. Ita, and remained with her five years, after which period he was led away by Bishop Ercus in order to receive from him the more solid instruction necessary for his advancing years. Brendan always retained the greatest respect and affection for his foster-mother, and he is represented, after his seven years' voyage, amusing St. Ita with an account of his adventures in the ocean.]

O Ita, mother of my heart and mind— My nourisher, my fosterer, my friend, Who taught me first to God's great will resigned, Before his shining altar-steps to bend; Who poured his word upon my soul like balm, And on mine eyes what pious fancy paints— And on mine ear the sweetly swelling psalm, And all the sacred knowledge of the saints;

To whom but thee, dear mother, should be told Of all the wonders I have seen afar?— Islands more green and suns of brighter gold Than this dear land or yonder blazing star; Of hills that bear the fruit-trees on their tops, And seas that dimple with eternal smiles; Of airs from heaven that fan the golden crops, O'er the great ocean 'mid the blessed isles!

Thou knowest, O my mother! how to thee The blessed Ercus led me when a boy, And how within thine arms and at thine knee, I learned the lore that death cannot destroy; And how I parted hence with bitter tears, And felt, when turning from thy friendly door, In the reality of ripening years, My paradise of childhood was no more.

I wept—but not with sin such tear-drops flow;— I sighed—for earthly things with heaven entwine; Tears make the harvest of the heart to grow, And love though human is almost divine. The heart that loves not knows not how to pray; The eye can never smile that never weeps: 'Tis through our sighs hope's kindling sunbeams play And through our tears the bow of promise peeps.

I grew to manhood by the western wave, Among the mighty mountains on the shore: My bed the rock within some natural cave, My food whate'er the seas or seasons bore: My occupation, morn and noon and night: The only dream my hasty slumbers gave, Was Time's unheeding, unreturning flight, And the great world that lies beyond the grave.

And thus, where'er I went, all things to me Assumed the one deep colour of my mind; Great nature's prayer rose from the murmuring sea, And sinful man sighed in the wintry wind. The thick-veiled clouds by shedding many a tear, Like penitents, grew purified and bright, And, bravely struggling through earth's atmosphere, Passed to the regions of eternal light.

I loved to watch the clouds now dark and dun, In long procession and funeral line, Pass with slow pace across the glorious sun, Like hooded monks before a dazzling shrine. And now with gentler beauty as they rolled Along the azure vault in gladsome May, Gleaming pure white, and edged with broidered gold, Like snowy vestments on the Virgin's day.

And then I saw the mighty sea expand Like Time's unmeasured and unfathomed waves, One with its tide-marks on the ridgy sand, The other with its line of weedy graves; And as beyond the outstretched wave of time, The eye of Faith a brighter land may meet, So did I dream of some more sunny clime Beyond the waste of waters at my feet.

Some clime where man, unknowing and unknown, For God's refreshing word still gasps and faints; Or happier rather some Elysian zone, Made for the habitation of his saints: Where Nature's love the sweat of labour spares, Nor turns to usury the wealth it lends, Where the rich soil spontaneous harvest bears, And the tall tree with milk-filled clusters bends.

The thought grew stronger with my growing days, Even like to manhood's strengthening mind and limb, And often now amid the purple haze That evening breathed upon the horizon's rim— Methought, as there I sought my wished-for home, I could descry amid the waters green, Full many a diamond shrine and golden dome, And crystal palaces of dazzling sheen.

And then I longed, with impotent desire, Even for the bow whereby the Python bled, That I might send on dart of the living fire Into that land, before the vision fled, And thus at length fix the enchanted shore, Hy-Brasail, Eden of the western wave! That thou again wouldst fade away no more, Buried and lost within thy azure grave.

But angels came and whispered as I dreamt, "This is no phantom of a frenzied brain— God shows this land from time to time to tempt Some daring mariner across the main: By thee the mighty venture must be made, By thee shall myriad souls to Christ be won! Arise, depart, and trust to God for aid!" I woke, and kneeling, cried, "His will be done!"

ARA OF THE SAINTS.[53]

Hearing how blessed Enda lived apart, Amid the sacred caves of Ara-mhor, And how beneath his eye, spread like a chart, Lay all the isles of that remotest shore; And how he had collected in his mind All that was known to man of the Old Sea,[54] I left the Hill of Miracles[55] behind, And sailed from out the shallow, sandy Leigh.

Betwixt the Samphire Isles swam my light skiff, And like an arrow flew through Fenor Sound, Swept by the pleasant strand, and the tall cliff, Whereon the pale rose amethysts are found. Rounded Moyferta's rocky point, and crossed The mouth of stream-streaked Erin's mightiest tide, Whose troubled waves break o'er the City lost, Chafed by the marble turrets that they hide.

