Through strength of him that mid the royal host
Passed, and re-passed like thought, the bravest fell;
For ne’er against the inglorious or the small
That warrior raised his hand. Then Ailill spake;
‘Let Fergus seek that champion in the woods,
Gift-laden, and withdraw him from his king:’
But Fergus answered; ‘Sue and be refused!
That great one loves his country. Heard ye never
How when King Conor’s sin, that forfeit pledge
Plighted with Usnach’s sons, had left the Accursed
Crownless, and Eman’s bulwarks in the dust,
Her elders on Cuchullain worked, what time
He came my work of vengeance to complete?
They said, “Cuchullain loves his land o’er all!
The man besides, though terrible to foes,
Is tender to the weak. Through Eman’s streets
Send ye proclaim, ‘Will any holy Maid
To save the city take her station sole
On yonder bridge, at parting of the ways,
That city’s Emblem-Victim, robed in black
Down from her girdle to the naked feet;
Above that girdle this alone--the chains
Of Eman’s gate, circling that virgin throat
And down at each side streaming? It may be
That dread one will relent, pitying in her
Great Uladh’s self despoiled of robe and crown,
Her raiment bonds and shame.’ Of Eman’s maids
But one, the best and purest gave consent:
Alone she stood at parting of the ways:
While near and nearer yet that war-car drew
Wide-eyed she stood, death-pale: it stopp’d: she spake;
Eman, thy Mother, stands a widow now:
And many a famished babe that wrought no ill
Lies mid her ruins wailing.” To the left
The warrior turned his steeds. The land was saved.’
Then spake the kings confederate; ‘Hard albeit
That task, to draw Cuchullain from his charge,
Seek him, and proffer terms!’ Fergus next morn
Made way through those sea-skirting woods, and cried
Three times, ‘Setanta;’ and Cuchullain heard
And knew that voice, and, beaming, issued forth,
And clasped his ancient master round the neck,
And led him to his sylvan cell. Therein
Long time they held discourse of ancient days
Heaven-fair through mist of years. The youthful host
Set forth their rural feast, whate’er the woods
And they that in them dwelt, swine-herds, and hinds,
Yielded, their best: nor lacked it minstrel strain,
Bird-song by autumn chilled, that brake through boughs
Lit by unwarming sunshine. Banquet o’er,
Fergus his errand shewed, and named the gifts
By Ailill sent, and Meave. Cuchullain rose
And curtly answered; ‘Never will I break
My vow; nor wrong the land; nor sell my king:’
Fergus too royal was to hear surprised,
Or grieved, his friend’s resolve, nor touched again
Upon that pact unworthy. Happier themes
Succeeded, mirthful some. Of these the last
Made sport of Ailill. Fergus spake; ‘One night
To Meave’s pavilion swift of foot I sped;
War-tidings wait not. Ailill from afar
Furtively followed, stung by jealous spleen.
The queen had passed into the inner tent;
I sought her there. In the outer Ailill marked
My sword, that morning thither sent, a loan,
For Meave had vowed with braided gems, her boast,
To out-brave its hilt. His wrath was changed to joy!
He snatched it up; he cried; “Hail, forfeit mine!
Hail Eric just!”[30] and laughed his childish laugh.
Since then he neither frowns on me nor smiles:
He will not let me rule his foolish kings;
Yet, deeming still my sword a charm ’gainst fate
Wears it. An apter one for him I keep:
One day ’twill raise a laugh!’ In graver mood
At parting Fergus spake; ‘For thee unmeet
That pact of Meave, though not for her: but thou
Conceal not, know’st thou meeter terms, and fit?’
To whom Cuchullain; ‘Fergus, terms there be,
Other, and fitter. I divulge them not:
Divine them he that seeks them!’ On the morn
Fergus these things narrated to the chiefs
In synod met. Then rose a recreant churl,
And thus gave counsel; ‘Lure Cuchullain here
On pretext fair; and slay him at the feast!’
