_THE LEGEND
OF THE
BLEMISHED KING
AND OTHER POEMS._
_A FEW COPIES REMAINING._
The Little Library--Vol. I.
IDYLLS
By LAURA JEAN DOUGLAS.
=MODERATOR= says:--“Some of the most exquisite prose we have read for many
a day.”
=IRISH NEWS= (Belfast) says:--“In the ten ‘Idylls’ which Miss Douglas
contributes, we have a group of the sweetest prose poetry possible.... A
gallery of lovely pictures.... A thing of beauty and a joy for ever....
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of ‘Idylls’ gives us ten short prose-poems, of which I take the liberty
to give the first in its entirety as a specimen. It is entitled, ‘A Rose
Garden.’... This is a beautiful picture.”
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THE LITTLE LIBRARY.--VOL. 2.
EDITED BY M. J. KEATS.
The
Legend of the
Blemished King
And Other Poems.
BY
JAMES H. COUSINS.
_WITH COVER DRAWN BY LOUIS H. VICTORY._
Dublin:
BERNARD DOYLE, FRANKLIN PRINTING WORKS,
9 UPPER ORMOND QUAY.
1897.
[Illustration: Gaelic]
AND
TO THE COMPANION OF MY WANDERINGS
AMONG MOST
OF THE SCENES HEREIN MENTIONED,
WHOSE PRESENCE
GILDED THE SUN THAT SHINES UPON,
AND PAINTED THE FLOWERS THAT BEDECK
THE
“FAIR HILLS OF HOLY IRELAND.”
CONTENTS.
THE LEGEND OF THE BLEMISHED KING-- PAGE
PROLOGUE 19
CANTO I. 23
CANTO II. 30
CANTO III. 37
CANTO IV 42
THE LEGEND OF SAINT MAHEE OF ENDRIM 49
A SONG OF DECADENCE 65
THE RAILWAY ARCH 67
SCHAKHE 70
IN THE GIANT’S RING, BELFAST 74
THE BLIND FATHER 78
THE SOUTHERN CROSS 85
ON THE DEATH OF WILLIAM MORRIS 87
COPERNICUS 89
TO ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 90
HEAVEN AND EARTH 91
ON SOME TWENTIETH CENTURY FORECASTS 92
IRELAND 93
_EDITOR’S NOTE._
Wordsworth, writing a sonnet, having for its subject the sonnet-form,
said:--
“To me,
In sundry moods, ’twas pastime to be bound
Within the sonnet’s scanty plot of ground;”
and all those who have essayed the task of composing in this particular
form will admit that Wordsworth’s definition--“scanty plot of
ground”--characterises the sonnet’s limitations precisely.
As will be observed in the following pages, Mr. Cousins not only excels
as a sonneteer; but in “The Legend of the Blemished King” he performs
the remarkable feat of producing a poem of classical character,
containing forty-eight stanzas, cast perfectly in the no less difficult
mould known as the Spenserian stanza--eight heroic lines, followed by an
Alexandrine, rhyming thus:--1, 3; 2, 4, 5, 7; 6, 8, 9.
The subject, however more than the technique, is remarkable. It will
have an especial attraction for all who are interested in the ancient
literature of Ireland; and, indeed it should be of universal interest,
because of the fact that this story of Fergus bears a strong resemblance
to the Scriptural narrative of Eden and the Fall of Man. It is a kind of
allegory common to all ancient races, containing in its heart an
unobtruded moral, wrapped in dramatic incident and decorated with
charming pictures of land and sea.
It is, in short, what Fiona M’Leod would call a “legendary morality.”
The other poems are equally admirable; and, indeed, however considered,
I think that this book should prove a valuable addition to the best
literary products of Ireland.
RIGHT
M. J. K.
DEIRDRE.
Illan, what King was he dwelt here of yore?
ILLAN.
Fergus, the son of Leide Lithe-o’-limb,
Ere yet he reigned at Eman, did dwell here.
DEIRDRE.
What, Fergus Wry-mouth? I have heard of him,
And how he came by his ill-favoured name.
Methinks I see him when he rose again
From combat with the monster, and his face,
That had that blemish till love wiped it off,
Serene and ample-featured like a King.
ILLAN.
Not love but anger, made him fight the beast.
DEIRDRE.
No, no, I will not have it anger. Love
Prompts every deed heroic. ’Tis the fault
Of him who did compose the tale at first,
Not to have shown ’twas love unblemished him.
. . . . . .
FERGUS.
All Erin, shore to shore, shall ring with it
And poets in the ages yet to come
Make tales of wonder of it for the world.