Beneath Ibrickan's hills, moory and tame, And Inniscaorach's caves, so wild and dark, I sailed along. The white-faced otter came, And gazed in wonder on my floating bark. The soaring gannet, perched upon my mast, And the proud bird, that flies but o'er the sea, Wheeled o'er my head: and the girrinna passed Upon the branch of some life-giving tree.[56]

Leaving the awful cliffs of Corcomroe, I sought the rocky eastern isle, that bears The name of blessed Coemhan, who doth show Pity unto the storm-tossed seaman's prayers; Then crossing Bealach-na-fearbach's treacherous sound, I reached the middle isle, whose citadel Looks like a monarch from its throne around; And there I rested by St. Kennerg's well.

Again I sailed, and crossed the stormy sound That lies beneath Binn-Aite's rocky height— And there, upon the shore, the Saint I found Waiting my coming though the tardy night. He led me to his home beside the wave, Where, with his monks, the pious father dwelled, And to my listening ear he freely gave The sacred knowledge that his bosom held.

When I proclaimed the project that I nursed, How 'twas for this that I his blessing sought, An irrepressible cry of joy outburst From his pure lips, that blessed me for the thought. He said that he, too, had in visions strayed Over the untracked ocean's billowy foam; Bid me have hope, that God would give me aid, And bring me safe back to my native home.

Oft, as we paced that marble-covered land, Would blessed Enda tell me wondrous tales— How, for the children of his love, the hand Of the Omnipotent Father never fails— How his own sister,[57] standing by the side Of the great sea, which bore no human bark, Spread her light cloak upon the conscious tide, And sailed thereon securely as an ark.

And how the winds become the willing slaves Of those who labour in the work of God; And how Scothinus walked upon the waves, Which seemed to him the meadow's verdant sod. How he himself came hither with his flock, To teach the infidels from Corcomroe, Upon the floating breast of the hard rock, Which lay upon the glistening sands below.

But not alone of miracles and joys Would Enda speak—he told me of his dream; When blessed Kieran went to Clonmacnois, To found the sacred churches by the stream— How he did weep to see the angels flee Away from Arran as a place accursed; And men tear up the island-shading tree, Out of the soil from which it sprung at first.

At length I tore me from the good man's sight, And o'er Loch Lurgan's mouth[58] took my lone way, Which, in the sunny morning's golden light, Shone like the burning lake of Lassarae; Now 'neath heaven's frown—and now, beneath its smile— Borne on the tide, or driven before the gale; And, as I passed MacDara's sacred Isle, Thrice bowed my mast, and thrice let down my sail.

Westward of Arran as I sailed away; I saw the fairest sight eye can behold— Rocks which, illumined by the morning's ray, Seemed like a glorious city built of gold. Men moved along each sunny shining street, Fires seemed to blaze, and curling smoke to rise, When lo! the city vanished, and a fleet, With snowy sails, rose on my ravished eyes.

Thus having sought for knowledge and for strength, For the unheard-of voyage that I planned, I left these myriad isles, and turned at length Southward my bark, and sought my native land. There made I all things ready, day by day, The wicker-boat, with ox-skins covered o'er— Chose the good monks companions of my way, And waited for the wind to leave the shore.

THE VOYAGE.

At length the long-expected morning came, When from the opening arms of that wild bay, Beneath the hill that bears my humble name, Over the waves we took our untracked way; Sweetly the morning lay on tarn and rill, Gladly the waves played in its golden light, And the proud top of the majestic hill Shone in the azure air, serene and bright.

Over the sea we flew that sunny morn, Not without natural tears and human sighs: For who can leave the land where he was born, And where, perchance, a buried mother lies; Where all the friends of riper manhood dwell, And where the playmates of his childhood sleep: Who can depart, and breathe a cold farewell, Nor let his eyes their honest tribute weep?

Our little bark, kissing the dimpled smiles On ocean's cheek, flew like a wanton bird, And then the land, with all its hundred isles, Faded away, and yet we spoke no word. Each silent tongue held converse with the past, Each moistened eye looked round the circling wave, And, save the spot where stood our trembling mast, Saw all things hid within one mighty grave.

We were alone, on the wide watery waste— Nought broke its bright monotony of blue, Save where the breeze the flying billows chased, Or where the clouds their purple shadows threw. We were alone—the pilgrims of the sea— One boundless azure desert round us spread; No hope, no trust, no strength, except in THEE, Father, who once the pilgrim-people led.

And when the bright-faced sun resigned his throne Unto the Ethiop queen, who rules the night, Who with her pearly crown and starry zone, Fills the dark dome of heaven with silvery light;— As on we sailed, beneath her milder sway, And felt within our hearts her holier power, We ceased from toil, and humbly knelt to pray, And hailed with vesper hymns the tranquil hour!

