When now the night was past, and Lir, their sire,
Upraised them from the warm cot’s silken fold,
And bade them watch the sun’s ascending fire,
And watched himself its beam, now here now there,
Flashed from white foot, blue eyes, or golden hair.
The men who saw that deathbed did not weep,
But gazed till sunset upon each fair face;
And then with funeral psalm, and anthems deep,
Interred them at that sacred altar’s base,
And graved their names in Ogham characters
On one white tomb; and, close beneath them, Lir’s.
Those Babes were Erin’s Holy Innocents,
And first-fruits of the land to Christ their Lord,
Though born within the unbelievers’ tents:
Figured in them the Gael his God adored,
That later-coming, holier Gael, who won
Through Faith the birthright, though the younger son.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE
FORAY OF QUEEN MEAVE
OR
‘THE TAIN BO CUAILGNÉ’
_FIVE FRAGMENTS OF AN ANCIENT IRISH EPIC_
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TO
SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON
THIS POEM IS DEDICATED,
IN TOKEN OF GRATITUDE
FOR ‘CONGAL,’ AND FOR MANY POEMS BESIDE,
THAT ILLUSTRATE ARIGHT
THE LEGENDS OF ANCIENT IRELAND.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PROLOGUE.
Senchan, the king of bards, when centuries six
Had flowered and faded since the Birth Divine,
Summoned in synod all the island bards,
Demanding; ‘Is there who can yet recite
That first of Erin’s songs, “The Tain”?’ Not one
Could sing it, save in fragments. Then arose
Marbhan, and spake; ‘Send prayer to Erin’s Saints
That, bowed o’er Fergus’ grave, they lift their hands
For Erin at her need.’ Five Saints obeyed
And o’er that venerable spot three days
Fasting made prayer while knelt the bards around.
Then on the third day as the sun uprose
Behold! a purple mist engirt that grave;
And from it, fair as rainbow backed by cloud,
Shone out a kingly Phantom robed in green,
With red-brown locks, close clustered, drenched in dew,
And golden crown, and golden-hilted sword;--
His hand was on it. They who saw that Shape
Well knew him, Fergus Roy, the Exile-King.
Gracious as in the old days, that king rehearsed
The Tale so long desired, though many an age,
And that grey empire of departed Souls,
Had quelled at last the strong ones of that strain,
Record half jest, half earnest. Marbhan spoke
Once more; ‘Lest Erin lose again this Tale
Through fraud of demons or all-wasting time,
Amid yon Saints elect some scribe, their best,
And pray that scribe to write it.’ Straight, with help
It may be, of the bards, Saint Kiaran wrote
The Heroic Song on parchment fine, the skin
Of one he loved, his ‘little heifer grey’
That gave the book its name. Six centuries passed;
Then in Saint Kiaran’s House at Clonmacnoise
That book was found, and on it; ‘Reader, here
Are histories old with later fables blent,
Fancies full fair with idle Pagan vaunts:
Now therefore, since old things have in them worth
And teach by what they hold and what they lack
Whoso shall read this book, and know to choose
’Twixt Good and Ill, my blessing on him rest!’
------------------------------------------------------------------------
FRAGMENT I.
_THE CAUSE OF THE GREAT WAR._
ARGUMENT.
Meave, Queen of Connacht,[24] and Ailill her husband, waking one morning
fall into a disputation, each claiming to be the worthier of the two,
and the wealthier. Their lords decide that the king and queen are great
and happy alike in all things save one only, namely, that Ailill
possesses the far-famed white Bull, Fionbannah. Meave hearing that Conor
Conchobar, King of Uladh,[25] boasts a black Bull mightier yet, is fain
to purchase it, but cannot prevail so far. She therefore declares war
against Uladh. There meets her Faythleen the Witch, who prophesies
calamity, but promises that in aid of Meave she will breathe over the
realm of Uladh a spirit of imbecility. This she does; yet Cuchullain,
unaided, afflicts the whole army of Meave by exploits which to him are
but sports. Fergus, the exiled King of Uladh, narrates to Meave the high
deeds of Cuchullain wrought in his childhood.
