whole world. You took an evil thought into your mind, and left your
shame behind you, when you came with such a request to us."
"Then if you will not," cried Aoife, seizing a sword which lay near, "I
will avenge myself, for I am resolved they shall not live."
Saying these words, she rushed out with the drawn sword, but through her
womanhood she lost her courage when she was about to strike at the
children. She then returned the sword to the Druids, and said she could
not kill them.
Aoife resumed her journey, and they all drove on until they reached the
shores of Lough Dairvreac, on the Lake of the Speckled Oak. Here she
unharnessed the horses, and desired the children to descend and bathe in
the lake. They did as she bade, but when all were in the water, she took
a magic wand and struck them with it one after another. One after
another the forms of the beautiful children disappeared, and four white
swans were seen upon the water in their stead, when she addressed them
in the following words:--
AOIFE.
Away, you children of the king! I have separated your lives from joy.
Your people will grieve to hear these tidings, but you shall continue
birds.
What I have done, I have done through hatred of you, and malice to
your father.
THE CHILDREN.
We, left here on the waters, must be tossed from wave to wave.
In the mean time Lir, returning to his palace, missed his children, and
finding Aoife not yet come home, immediately guessed that she had
destroyed them, for he likewise had observed her jealousy. In the
morning he ordered his chariot to be prepared, and, following the track
of his wife, travelled along until he came to the Lake of the Speckled
Oak, when the children saw the chariot approaching, and Fingula spoke as
follows:--
By yon old Oak, whose branches hoar
Wave o'er Lough Dairvreac's lonely shore,
Bright in the morn, a dazzling line
Of helms and silver targets shine;
Speed, brethren dear, speed towards the shelving strand,
'Tis royal Lir himself who leads the shining band.
Lir came to the brink of the water, and when he heard the birds
conversing, as they drew nigh, in human language, he asked them how they
became endowed with that surprising gift.
"Know, Lir," replied Fingula, "that we are your four children, who,
through the frantic jealousy of our step-mother, and our own mother's
sister, have been reduced to this unhappy condition."
"Are there any means," asked the wretched father, "by which you can ever
be restored to your own forms again?"
"None," replied Fingula; "there is no man in existence able to effect
that change, nor can it ever take place until a woman from the south,
named Deocha, daughter of Ingri, the son of Black Hugh, and a man from
the north, named Lairgnean, the son of Colman, shall occasion our
deliverance in the time of THE TAILGEAN,[A] when the Christian faith and
charity shall come into Ireland."
When Lir and his attendants heard these words, they uttered three
doleful cries.
"Are you satisfied," said Lir, "since you retain your speech and reason,
to come and remain with us?"
"It is not in our power to do so," replied Fingula, "nor are we at
liberty to commit ourselves to the hands of man, until what I have told
you shall have come to pass. But in the mean time we possess our speech
and our mental faculties as fully as ever, and are moreover endowed with
one additional quality, which is that we can sing the most melodious
airs that the world has ever heard, and there is no mortal that would
not feel a pleasure in listening to our voices. Remain with us for this
night, and you shall hear our music."
[Footnote A: Tailgean, or the Holy Offspring, a name supposed to have
been applied by the Druids to St. Patrick, previous to his arrival in
Ireland.--_O'Brien's Irish Dictionary._]
When Lir had heard these words, he ordered his followers to unharness
their steeds, and they remained during the whole night on the strand,
listening to the music of the birds, until all were lulled to sleep by
the enchanting melody, excepting Lir alone. In the morning Lir arose
from the bank on which he lay, and addressed his children in the
following words:--
In vain I stretch my aching limbs
And close my weeping eyes,
In vain my children's moonlight hymns
For me alone arise.
'Tis morn again, on wave and strand,
My children, we must part;
A word that like a burning brand
Falls on your father's heart.
O had I seen this fatal hour,
When Lir's malignant queen
First sought his old paternal tower,
This hour had never been!
As thus between the shore and you
The widening waters grow,
So spreads my darkening spirits through
The sense of cureless woe.
Lir departed from the lake, and, still following the track of Aoife,
came to the palace of the Ard-Righ, or Chief King, as Bogh Dearg was
entitled. The monarch welcomed him, but complained of his not having
brought his children as usual.
"Alas, poor that I am!" said Lir, "it is not I who would keep my
children from your sight, but Aoife yonder, once your darling, and the
sister of their mother, who has had them transformed into four swans,
and abandoned them on the Lake of the Speckled Oak. They have been seen
in that place by a great multitude of our people, who have heard the
story from themselves, for they retain their speech and reason as
before."
The monarch started at these words, and, looking on Aoife, immediately
became convinced that Lir had spoken the truth. He began to upbraid his
daughter in a rough and angry tone.