For then, indeed, the vaulted heavens appeared A fitting shrine to hear their Maker's praise, Such as no human architect has reared, Where gems, and gold, and precious marbles blaze. What earthly temple such a roof can boast?— What flickering lamp with the rich starlight vies, When the round moon rests, like the sacred Host, Upon the azure altar of the skies?

We breathed aloud the Christian's filial prayer, Which makes us brothers even with the Lord; Our Father, cried we, in the midnight air, In heaven and earth be thy great name adored; May thy bright kingdom, where the angels are, Replace this fleeting world, so dark and dim. And then, with eyes fixed on some glorious star, We sang the Virgin-Mother's vesper hymn!

Hail, brightest star! that o'er life's troubled sea Shines pitying down from heaven's elysian blue! Mother and Maid, we fondly look to thee, Fair gate of bliss, where heaven beams brightly through. Star of the morning! guide our youthful days, Shine on our infant steps in life's long race, Star of the evening! with thy tranquil rays, Gladden the aged eyes that seek thy face.

Hail, sacred Maid! thou brighter, better Eve, Take from our eyes the blinding scales of sin; Within our hearts no selfish poison leave, For thou the heavenly antidote canst win. O sacred Mother! 'tis to thee we run— Poor children, from this world's oppressive strife; Ask all we need from thy immortal Son, Who drank of death, that we might taste of life.

Hail, spotless Virgin! mildest, meekest maid— Hail! purest Pearl that time's great sea hath borne— May our white souls, in purity arrayed, Shine, as if they thy vestal robes had worn; Make our hearts pure, as thou thyself art pure, Make safe the rugged pathway of our lives, And make us pass to joys that will endure When the dark term of mortal life arrives.[59]

'Twas thus, in hymns, and prayers, and holy psalms, Day tracking day, and night succeeding night, Now driven by tempests, now delayed by calms, Along the sea we winged our varied flight. Oh! how we longed and pined for sight of land! Oh! how we sighed for the green pleasant fields! Compared with the cold waves, the barest strand— The bleakest rock—a crop of comfort yields.

Sometimes, indeed, when the exhausted gale, In search of rest, beneath the waves would flee, Like some poor wretch who, when his strength doth fail, Sinks in the smooth and unsupporting sea: Then would the Brothers draw from memory's store Some chapter of life's misery or bliss, Some trial that some saintly spirit bore, Or else some tale of passion, such as this:

THE BURIED CITY.

[The peasants who live near the mouth of the Shannon point to a part of the river within the headlands over which the tides rush with extraordinary rapidity and violence. They say it is the site of a lost city, long buried beneath the waves.—See Hall's "Ireland," vol. iii. p. 436.]

Beside that giant stream that foams and swells Betwixt Hy-Conaill and Moyarta's shore, And guards the isle where good Senanus dwells, A gentle maiden dwelt in days of yore. She long has passed out of Time's aching womb, And breathes Eternity's favonian air; Yet fond Tradition lingers o'er her tomb, And paints her glorious features as they were:—

Her smile was Eden's pure and stainless light, Which never cloud nor earthly vapour mars; Her lustrous eyes were like the noon of night— Black, but yet brightened by a thousand stars; Her tender form, moulded in modest grace, Shrank from the gazer's eye, and moved apart; Heaven shone reflected in her angel face, And God reposed within her virgin heart.

She dwelt in green Moyarta's pleasant land, Beneath the graceful hills of Clonderlaw,— Sweet sunny hills, whose triple summits stand, One vast tiara over stream and shaw. Almost in solitude the maiden grew, And reached her early budding woman's prime; And all so noiselessly the swift time flew, She knew not of the name or flight of Time.

And thus, within her modest mountain nest, This gentle maiden nestled like a dove, Offering to God from her pure innocent breast The sweet and silent incense of her love. No selfish feeling nor presumptuous pride In her calm bosom waged unnatural strife; Saint of her home and hearth, she sanctified The thousand trivial common cares of life.

Upon the opposite shore there dwelt a youth, Whose nature's woof was woven of good and ill— Whose stream of life flowed to the sea of truth, But in a devious course, round many a hill— Now lingering through a valley of delight, Where sweet flowers bloomed, and summer songbirds sung, Now hurled along the dark, tempestuous night, With gloomy, treeless mountains overhung.

He sought the soul of Beauty throughout space, Knowledge he tracked through many a vanished age: For one he scanned fair Nature's radiant face, And for the other, Learning's shrivelled page. If Beauty sent some fair apostle down, Or Knowledge some great teacher of her lore, Bearing the wreath of rapture and the crown, He knelt to love, to learn, and to adore.

Full many a time he spread his little sail, How rough the river, or how dark the skies, Gave his light corrach to the angry gale, And crossed the stream to gaze on Ethna's eyes. As yet 'twas worship, more than human love, That hopeless adoration that we pay Unto some glorious planet throned above, Through severed from its crystal sphere for aye.