In Cruachan, old Connacht’s palace pile,
Dwelt Meave, the queen, haughtiest of woman’s kind,
A warrioress untamed that made her will
The measure of the world. The all-conquering years
Conquered not her: the strength of endless prime
Lived in her royal tread and breast and eye
A life immortal. Queenly was her brow;
Fulgent her eye; her countenance beauteous, save
When wrath o’er-flamed its beauty. With her dwelt
Ailill her husband, trivial man and quaint,
And early old. He had not chosen her:
She chose a consort who should rule her not,
And tossed him to her throne. In youth her lord
Was Conor Conchobar, great Uladh’s King:
She had not found him docile to her will,
And to her sire returned. The August morn
Had trailed already on the stony floor
Its fiery beam when, laughing, Ailill woke:
He woke, awakened by a sound that shook
The forest dews to earth, Fionbannah’s roar,
That snow-white Bull, the wonder of the age,
Who, born amid the lowlands of the queen,
Yet, grown to strength, o’er-leaped her bound and roamed
Thenceforth the leaner pastures of the king,
For this cause, that his spirit scorned to live
In female vassalage.
That tale recalling
King Ailill laughed: his laughter roused the queen:
She woke in wrath: to assuage her Ailill spake;
‘Happy and blest that dame whose lord is sage!
Thy fortunes, wife of mine, began that day
I called thee spouse!’ To him the queen, ‘My sire
Was Erin’s Ard-Righ![26] Daughters six had he:
I, Meave, of these was fairest and most famed!
This Cruachan was mine before we met;
And all the Island’s princes sued my hand.
I spurned their offers! three things I required--
A warrior proved, since great at arms am I;
A liberal hand, since lavish I of gifts;
A man not jealous, since, in love as war,
There where I willed I ever cast mine eyes.
These merits three were yours: I beckoned to you:
Dowered you with ingots thicker than your wrist;
Made you a king, or kingling. What of that?
I might have chosen a better! Yea, I count
My greatness more than yours!’
With treble shrill
Ailill replied; ‘What words are these, my queen?
My father was a king; my brothers kings!
My hoards are higher heaped than yours; my meads
More deep, more rich!’
Then loudly stormed the queen:--
In rushed her lords, and stood, a senate grave,
Circling the couch: and while, each answering each,
Ailill and Meave set forth in order due
The treasures either boasted, kine, or sheep,
Rich cornfield, jewel’d robe, or gem-wrought car,
Careful they weighed the lists in equal scale
And ’twixt them found in value difference none.
Doubtful they stood. Anon rolled forth once more
Fionbannah’s roar; and, leaping from his bed
King Ailill shouted; ‘Mine, not thine, that Bull!
Through him my treasure passes thine, my queen!
My worth exceeds thy worth!’ At once forth stepped
Mac Roth, old Connacht’s herald, with this word:
‘Great queen, the King of Uladh boasts a Bull
Lordlier than ours, a broader bulk, and black,
Black as the raven’s wing! In Daré’s charge
That marvel bides, the Donn Cuailgné named
Because his lowings shake Cuailgné’s shore,
The southern bound of Uladh. Privilege
He hath that neither witch nor demon tempt
That precinct where he harbours.’ Meave exclaimed,
‘Fly hence, Mac Roth! Take with thee golden store,
Rich garments, chariots gemmed: bid Daré choose;
But bring me back that Bull!’
Three days had passed:
Then by the tower of Daré stood Mac Roth
And blew his horn; and Daré’s sons with speed
Flung the gate wide. The herald entered in
And spake his message. Proudly Daré mused,
‘Great Meave my friendship sues;’ and made a feast,
And, when the wine had warmed him spake; ‘Mac Roth!
Cuailgné’s Donn is Conor’s Bull, not mine:
Yet, though the king should hurl me outcast forth,
To Meave that Bull shall go and bide a year.