“DEIRDRE.”--FERGUSON
The Legend of the
Blemished King.
Prologue: At Scrabo, Co. Down.
_The rugged rock against the sky
Heaves high a tower-topped crest,
Whence widens out beneath the eye
The realms of East and West.
Here lies a land but seldom sung,--
This crude, majestic crown,
And that white sea that moves among
The fertile fields of Down!_
_Unsung!--save when an alien lyre
A moment’s space was strung,
And Browning fanned a little fire,
And Helen’s Tower was sung.
Yet storied homes of sept and clan
Are here, and,--dim and vague,--
Anear and far, Ben Madighan,
And Keats-sung Ailsa Craig!_
_Unsung!--and wherefore? lovely land!
Hast thou not ample store
For song, from yonder ocean strand,
To Strangford’s shining shore?
Hast thou not throbbed to foamy flanks,
And sound of Saxon steel,
To crash of Cromwell’s rattling ranks,
And Clansmen of O’Neill?_
_And yet, not all thy songful crown
Is strife of right with wrong;
Here, limpid lark-streams trickle down
A hundred peaks of song;
There, silent sheep and lambkins lie--
A white, uncertain thing--
Like lingering snow that fain would spy
The secret of the spring._
_The roaming robber breezes catch,
And hither upward float,
A lusty lilt and vagrant snatch
From some far rustic throat;
And blustering bye, with strident shout,
From scenes of festive glee,
That libertine of flower and sprout,
The bacchanalian bee._
_All life is song:--and song is life
To souls with these akin,
Unfettered by yon city’s strife,
Unsullied by its sin!
Some part of these fair fields and coast,
Some waft of phantom wings,
Will haunt my heart, a welcome ghost,
A hint of higher things._
_Dear land of love and happy lot
Of merry maids and swains,
Worthy the martial muse of Scott,
Or Virgil’s pastoral strains;
Loved land, this tongue thy song would share
This votive soul is thine:
Thy lips are loud with praise and prayer,--
Pray God they kindle mine!_
The Legend of the Blemished King.
[NOTE:--I am indebted to “The Ecclesiastical History of Down and
Connor,” by Rev. James O’Laverty, for the story of the “Blemished King.”
Believing it to be comparatively unknown, and desiring, as far as lay in
my power, to spread a knowledge of the interesting stories and legends
which abound in Irish History and Literature, I translated it into
verse. I learn, however, that a poem on the same subject has been
written by the late Sir Samuel Ferguson, under the title of “Fergus
Wry-mouth.” I can only plead justification for running the inevitable
gauntlet of comparison between a giant and a pigmy, on the ground that I
had already committed myself to the publication of the present version
of the legend before I became aware of the fact mentioned. I have not
read the poem by Sir Samuel Ferguson, and I shall not do so until after
this volume is in print; but I have written Lady Ferguson on the matter,
and she very kindly refuses to see any possible objection to the
publication of my rendering of the story, seeing that it contains almost
as many stanzas as there are lines in Sir Samuel’s.
The Loch of Rory ([Illustration: Gaelic]), the centre around which the
following story moves, is Dundrum Bay. That bay is still remarkable for
its roar, which has been frequently referred to by ancient writers. Even
a modern poet (S. K. Cowan, in “Sung by Six”) has written of the bay,
“where deep seas moan.” Other evidences point to the identity of Rory
and Dundrum, in opposition to the conjectures of some that the present
Belfast Lough was the scene of the incidents contained in the “Legend of
the Blemished King.”--THE AUTHOR.]
CANTO I.
I.
Eastward in Eireann lay the Lough of Rory.
The Moon, like some pale huntress, landward led
Her white-toothed hounds betwixt the promontory
And its far twin. Thither King Fergus sped
Within his chariot. High his shaggy head
Clove thro’ the dusky clouds his chargers made;
And o’er his shoulders, far behind him, spread
Loose locks, and circling cloak, in which arrayed
He, with benignant arm, Ultonia’s sceptre swayed.
II.
Beside him stood his suremost charioteer,
(Muëna, faithful bondsman of his lord,
Favoured in form, and swift of eye and ear),
Urging with well-skilled hand and timely word
The flying steeds. The seaward-soaring bird
Seemed fixed in Heaven, so swift they sped: the day
Lumbered behind, as high the sand they stirred,
And echoes of their wheels that edged the spray
Rolled thro’ the silent hills like thunder far away!
III.