But warmer love an easy conquest won, The more he came to green Moyarta's bowers; Even as the earth, by gazing on the sun, In summer-time puts forth her myriad flowers. The yearnings of his heart—vague, undefined— Wakened and solaced by ideal gleams, Took everlasting shape, and intertwined Around this incarnation of his dreams.

Some strange fatality restrained his tongue— He spoke not of the love that filled his breast; The thread of hope, on which his whole life hung, Was far too weak to bear so strong a test. He trusted to the future—time, or chance— His constant homage and assiduous care; Preferred to dream, and lengthen out his trance, Rather than wake to knowledge and despair.

And thus she knew not, when the youth would look Upon some pictured chronicle of eld, In every blazoned letter of the book One fairest face was all that he beheld: And where the limner, with consummate art, Drew flowing lines and quaint devices rare, The wildered youth, by looking from the heart, Saw nought but lustrous eyes and waving hair.

He soon was startled from his dreams, for now— 'Twas said, obedient to a heavenly call— His life of life would take the vestal vow, In one short month, within a convent's wall. He heard the tidings with a sickening fear, But quickly had the sudden faintness flown, And vowed, though heaven or hell should interfere, Ethna—his Ethna—should be his alone!

He sought his boat, and snatched the feathery oar— It was the first and brightest morn of May: The white-winged clouds, that sought the northern shore, Seemed but Love's guides, to point him out the way. The great old river heaved its mighty heart, And, with a solemn sigh, went calmly on; As if of all his griefs it felt a part, But know they should be borne, and so had gone.

Slowly his boat the languid breeze obeyed, Although the stream that that light burden bore Was like the level path the angels made, Through the rough sea, to Arran's blessed shore; And from the rosy clouds the light airs fanned, And from the rich reflection that they gave, Like good Scothinus, had he reached his hand, He might have plucked a garland from the wave.

And now the noon in purple splendour blazed, The gorgeous clouds in slow procession filed; The youth leaned o'er with listless eyes and gazed Down through the waves on which the blue heavens smiled: What sudden fear his gasping breath doth drown! What hidden wonder fires his startled eyes! Down in the deep, full many a fathom down, A great and glorious city buried lies.

Not like those villages with rude-built walls, That raise their humble roofs round every coast, But holding marble basilics and halls, Such as imperial Rome herself might boast. There was the palace and the poor man's home, And upstart glitter and old-fashioned gloom, The spacious porch, the nicely rounded dome, The hero's column, and the martyr's tomb.

There was the cromleach with its circling stones; There the green rath and the round narrow tower; There was the prison whence the captive's groans Had many a time moaned in the midnight hour. Beneath the graceful arch the river flowed, Around the walls the sparkling waters ran, The golden chariot rolled along the road— All, all was there except the face of man.

The wondering youth had neither thought nor word, He felt alone the power and will to die; His little bark seemed like an outstretched bird, Floating along that city's azure sky. It joyed that youth the battle's storm to brave, And yet he would have perished with affright, Had not the breeze, rippling the lucid wave, Concealed the buried city from his sight.

He reached the shore; the rumour was too true— Ethna—his Ethna—would be God's alone In one brief month; for which the maid withdrew, To seek for strength before his blessed throne. Was it the fire that on his bosom preyed, Or the temptation of the Fiend abhorred, That made him vow to snatch the white-veiled maid Even from the very altar of her Lord?

The first of June, that festival of flowers, Came, like a goddess, o'er the meadows green! And all the children of the spring-tide showers Rose from their grassy beds to hail their Queen. A song of joy, a paean of delight, Rose from the myriad life in the tall grass, When the young Dawn, fresh from the sleep of night, Glanced at her blushing face in Ocean's glass.

Ethna awoke—a second—brighter dawn— Her mother's fondling voice breathed in her ear; Quick from her couch she started as a fawn Bounds from the heather when her dam is near. Each clasped the other in a long embrace— Each know the other's heart did beat and bleed— Each kissed the warm tears from the other's face, And gave the consolation she did need.

Oh! bitterest sacrifice the heart can make— That of a mother of her darling child— That of a child, who, for her Saviour's sake, Leaves the fond face that o'er her cradle smiled. They who may think that God doth never need So great, so sad a sacrifice as this, While they take glory in their easier creed, Will feel and own the sacrifice it is.

All is prepared—the sisters in the choir— The mitred abbot on his crimson throne— The waxen tapers, with their pallid fire Poured o'er the sacred cup and altar-stone— The upturned eyes, glistening with pious tears— The censer's fragrant vapour floating o'er; Now all is hushed, for, lo! the maid appears, Entering with solemn step the sacred door.