Tell her the Donn is manlike in his mind,
And not like Bulls. Long summer eves he stands,
Or paces stately up the mead and down
Eyeing the racing youths, or glad at heart
Listening the music.’ Thus he pledged his faith.
But Daré’s sons at midnight, each to each,
Whispered; ‘the king will chase us from the realm!
He hates Queen Meave, and well he loves the Donn;’
And stood next morn beside their sire, and spake,
‘Mac Roth is gone a hunting: ere he went
He sware that you had yielded him the Donn
Fearing his sword.’ Then Daré’s heart was changed,
And loud by all his swearing Gods he sware
‘Cuailgné’s Donn shall ne’er consort with Meave,
Nor with her kine:’ and on his gate he set
The castle’s Fool waiting Mac Roth’s return,
And charged him with this greeting; ‘Back to Meave!
Thy queen she is, not Uladh’s! Bid her know
Our Donn and we revere Fionbannah’s choice,
Her Bull, that leaped her gate and swam her flood,
Spurning the female rule!’
Then turned Mac Roth
His car; and sideway shook one hand irate;
And lashed the steeds, and reached great Cruachan,
And, instant upon all who heard his tale
Like lightning fell the battle rage. The queen,
Sent forth her heralds, east, and west, and south,
Summoning her great allies. Erin, that day
Save Uladh only, stood conjoined with Meave,
Great kings, and warriors named from chiefs of old
Sons of Milesius; for King Conor’s craft
And that proud onset of the Red-Branch Knights
Year after year had galled their hearts. ’Twas come!
The day of vengeance! In their might they rose
From Eyrus’ vales to utmost Cahirnane,
From Oileen Arda on to Borda Lu,
And where the loud wave breaks on Beara’s isle;
And by the hallowed banks of Darvra’s lake
Where, changed to swans, the Children Four of Lir,
Dowerless on earth, their home the homeless waves,
Darkling yet gladdening gloomier hearts with light,
And sad yet solaced through one conquering hope,
By song had vanquished sorrow. From the West,
Came Inachall, and Adarc. Eiderkool
Marched, ever shrilling songs and shaking spears:
And, mightier far, with never slumbering hearts
And eyes that stared through long desire of home
Uladh’s three thousand exiles, driven far forth
When Conor Conchobar, trampling his pledge,
Slaughtered the sons of Usnach. At their head
Rode Fergus, Uladh’s King ere traitor yet
Had filched its royal crown; and by his side,
Faithful in exile, Cormac Conlinglas,
King Conor’s bravest son. That host the queen
To Ai led, where Ai’s four great plains
Shine in the rising and the setting sun,
Gold-green, with all their flag-flowers, meres, and streams:
There planted she her camp; thence ever rang
Neighing of horse, and tempest song of bard,
And graver voice of prophet and of seer
Who ceased not, day or night, for fifteen days
From warnings to the people, ‘Be ye one;’--
Yet one the people were not.
Meave the while,
Resting upon those great and growing hosts
Her widening eyes, rejoiced within, and clutched
The sceptre-staff with closer grasp, and heaved
Higher her solid, broad, imperial breast,
Amorous of battle nigh at hand. Yet oft,
Listening those bickerings in her camp she frowned:
For still the chieftains strove; and one, a king
Briarind, had tongue so sharp, where’er he moved
A guard was round him set lest spleen of his
Should set the monarchs ravening each on each.
‘The hand of Fergus,’ mused she, ‘that alone
Might solder yonder mass. Men note in him
His front, his voice, his stature, and his step,
The one time King of Uladh. Held he rule--
He shall not for my will endures it not!
He props my war because, long years our guest,
His honour needs not less; with us he marches
Athirst for vengeance and his native land,
Yet scoffs our cause, and sent, spurning surprise,
To Uladh challenge loud.’ Again she mused,
‘A man love-worthy if he loved again!--
At best ’twould be to him a moment’s sport!