Against that recreant Fergus hurled his spear,
And slew him, and continued, ‘Hundreds six,
Our best, have perished, and our march is slow:
Now, warriors, hear my counsel, and my terms.
Cuchullain scorns your gifts--of such no more!
’Twixt southern Erin and my Uladh’s realm,
Runs Neeth: across that river lies a ford;
Speak to Cuchullain; “By that ford stand thou,
Guarding thy land. Against thee, day by day,
Be ours to send one champion--one alone:--
While lasts that strife forbear the host beside!”’
Then roared the kings a long and loud applause,
Since wise appeared that counsel: faith they pledged,
And sureties in the hearing of the Gods:
Likewise Cuchullain, when his friend returned,
Made answer; ‘Well you guessed! a month or more
My strength will hold: meantime our Uladh arms.’
To seal that pact he sought the hostile camp,
And shared the banquet. Wondering, all men gazed,
And maidens, lifted on the warriors’ shields,
Gladdened, so bright that youthful face. At morn
Meave, when the chief departed, kissed his cheek:
‘Pity,’ she said, ‘that such a one should die!’
The one sole time that Meave compassion felt.
That eve Cuchullain drank the wave of Neeth,
And wading reached Murthemné’s soil, his charge
And knelt, and kissed it. As the sun declined
He clomb a rocky height, and northward gazed,
And cried; ‘Ye Red Branch warriors, haste! I keep
The ford; but who shall guard it when I die?’
Next morning by that stream the fight began,
Two champions face to face: and, every morn,
Rang out, renewed, that combat; every eve
Again went up from that confederate host
The shout of rage. Daily their bravest died,
Thirty in thirty days. Feerbraoth fell;
And Natherandal, though the Druid horde
Above his javelins, carved at set of moon
From the ever-sacred holly stem, had breathed
Vain consecration, and with futile salve
Anointed them: confuted soon they sailed
In ignominy adown that seaward tide
With him that hurled them. Eterconnel next,
Dalot, and Cuir. Yet he who laid them low
Was beardless at the lip:--While thus they strove
A second month went by.
Such things beholding
The queen was moved; and in her grew one day
Craving for Cruachan. But on her ear
Rolled forth that hour the lowings of that Bull
Cuailgné’s Donn: for he from Daré’s house
Had heard, though far, the clamours of the host,
And answered rage with rage. Then Meave resolved,
Though all my host should perish to a man
This foot shall tread no more my native plains
Save with that Bull in charge!
To her by night
Came Cailitin, who ever walked by night
Shunning mankind, and Fergus most of all,
Cailitin, father of the Magic Clan,
And thus addressed her; ‘Place in me thy trust!
I hate Cuchullain, for he hates my spells
Resting his hope on virtue. In thy camp
Ferdīa bides, a Firbolg feared of all.
Win him to meet Cuchullain. They in youth
Were friends: to slay that friend will lay a hand
Icy as death upon Cuchullain’s heart.
Ferdīa dies--thus much mine art foreshews--
Then I, since magic spells have puissance most
Upon a soul depressed and body sick,
Fall on him with my seven and twenty sons,
Magicians all. One are we: thence with one
May fight, thy pledge unflawed. A drop of blood
Shed by our swords, though small as beetle’s eye,
Costs him his life.’ Fiercely the queen replied,
‘A Firbolg! Never!’ Cailitin resumed,
‘Then send for Lok Mac Favesh!’
With the morn
Mac Favesh sought her tent. Direful his mien;
Massive his stride; his body brawny and huge;
For, though of Gaelic race, the stock of Ir,
With him was mingled giant blood of old,
Wild blood of Nemedh’s brood that hurled sea rocks
’Gainst the Fomorian. Oft the advancing tide
Drowned both, in battle knit. Before the queen
Boastful the sea-king laid his club, and spake:
‘Queen, though to combat with a beardless boy
Affronts my name, my lineage, and my strength,
His petulance shall vex thine eye no more!