Onward they whirled. The billows on the beach
Drew backward in amaze, then, bolder grown,
Sprang forward to the chase, but far from reach
The phantom bounded on o’er sand and stone;
Till the low clouds that late-born winds had blown
About the hills, upon the chariot’s flight
Drew down their brows; or was it they had flown
Thro’ dalliant day into a former night
That now, with jealous hand, hid shore and sea from sight?
IV.
Then when the day had rallied all its forces,--
A splash of glory in a murky west,--
Obedient, where it pleased (like men), the horses
Slackened their speed, and paused, and stood at rest.
“Thus far, O King! fulfilled is thy behest,”
Muëna said. To whom the King: “To thee
And me ’twere Heaven in Night’s soft arms carest
To sleep.”--They slept.--Without, that smith, the sea,
On adamantine anvils shaped new shores to be.
V.
Who knoweth not the spell that lurks in twilight?--
When mystic murmurs float across the world
From strange, vague forms that hate the brazen highlight
Of day, and sleep in hidden corners curled
Till, westward, day has nigh his banner furled.
Then fare they forth: rich spoil, in sooth, they found
Where Fergus had his mighty figure hurled
Upon the chariot’s floor. They drew around,
Plucked from its sheath his sword, and bore him to the ground,
VI.
Thence to the verge of ocean. Fairy elves,
A thousand strong, the toilsome task essayed;
While twice a thousand, perched on rocky shelves,
A wierd accomp’niment of laughter made
(Timed to their phantom forms that swung and swayed).
So sweet the sound, ’twould seem the winds, at rest
For once from warring, ’mong the treetops played:
Till, lo, the King, so close they round him prest,
Woke, and a struggling trio clasped upon his breast.
VII.
“Life for thy life,” they cried: “have mercy, King!”
Swift to his feet he sprang. The fairy throng
Vanished like vapour, save where, in the ring
Of his tight-clasping arms, as swift along
The dim-seen beach he strode the stones among,
The wriggling remnant of the elvish crew
Craved mercy.--“Mercy doth to thee belong,
And ours in turn to render service due.”
Clasping them in his arms he toward his chariot drew.
VIII.
There lay Muëna, wrapt in peaceful sleep,
Nor woke the King his bondsman; but did say
To those he held his captives: “Through the deep,
And under, give me knowledge of the way,
Unfearful of the power of wave or spray.
This shall ye grant and live.” “O King, such boon,”
Thus said the elves, “sweeps not beyond our sway;
So shall be thine, ere swings another moon,
Skill meet to dare the depths of river and lagoon,
IX.
“Save Rory, whence thou camest; that shalt thou
Ne’er ruffle with thy foot: within its wide
Impassioned breast, from day’s first dawn till now,
And still from now till dawn’s last day, has plied,
And still shall ply, the spirit of the tide
His secret craft. Nor thou nor human kind
Shall scan his face and live. All else beside
Is thine when Earth ’s again to Day resigned,
Whose advent now is blown on trumpets of the wind.”
X.
So when the morn, like Virtue’s cheek red-blushing
For night’s black deeds, from couch of cloud arose,
Ere yet were heard hoarse caws and dark wings rushing
Athwart the sun, when trailing lines of crows
Hasten to haunts far off that no man knows,
Beside the sea stood King and charioteer
To take the waves’ great secret now from those
In promise bound, who stand apart, yet near,
Where wavelets lift and lay, as if some word to hear.
XI.
Then spake the first of fairies: “O great King,
Thy life was ours--we spared it; ours was thine
And thou didst spare us, yet encompassing
Thy deed with obligation, line on line,
And promise holding promise,--me and mine
To do, and thou to do not. Now the hour
Hath come--as ne’er before--when billow and brine
Yield to a mortal every whit of power--
Save one--how suns soe’er may shine or clouds may lower.”
XII.
Low bowed the Monarch his assenting head.
The elfin chieftain swiftly drew anear
Doffing his hood, long-trailing, ruby red.
Lo! on the King ’tis placed. In either ear
They plant sweet spices, herbs, anointing clear;
And weird enchantments drown the muffled roar
Of throbbing ocean. Then the charioteer
Beholds his master pass the waters o’er,
And stands, a lonely man upon a lonely shore.
. . . . . .
XIII.
Day brightened in the East, and o’er the waters
The round sun rose and threw across the wave
A lambent flame, blood-red, as though from slaughters
In Orient lands. The breaking surf did lave
Muëna’s feet: he, wrapt in wonderings grave,
Looked long and wistful, such as lovers do
To greet their love. At length the wondering slave
Saw on the deep a form that neared, and grew,
And stepped upon the beach--the King returned anew.