She moved as moves the moon, radiant and pale, Through the calm night, wrapped in a silvery cloud; The jewels of her dress shone through her veil, As shine the stars through their thin vaporous shroud; The brighter jewels of her eyes were hid Beneath their smooth white caskets arching o'er, Which, by the trembling of each ivory lid, Seemed conscious of the treasures that they bore.

She reached the narrow porch and the tall door, Her trembling foot upon the sill was placed— Her snowy veil swept the smooth-sanded floor— Her cold hands chilled the bosom they embraced. Who is this youth, whose forehead, like a book, Bears many a deep-traced character of pain? Who looks for pardon as the damned may look— That ever pray, and know they pray in vain.

'Tis he, the wretched youth—the Demon's prey; One sudden bound, and he is at her side— One piercing shriek, and she has swooned away, Dim are her eyes, and cold her heart's warm tide. Horror and terror seize the startled crowd; The sinewy hands are nerveless with affright; When, as the wind beareth a summer cloud, The youth bears off the maiden from their sight.

Close to the place the stream rushed roaring by, His little boat lay moored beneath the bank, Hid from the shore, and from the gazer's eye, By waving reeds and water-willows dank. Hither, with flying feet and glowing brow, He fled, as quick as fancies in a dream— Placed the insensate maiden in the prow— Pushed from the shore, and gained the open stream.

Scarce had he left the river's foamy edge, When sudden darkness fell on hill and plain; The angry sun, shocked at the sacrilege, Fled from the heavens with all his golden train; The stream rushed quicker, like a man afeared; Down swept the storm and clove its breast of green, And though the calm and brightness reappeared The youth and maiden never more were seen.

Whether the current in its strong arms bore Their bark to green Hy-Brasail's fairy halls, Or whether, as is told along that shore, They sunk within the buried city's walls; Whether through some Elysian clime they stray, Or o'er their whitened bones the river rolls;— Whate'er their fate, my brothers, let us pray To God for peace and pardon to their souls.

Such was the brother's tale of earthly love— He ceased, and sadly bowed his reverend head: For us, we wept, and raised our eyes above, And sang the 'De Profundis' for the dead. A freshening breeze played on our moistened cheeks, The far horizon oped its walls of light, And lo! with purple hills and sun-bright peaks A glorious isle gleamed on our gladdened sight,

THE PARADISE OF BIRDS.

"Post resurrectionis diem dominicae navigabitis ad altam insulam ad occidentalem plagam, quae vocatur PARADISUS AVIUM."—"Life of St. Brendan," in Capgrave, fol. 45.

It was the fairest and the sweetest scene— The freshest, sunniest, smiling land that e'er Held o'er the waves its arms of sheltering green Unto the sea and storm-vexed mariner:— No barren waste its gentle bosom scarred, Nor suns that burn, nor breezes winged with ice, Nor jagged rocks (Nature's grey ruins) marred The perfect features of that Paradise.

The verdant turf spreads from the crystal marge Of the clear stream, up the soft-swelling hill, Rose-bearing shrubs and stately cedars large All o'er the land the pleasant prospect fill. Unnumbered birds their glorious colours fling Among the boughs that rustle in the breeze, As if the meadow-flowers had taken wing And settled on the green o'er-arching trees.

Oh! Ita, Ita, 'tis a grievous wrong, That man commits who uninspired presumes To sing the heavenly sweetness of their song— To paint the glorious tinting of their plumes— Plumes bright as jewels that from diadems Fling over golden thrones their diamond rays— Bright, even as bright as those three mystic gems, The angel bore thee in thy childhood's days.[60]

There dwells the bird that to the farther west Bears the sweet message of the coming spring;[61] June's blushing roses paint his prophet breast, And summer skies gleam from his azure wing. While winter prowls around the neighbouring seas, The happy bird dwells in his cedar nest, Then flies away, and leaves his favourite trees Unto this brother of the graceful crest.[62]

Birds that with us are clothed in modest brown, There wear a splendour words cannot express; The sweet-voiced thrush beareth a golden crown,[63] And even the sparrow boasts a scarlet dress.[64] There partial nature fondles and illumes The plainest offspring that her bosom bears; The golden robin flies on fiery plumes,[65] And the small wren a purple ruby wears.[66]

Birds, too, that even in our sunniest hours, Ne'er to this cloudy land one moment stray, Whose brilliant plumes, fleeting and fair as flowers, Come with the flowers, and with the flowers decay.[67] The Indian bird, with hundred eyes, that throws From his blue neck the azure of the skies, And his pale brother of the northern snows, Bearing white plumes, mirrored with brilliant eyes.[68]

