All the blood he shed Could not save his own.
Stately, strong he went, Through his n.o.bles all, When we paced together Up the banquet-hall.
Dazzling white as lime, Was his body fair, Cherry-red his cheeks, Raven-black his hair.
Razor-sharp his spear, And the shield he bore, High as champion"s head-- His arm was like an oar.
Never aught but truth Spake my n.o.ble king; Valour all his trust In all his warfaring.
As the forked pole Holds the roof-tree"s weight, So my hero"s arm Held the battle straight.
Terror went before him, Death behind his back, Well the wolves of Erinn Knew his chariot"s track.
Seven b.l.o.o.d.y battles He broke upon his foes, In each a hundred heroes Fell beneath his blows.
Once he fought at Fossud, Thrice at Ath-finn-fail.
"Twas my king that conquered At b.l.o.o.d.y Ath-an-Scail.
At the Boundary Stream Fought the Royal Hound, And for Bernas battle Stands his name renowned.
Here he fought with Leinster-- Last of all his frays-- On the Hill of Cucorb"s Fate High his cromlech raise.
_T.W. Rolleston_
THE DEAD AT CLONMACNOIS
_From the Irish of Enoch O"Gillan_
In a quiet watered land, a land of roses, Stands Saint Kieran"s city fair; And the warriors of Erin in their famous generations Slumber there.
There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the n.o.blest Of the clan of Conn, Each below his stone with name in branching Ogham And the sacred knot thereon.
There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara, There the sons of Cairbre sleep-- Battle-banners of the Gael, that in Kieran"s plain of crosses Now their final hosting keep.
And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia, And right many a lord of Breagh; Deep the sod above Clan Creide and Clan Conaill, Kind in hall and fierce in fray.
Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-Fighter In the red earth lies at rest; Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers, Many a swan-white breast.
_T.W. Rolleston_
THE SPELL-STRUCK
She walks as she were moving Some mystic dance to tread, So falls her gliding footstep, So leans her listening head;
For once to fairy harping She danced upon the hill, And through her brain and bosom The music pulses still.
Her eyes are bright and tearless, But wide with yearning pain; She longs for nothing earthly, But O! to hear again
The sound that held her listening Upon her moonlit path!
The rippling fairy music That filled the lonely rath.
Her lips, that once have tasted The fairy banquet"s bliss, Shall glad no mortal lover With maiden smile or kiss.
She"s dead to all things living Since that November Eve; And when she dies in autumn No living thing will grieve.
_T.W. Rolleston_
WERE YOU ON THE MOUNTAIN?
_From the Irish_
O, were you on the mountain, or saw you my love?
Or saw you my own one, my queen and my dove?
Or saw you the maiden with the step firm and free?
And say, is she pining in sorrow like me?
I was upon the mountain, and saw there your love, I saw there your own one, your queen and your dove; I saw there the maiden with the step firm and free And she was _not_ pining in sorrow like thee.
_Douglas Hyde_
MY GRIEF ON THE SEA
_From the Irish_
My grief on the sea, How the waves of it roll!
For they heave between me And the love of my soul!
Abandoned, forsaken, To grief and to care, Will the sea ever waken Relief from despair?
My grief and my trouble Would he and I wear, In the province of Leinster, Or County of Clare?
Were I and my darling-- O, heart-bitter wound!-- On board of the ship For America bound.