Uladh is thine to-morrow!’ At the dawn
By hundreds girt, the great ones of his clan,
Down drave he to the ford, and onward strode
Trampling the last year’s branches strewn hard by
That snapp’d beneath him. Hides of oxen seven
Sustained the brazen bosses of his shield;
And forth he stretched a hand that might have grasped
A tiger’s throat and choked him. O’er his helm
Hovered an imaged demon raven-black.
Cuchullain met him; hours endured the strife,
That mountained strength triumphant now, anon
Cuchullain’s might divine. Then first that might
Was fully tasked. Upon the bank that day
Stood up a Portent seen by none save him,
A Shape not human. Terribly it fixed
On him alone its never-wandering eye;
The dread Mor Reega,[31] she that from the skies
O’er-rules the battle-fields, and sways at will
This way or that the sable tides of death.
He gazed; and, though incapable of fear,
Awe, such as heroes feel, possessed his heart:
Its beatings shook his brain: his corporal mould
Throbbed as a branch against some river swift;
And backward turned his hair like berried trails
Of thorn athwart the hedge. Three several times
He saw her, yet fought on. With beckoning hand
At last that Portent summoned from the main
A huge sea-snake: round him it twined its knots:
Then on Cuchullain fell the rage from heaven:
A sword-blow, and that vast sea-worm lay dead!
A sword uplifted, and Mac Favesh fell
Prone on the shuddering flood. In death he cried,
‘Lay me with forehead turned to Uladh’s realm;--
They shall not say that fugitive I died.’
Cuchullain wrought his will: then, bleeding fast,
Stood upright, leaning on his spear aslant;
A warrior battle-wearied.
From the bank
Meantime, the dark magician, Cailitin,
He and his sons, with wide and greedy eyes,
That still, like one man’s eyes, together moved,
Had watched that fight, counting each drop that fell
Down from Cuchullain’s wounds. When faint he stood
At once their cry rang out like one man’s cry;
Like one their seven and twenty javelins flew:
As swift, Cuchullain caught them on his shield:
An instant more, and all that horde accursed
Was dealing with him. From the trampled ford
Went up a mist of spray that veiled that strife,
Though pierced by demon cries, and flash beside
Of demon swords. O’er it at last up-towered
On-borne, such power to blend have Spirits impure,
A single Form--as when o’er seas storm-laid
The watery column reels, and draws from heaven
The cloud, and drowns the ship--a single Form,
And Head, and Hand, clutching Cuchullain’s crest:
Not wholly sank he. O’er that mist of spray
Glittered his sword. There fell a silence strange:
Slowly that mist dispersed; and on the sands
That false Enchanter lay with all his sons
Black, bleeding bulks of death.
Amid them stood
Cuchullain; near him, seen by him alone,
That dread Mor Reega, now benign. She spake:
‘I hated thee, since less in me thy trust
Than in great Virtue’s aid. I hate no more.
Be strong! a trial waits thee heavier yet--
No man is friend of mine till trial-proved.’
Yet sad at heart that eve Cuchullain clomb
His wonted rock, and faint with loss of blood,
And mused; ‘My strength must lessen day by day;’
And northward gazed, thus murmuring; ‘All too late
To save the land those Red Branch Knights will come
When I am dead--
My war-car, and my war-steeds are far off
And I am here alone.’ Through grief that night
He slept not; for the Magic Clan had power,
Though dead, to lean above him as a cloud
Darkening his spirit. Happy days gone by
They changed to grief and shame.
While thus he sat
He saw, not distant, on the forest floor,
In moonbeams clad, though moon was near him none,
A pure and princely presence. Lithe his form
In youthful prime: chain armour round him clung
Bright as if woven of diamonds. Glad his eye;
Dulcet his voice as strain from Elfin glen
Far heard o’er waters. Thus that warrior spake:
‘My child, an ancestor of thine I come,
Great Ethland’s son, in virtuous battle slain.