Oft in the sunny mornings have I seen Bright-yellow birds, of a rich lemon hue, Meeting in crowds upon the branches green, And sweetly singing all the morning through.[69] And others, with their heads greyish and dark, Pressing their cinnamon cheeks to the old trees, And striking on the hard, rough, shrivelled bark, Like conscience on a bosom ill at ease.[70]

And diamond birds chirping their single notes, Now 'mid the trumpet-flower's deep blossoms seen, Now floating brightly on with fiery throats, Small-winged emeralds of golden green;[71] And other larger birds with orange cheeks, A many-colour-painted chattering crowd, Prattling for ever with their curved beaks, And through the silent woods screaming aloud.[72]

Colour and form may be conveyed in words, But words are weak to tell the heavenly strains That from the throats of these celestial birds Rang through the woods and o'er the echoing plains. There was the meadow-lark, with voice as sweet, But robed in richer raiment than our own; And as the moon smiled on his green retreat, The painted nightingale sang out alone.[73]

Words cannot echo music's winged note, One bird alone exhausts their utmost power; 'Tis that strange bird whose many-voic'ed throat Mocks all his brethren of the woodland bower; To whom indeed the gift of tongues is given, The musical rich tongues that fill the grove, Now like the lark dropping his notes from heaven, Now cooing the soft earth-notes of the dove.[74]

Oft have I seen him, scorning all control, Winging his arrowy flight rapid and strong, As if in search of his evanished soul, Lost in the gushing ecstasy of song; And as I wandered on, and upward gazed, Half lost in admiration, half in fear, I left the brothers wondering and amazed, Thinking that all the choir of heaven was near.

Was it a revelation or a dream?— That these bright birds as angels once did dwell In heaven with starry Lucifer supreme, Half sinned with him, and with him partly fell; That in this lesser paradise they stray. Float through its air, and glide its streams along, And that the strains they sing each happy day Rise up to God like morn and even song.[75]

THE PROMISED LAND.

[The earlier stanzas of this description of Paradise are principally founded upon the Anglo-Saxon version of the poem "De Phenice," ascribed to Lactantius, and which is at least as old as the earlier part of the eleventh century.]

As on this world the young man turns his eyes, When forced to try the dark sea of the grave, Thus did we gaze upon that Paradise, Fading, as we were borne across the wave. And, as a brighter world dawns by degrees Upon Eternity's serenest strand, Thus, having passed through dark and gloomy seas, At length we reached the long-sought Promised Land.

The wind had died upon the Ocean's breast, When, like a silvery vein through the dark ore, A smooth bright current, gliding to the west, Bore our light bark to that enchanted shore. It was a lovely plain—spacious and fair, And bless'd with all delights that earth can hold, Celestial odours filled the fragrant air That breathed around that green and pleasant wold.

There may not rage of frost, nor snow, nor rain, Injure the smallest and most delicate flower, Nor fall of hail wound the fair, healthful plain, Nor the warm weather, nor the winter's shower. That noble land is all with blossoms flowered, Shed by the summer breezes as they pass; Less leaves than blossoms on the trees are showered, And flowers grow thicker in the fields than grass.

Nor hills, nor mountains, there stand high and steep, Nor stony cliffs tower o'er the frightened waves, Nor hollow dells, where stagnant waters sleep, Nor hilly risings, nor dark mountain caves; Nothing deformed upon its bosom lies, Nor on its level breast rests aught unsmooth, But the noble filed flourishes 'neath the skies, Blooming for ever in perpetual youth.

That glorious land stands higher o'er the sea, By twelve-fold fathom measure, than we deem The highest hills beneath the heavens to be. There the bower glitters, and the green woods gleam. All o'er that pleasant plain, calm and serene, The fruits ne'er fall, but, hung by God's own hand, Cling to the trees that stand for ever green, Obedient to their Maker's first command.

Summer and winter are the woods the same, Hung with bright fruits and leaves that never fade; Such will they be, beyond the reach of flame, Till Heaven, and Earth, and Time, shall have decayed. Here might Iduna in her fond pursuit, As fabled by the northern sea-born men, Gather her golden and immortal fruit, That brings their youth back to the gods again.

Of old, when God, to punish sinful pride, Sent round the deluged world the ocean flood, When all the earth lay 'neath the vengeful tide, This glorious land above the waters stood. Such shall it be at last, even as at first, Until the coming of the final doom, When the dark chambers—men's death homes shall burst, And man shall rise to judgment from the tomb.

There there is never enmity, nor rage, Nor poisoned calumny, nor envy's breath, Nor shivering poverty, nor decrepit age, Nor loss of vigour, nor the narrow death; Nor idiot laughter, nor the tears men weep, Nor painful exile from one's native soil, Nor sin, nor pain, nor weariness, nor sleep, Nor lust of riches, nor the poor man's toil.