The battle and the stag-hunt, these alone,
He counts a prince’s pastimes!’ Sudden from heaven
Eclipse there fell on Ai’s spacious plains,
And shadow black; these noting, Meave revolved
That dread Red Branch in act and counsel one;
And, brooding thus, with inner eye she saw
No longer men but skeletons of men
Innumerable in intertangled mass
Burthening the fields far spread. Aloud she cried,
‘On to Moytura where the prophet dwells;’
And straight her charioteer the horses smote
And tamed them with the reins: and lo! what time
The noontide sun with keenest splendour blazed,
Right opposite upon the chariot’s beam
There sat a wondrous woman phantom-faced
Singing and weaving. Shapely was that head
Bent o’er her web, while back the sun-like hair
Streamed on the wind. One hand upreared a sword:
Seven chains fell from it. Sea-blue were her eyes,
And berry-red her scornful lip; her cheek
White as the snow-drift of a single night;
Her voice like harp-strings when the harper’s hand
Half drowns their pathos. Close as bark to tree
The azure robe clung to that virgin form
Sinewy and long, and reached the shining feet.
Then spake the queen; ‘What see’st thou in that web?’
And she, ‘I see a kingdom’s destinies;
And they are like a countenance dashed with blood:
Faythleen am I, the Witch.’ To her the queen;
‘I bid thee say what see’st thou in my host,
Faythleen, the Witch!’ And Faythleen answered slow,
‘The hue of blood: sunset on sunset charged.’
Then fixed that Wild One on the North her eyes,
And Meave made answer; ‘In those eyes I see
The fates they see; great Uladh’s realm full-armed,
And all that Red Branch Order as one man.’
Faythleen replied; ‘One man alone I see;
One man, yet mightier than a realm in arms!
That Watch-Hound watching still by Uladh’s gate
Is mightier thrice than Uladh: on his brow
Spring-tide sits throned; yet ruin loads his hand.
If e’er Cuchullain rides in Uladh’s van
Flee to thy hills and isles!’ Meave bit her lip:
But wildly sang the Witch; ‘Faythleen am I,
Thy People’s patron mid the Powers unseen:
Beware that youth invisible for speed,
Who hears that whisper none beside can hear,
Sees what none other sees; before whose eye
The wild beast cowers, subdued! Beware that youth
Slender as maid, whose stature in the fight
Rises gigantic. Gamesome he and mild;
To woman reverent and the hoary hair;
Nor alms he stints nor incense to the Gods;
But when from heaven the anger on him breaks
Pity he knows for none. No pact with him!
Return with speed and march to-morrow morn:
The clan of Cailitin shall yield thee aid,
That magic clan which fights with poisoned darts.
To Uladh I, above her realm to spread
Mantle of darkness, and a mind that errs,
And powerlessness, and shame.’
Due north she sped,
Far fleeting, wind-upborne! ’twixt hill and cloud,
To Uladh’s cliffs, and thence with prone descent
Sank to the myriad-murmuring sea wine-dark,
And whispered to the Genii of the deep,
Her sisters:--then from ocean’s breast there rose
A mist, no larger than a dead man’s shroud,
That, slowly widening, spread o’er Uladh’s realm
Mantle of darkness, and an erring mind,
And powerlessness, and shame.
The queen returned,
And reached her host what time the sunset glare
With omnipresent splendour girt it round,
Concourse immortalised. Thereon she gazed
High standing in her chariot, spear in hand:
Her too that army saw, and raised the shout.
But Fergus, as she passed him spake: ‘not yet
Know’st thou my Uladh, nor the Red Branch Knights;
And one man is there mightier thrice than they.’
Meantime within Murthemné’s land its lord
Cuchullain, musing like a listening hound,
For many a rumour filled that time the air,
Sat in remote Dûn Dalgan[27] all alone,
Chief city of his realm. On Uladh’s verge
Southward that lesser realm dependent lay
Girt by a racing river. Silent long
He watched: at last he heard a sound like wind