Among the Sidils[32] now, and fairy haunts
Moon-lit, and under depths of lucent lakes,
Gladness I have who in my day had woe,
And youth perpetual though I died in age.
Repose thou need’st: for sixty days thine eyes
Have closed reluctant. Sleep a three days’ sleep
Whilst I thy semblance bearing meet thy foes.’
Thus spake the youth, then sang Lethean song,
And, straight, Cuchullain slept. Three days gone by,
Again that vision came. ‘Arise,’ he said:
The warrior rose; and lo! his wounds were healed:
Down to the river sped he.
Waiting there
Stood up Iarion, champion of the queen,
There stood, nor thence returned. Eochar next
Perished, then Tubar, Chylair, Alp, and Ord,
In all full ninety warriors. Ninety days
Had fled successive since that strife began,
When, on the evening of the ninetieth day,
His strength entire, and victory eagle-winged
Fanning his ardent cheek, Cuchullain scaled
Once more that specular rock. Within his heart
Spirit illusive that, with purpose veiled,
Oft tries the loftiest most, this presage sang
‘Southward, not distant, thou shalt see them march
At last, that Red Branch Order, in their van
Thy Conal Carnach!’ Other spectacle
Met him, a chariot small with horses small,
And, o’er the axle bent, a small old man
Urging them feebly on. It was his sire!
T’wards him Cuchullain rushed: the old man wept,
For gladness wept, and afterwards for woe,
Kissing the wounds unnumbered of his son:
Reverent, Cuchullain led him to his cell;
Reverent, he placed before him wine and meat;
Nor questioned yet. The old man satisfied,
Garrulity returned, though less than once,
Now quelled by patriot passion. Thus he spake:--
‘Setanta! son of mine! I bring ill news:
Uladh is mad; the Red Branch House is mad:
We two are mad; and all the world are mad,
Mad as thy mother! Through the realm I sped:
A mist hung o’er it heavy, and on her sons
Imbecile spirit, and a heartless mind,
And base soul-sickness. Evermore I cried,
“Arise! the stranger’s foot is on your soil:
They come to stall their horses in your halls;
To slay your sons; enslave your spotless maids;
Alone my son withstands them!” Shrewd of eye
Men answered; “Merchant; see thy wares be sound!
No lack-wits we!” Old seers I saw that decked
Time-honoured foreheads with a jester’s crown:
I saw an ollamb trample under foot
His sacred Oghams: next I saw him grave
His own blear image on the tide-washed sands,
Boasting, “The unnumbered ages here shall stoop
Honouring true Wisdom’s image.” Shepherds set
The wolf to guard their fold. The wittol bade
The losel lead his wife to feast and dance:
Young warriors looked on maids with woman’s eyes.
I drave to Daré’s Dûn: his loud-voiced sons
Adored the Donn Cuailgné as their sire,
And called their sire a calf. To Iliach’s tower
I sped: he answered; “What! the foe! they come!
Climb we yon apple trees, and garner store!
Wayfarers need much victual!” Onward next
To Sencha’s castle:--On the roof he knelt,
Self-styled the kingdom’s chief astrologer,
Waiting the unrisen stars. To Olchar’s Dûn
I journeyed: wrapp’d in rags the strong man lay,
Thin from long fast; with eyelids well nigh closed:
Not less beneath them lay a gleaming streak:
“Awake me not,” he said: “a dormouse I!
Till peace returns I simulate to sleep.”
I sought the brothers Nemeth: one his eyes
Bent on the smoke-wreath from his chimney’s top,
One on the foam-streak wavering down the stream;
While each a finger raised, and said “Tread light!
Our earth is grass o’er glass!” I sought the mart:
Men babbled; “Bid the Druids find the king!”