There never falls the rain-cloud as with us, Nor gapes the earth with the dry summer's thirst, But liquid streams, wondrously curious, Out of the ground with fresh fair bubbling burst. Sea-cold and bright the pleasant waters glide Over the soil, and through the shady bowers; Flowers fling their coloured radiance o'er the tide, And the bright streams their crystal o'er the flowers.

Such was the land for man's enjoyment made, When from this troubled life his soul doth wend: Such was the land through which entranced we strayed, For fifteen days, nor reached its bound nor end. Onward we wandered in a blissful dream, Nor thought of food, nor needed earthly rest; Until, at length, we reached a mighty stream, Whose broad bright waves flowed from the east to west.

We were about to cross its placid tide, When, lo! an angel on our vision broke, Clothed in white, upon the further side He stood majestic, and thus sweetly spoke: "Father, return, thy mission now is o'er; God, who did call thee here, now bids thee go, Return in peace unto thy native shore, And tell the mighty secrets thou dost know.

"In after years, in God's own fitting time, This pleasant land again shall re-appear; And other men shall preach the truths sublime, To the benighted people dwelling here. But ere that hour this land shall all be made, For mortal man, a fitting, natural home, Then shall the giant mountain fling its shade, And the strong rock stem the white torrent's foam.

"Seek thy own isle—Christ's newly-bought domain, Which Nature with an emerald pencil paints: Such as it is, long, long shall it remain, The school of Truth, the College of the Saints, The student's bower, the hermit's calm retreat, The stranger's home, the hospitable hearth, The shrine to which shall wander pilgrim feet From all the neighbouring nations of the earth.

"But in the end upon that land shall fall A bitter scourge, a lasting flood of tears, When ruthless tyranny shall level all The pious trophies of its early years: Then shall this land prove thy poor country's friend, And shine a second Eden in the west; Then shall this shore its friendly arms extend, And clasp the outcast exile to its breast."

He ceased and vanished from our dazzled sight, While harps and sacred hymns rang sweetly o'er For us again we winged our homeward flight O'er the great ocean to our native shore; And as a proof of God's protecting hand, And of the wondrous tidings that we bear, The fragrant perfume of that heavenly land Clings to the very garments that we wear.[76]

53. So called from the number of holy men and women formerly inhabiting it.

54. The Atlantic was so named by the ancient Irish.

55. Ardfert.

56. The puffin (Anas leucopsis), called in Irish 'girrinna.' It was the popular belief that these birds grew out of driftwood.

57. St. Fanchea.

58. Galway Bay.

59. These stanzas are a paraphrase of the hymn "Ave Maris Stella."

60. An angel was said to have presented her with three precious stones, which, he explained, were emblematic of the Blessed Trinity, by whom she would be always visited and protected.

61. The blue bird.

62. The cedar bird.

63. The golden-crowned thrush.

64. The scarlet sparrow or tanager.

65. The Baltimore oriole or fire-bird.

66. The ruby-crowned wren.

67. Peacocks.

68. The white peacock.

69. The yellow bird or goldfinch.

70. The gold-winged woodpecker.

71. Humming birds.

72. The Carolina parrot.

73. The grosbeak or red bird, sometimes called the Virginia nightingale.

74. The mocking-bird.

75. See the "Lyfe of Saynt Brandon" in the Golden Legend, published by Wynkyn de Worde, 1483; fol. 357.

76. "Nonne cognoscitis in odore vestimentorum nostrorum quod in Paradiso Domini fuimus."—Colgan.



THE FORAY OF CON O'DONNELL. A.D. 1495.

[Con, the son of Hugh Roe O'Donnell, with his small-powerful force,—and the reason Con's force was called the small-powerful force was, because he was always in the habit of mustering a force which did not exceed twelve score of well-equipped and experienced battle-axe-men, and sixty chosen active horsemen, fit for battle,—marched with the forementioned force to the residence of MacJohn of the Glynnes (in the county of Antrim); for Con had been informed that MacJohn had in possession the finest woman, steed, and hound, of any other person in his neighbourhood. He sent a messenger for the steed before that time, and was refused, although Con had, at the same time, promised it to one of his own people. Con did not delay, and got over every difficult pass with his small-powerful force, without battle or obstruction, until he arrived in the night at the house of MacJohn, whom he, in the first place, took prisoner, and his wife, steed, and hound, and all his property, were under Con's control, for he found the same steed, with sixteen others, in the town on that occasion. All the Glynnes were plundered on the following day by Con's people, but he afterwards, however, made perfect restitution of all property, to whomsoever it belonged, to MacJohn's wife, and he set her husband free to her after he had passed the Bann westward. He brought with him the steed and great booty and spoils, into Tirhugh, and ordered the cattle-prey to be let out on the pasturage.—"Annals of the Four Masters," translated by Owen Connellan, Esq., p. 331-2. This poem, founded upon the foregoing passage (and in which the hero acts with more generosity than the Annals warrant) was written and published in the Dublin University Magazine before the appearance of Mr. O'Donovan's "Annals of the Kingdom of Ireland,"—the magnificent work published in 1848 by Messrs. Hodges and Smith, of this city. For Mr. O'Donovan's version of this passage, which differs from that of the former translator in two or three important particulars, see the second volume of his work, p. 1219. The principal castle of the O'Donnell's was at Donegal. The building, of which some portions still exist, was erected in the twelfth century. The banqueting-hall, which is the scene of the opening portion of this ballad, is still preserved, and commands some beautiful views.]

The evening shadows sweetly fall Along the hills of Donegal, Sweetly the rising moonbeams play Along the shores of Inver Bay,[77] As smooth and white Lough Eask[78] expands As Rosapenna's[79] silvery sands, And quiet reigns all o'er thy fields, Clan Dalaigh[80] of the golden shields.

The fairy gun[81] is heard no more To boom within the cavern'd shore, With smoother roll the torrents flow Adown the rocks of Assaroe;[82] Securely, till the coming day, The red deer couch in far Glenvay, And all is peace and calm around O'Donnell's castled moat and mound.

But in the hall there feast to-night Full many a kern and many a knight, And gentle dames, and clansmen strong, And wandering bards, with store of song: The board is piled with smoking kine, And smooth bright cups of Spanish wine, And fish and fowl from stream and shaw, And fragrant mead and usquebaugh.

The chief is at the table's head— 'Tis Con, the son of Hugh the Red— The heir of Conal Golban's line;[83] With pleasure flushed, with pride and wine, He cries, "Our dames adjudge it wrong, To end our feast without the song; Have we no bard the strain to raise? No foe to taunt, no maid to praise?

"Where beauty dwells the bard should dwell, What sweet lips speak the bard should tell; 'Tis he should look for starry eyes, And tell love's watchers where they rise: To-night, if lips and eyes could do, Bards were not wanting in Tirhugh; For where have lips a rosier light, And where are eyes more starry bright?"

Then young hearts beat along the board, To praise the maid that each adored, And lips as young would fain disclose The love within; but one arose, Gray as the rocks beside the main,— Gray as the mist upon the plain,— A thoughtful, wandering, minstrel man, And thus the aged bard began:—

"O Con, benevolent hand of peace! O tower of valour firm and true! Like mountain fawns, like snowy fleece, Move the sweet maidens of Tirhugh. Yet though through all thy realm I've strayed, Where green hills rise and white waves fall, I have not seen so fair a maid As once I saw by Cushendall.[84]

"O Con, thou hospitable Prince! Thou, of the open heart and hand, Full oft I've seen the crimson tints Of evening on the western land. I've wandered north, I've wandered south, Throughout Tirhugh in hut and hall, But never saw so sweet a mouth As whispered love by Cushendall.

"O Con, munificent gifts! I've seen the full round harvest moon Gleam through the shadowy autumn drifts Upon thy royal rock of Doune.[85] I've seen the stars that glittering lie O'er all the night's dark mourning pall, But never saw so bright an eye As lit the glens of Cushendall.

"I've wandered with a pleasant toil, And still I wander in my dreams; Even from the white-stoned beach, Loch Foyle, To Desmond of the flowing streams. I've crossed the fair green plains of Meath, To Dublin, held in Saxon thrall; But never saw such pearly teeth, As her's that smiled by Cushendall.

"O Con! thou'rt rich in yellow gold, Thy fields are filled with lowing kine, Within they castles wealth untold, Within thy harbours fleets of wine; But yield not, Con, to worldly pride Thou may'st be rich, but hast not all; Far richer he who for his bride Has won fair Anne of Cushendall.

"She leans upon a husband's arm, Surrounded by a valiant clan, In Antrim's Glynnes, by fair Glenarm, Beyond the pearly-paven Bann; 'Mid hazel woods no stately tree Looks up to heaven more graceful-tall, When summer clothes its boughs, than she, MacDonnell's wife of Cushendall!"

The bard retires amid the throng, No sweet applause rewards his song, No friendly lip that guerdon breathes, To bard more sweet than golden wreaths. It might have been the minstrel's art Had lost the power to move the heart, It might have been his harp had grown Too old to yield its wonted tone.

But no, if hearts were cold and hard, 'Twas not the fault of harp or bard; It was no false or broken sound That failed to move the clansmen round. Not these the men, nor these the times, To nicely weigh the worth of rhymes; 'Twas what he said that made them chill, And not his singing well or ill.

Already had the stranger band Of Saxons swept the weakened land, Already on the neighbouring hills They named anew a thousand rills, "Our fairest castles," pondered Con, "Already to the foe are gone, Our noblest forests feed the flame, And now we lose our fairest dame."