I sought the Druids’ College: in a hall
Reed-strewn to smother sound they held debate
On Firbolg and Dedannan contracts pledged
Ere landed first the Gael. The Red Branch House
Was changed to hospital; and knights full-armed
Nodded o’er lepers’ beds. I sought the king:
From hall deserted on to hall I roamed:
I found him in his armoury walled around
With mail of warriors dead. There stood, or lay,
The chiefs by Uladh worshipp’d. Nearest, crouched
Great Conal Carnach patting of his sword
Like nurse that lulls an infant. On his throne
Sat Conchobar in miniver and gold:
His eyes were on his grandsire’s shield that breathed
At times a sigh athwart the steel-lit gloom:
Around his lips an idiot’s smile was curled:
“What will be will be,” spake the king at last:
“All things go well.”’
Thus Saltain told his tale:
One thing he told not--how, a moment’s space,
The passion of an old man’s scorn had wrought
Deliverance strange for that astonished throng,
High miracle of nature. He, the man
Despised since youth, the laughter of the crowd,
Himself restored to youth by change like death,
Had rolled his voice abroad, a mighty voice;
They heard it: from their trance they burst: they stood
Radiant once more with mind! They stood till died
The noble anger’s latest echo. Then
That mist storm-riven put forth once more its hand,
And downward dragged its prey.
Upon his feet
Cuchullain sprang, his father’s tale complete:
That rage divine which gave him strength divine
Had fallen on him from heaven. He raised his hands,
And roared against the synod of the Gods
That suffer shames below. Beyond the stream
That host confederate heard and armed in haste,
And slept that night in armour. Far away
Compassion touched the strong hearts of the Gods,
The strongest most--Mor Reega’s. Ere that cry
Had left its last vibration on the air
High up the Battle-Goddess, adamant-mailed,
Was drifting over Uladh. Eman’s towers
Flashed back her helmet’s beam. With lifted spear
She smote the brazen centre of her shield
Three times; and thunder, triple-bolted, rolled
Three times from sea to sea. The spell was snapp’d:
Humanity returned to man! The first
Who woke was Leagh, Cuchullain’s charioteer:
Forth from the opprobrious mist he passed like ship
That cleaves the limit of some low marsh-fog
And sweeps into main ocean. Forth he rushed--
Forth to Cuchullain’s chariot-house, and dragged
Abroad that war-car feared of man and yoked
White Liath Macha, and his comrade black,
And dashed adown the vacant, echoing streets,
And passed the gateway towers: the warders slept:
Beyond them, propp’d against the city wall,
A cripple crunched his mouldering crust. Still on
He rushed, the reins forth shaking and the scourge,
Clamouring and crying; ‘Haste, Cuchullain’s steeds!
On Liath Macha! Sable Sangland on!
Your master needs you! Aye! ye know it now!
The blood-red nostril smells the fight far off!
On to Murthemné, and Cuailgné’s hills,
And Neeth’s remembered ford!’ Unseen he drave;
So slowly, clinging still to brake and rock,
And oft re-settling, vanished from the land
The insane mist. That hurricane of wheels
Not less was heard by men who nothing saw:
On stony plain, in hamlet, and in vale:--
They muttered as in sleep; ‘Deliverance comes.’
------------------------------------------------------------------------
FRAGMENT III.
_THE COMBAT AT THE FORD._
ARGUMENT.
Queen Meave sends her herald to Ferdīa the Firbolg, requiring him to
engage with Cuchullain in single combat. Ferdīa refuses to fight against
his ancient friend; yet, later he attends a royal banquet given in his
honour; and there, being drawn aside through the witcheries of the
Princess Finobar, he consents to the fight. The charioteer of Ferdīa
sees Cuchullain advancing in his war-car to the Ford, and, rapt by a
prophetic spirit, sings his triumph. For two days the ancient friends
contend against each other with reluctance and remorse: but on the third
day the battle-rage bursts fully forth: and on the fourth, Cuchullain,
himself pierced through with wounds innumerable, slays Ferdīa by the
Gae-Bulg. He lays his friend upon the bank, at its northern side, and,
standing beside him, sings his dirge.