"Malicious as you were," said he, "you will suffer more by this cruel
deed than the children of Lir, for they in the progress of time will be
released from their sufferings, and their souls will be made happy in
the end."
He then asked her into what shape of all living creatures she would
least like to be transformed.
"Speak," said he, "for it is not in your power to avoid telling the
truth."
Aoife, thus constrained, replied with a horrible look and tone, that
there was no form which she more abhorred than that of a Deamhain
Eidhir, or Demon of the Air.
"That form, then," said the monarch, "shall soon be yours"; and while he
said so, he took a magic collar and laid it on her. Immediately losing
her own shape, she flew away, shrieking, in that of a foul Spirit of the
Air, in which she continues to this day, and will to the end of time,
according to her deserts.
Soon afterwards, the monarch and the Tuatha Danaans went to the Lake of
the Speckled Oak and encamped upon its shores, listening to the music of
the birds. The Sons of Mile, likewise, came thither from every part of
Ireland, and formed an encampment in the same place, for there never was
music comparable to that of those swans. Sometimes they related their
mournful story, sometimes they would answer the questions proposed to
them by the people on shore, and talk familiarly with their relatives
and friends, and at others they sung, both by day and night, the most
delightful music that was ever heard by human ear; so that the listeners
on shore, notwithstanding the grief and uneasiness in which they
continued, enjoyed as sweet sleep, and arose as fresh and vigorous, as
if they had been resting in their accustomed beds at home. The two
multitudes of the Sons of Mile, and of the Tuatha Danaans, thus remained
in their respective encampments during the space of thirty years. At the
end of that time, Fingula addressed her brethren as follows:--
"Are you ignorant, my brothers, that but one night is left of the time
which you were to spend upon the lake?"
On hearing this, the three brethren grew very sorrowful, and uttered
many plaintive cries and sounds of grief; for they were almost as happy
on that lake, enjoying the company of their friends and relatives,
talking with them and answering their questions, as they would have been
in their own home; more especially, when compared to the grief they felt
on leaving it for the wild and stormy sea that lies to the north of
Ireland. Early in the morning they came as close to the brink of the
lake as they could, and spoke to their father and their friends, to all
of whom they bade a mournful farewell, repeating those pitiful lines
that follow:--
Receive, O royal sage, our last farewell,
Thou of the potent spell!
And thou, O Lir, deep skilled in mystic lore--
We meet--we meet no more!
The sum complete of our appointed hours,
We leave your happy bowers.
Farewell, dear friends, till time itself is o'er
We meet, we meet no more!
Forever now to human converse lost,
On Moyle's wild waters tost,
Our doom till day, and night, and seasons fail,
To weave a mournful tale.
Three lingering ages on the northern main
To waste in various pain.
Three lingering ages in the stormy west
To heave on ocean's breast.
Sad is our doom, dear friends, on wintry seas
Through many a year to freeze,--
Harsh brine and rocks, with horrid sea-weed brown
For Lir's soft beds of down!
No more the joy of Lir's paternal breast,
Early we part unblest!
A power unseen commands that we forsake
Lone Dairvreac's peaceful lake.
Rise from the wave, companions of my fear,
Rise, brethren dear!
Bright wave and pebbly beach and echoing dell,
Farewell, a last farewell!
And you, dear friends, who throng the leafy shore,
We meet--we meet no more!
Having ended those verses, the swans took wing and, arising lightly on
the air, continued their flight until they reached the Sruih na Maoile,
or the Sea of Moyle, as those waters were called which flowed between
Ireland and Scotland. Their departure occasioned deep sorrow to all who
witnessed it, and they had a law proclaimed throughout the kingdom, that
any one, from the king to the peasant, who should kill a swan, let his
power be as great as it might, should meet with certain death. In the
mean time, the children of Lir found that they had made an unhappy
change of place. When they saw the broad wild ocean around them, they
grew cold and hungry, and began to fall into despair, thinking that all
they ever suffered was nothing until they were sent to these seas. They
remained on the waters until one night it began to freeze very hard.
"My loving brothers," said Fingula, "we make very unwise provision
against the coming night if we do not keep close together; and lest by
any mischance we should lose sight of each other, let us appoint a place
where we may meet again as soon as it may be in our power."
"In that case, dear sister," said the three brothers, "let us meet at
the Carrig na Roin (or the Rock of the Seals), for that is a place with
which we are all acquainted."
They continued thus until about the middle of the night. The wind then
increased to a storm, the waters arose, and the mountains of brine as
they rolled and broke around them sparkled in the gloom as if they had
taken fire. So great was the tempest that the children of Lir were
separated by the waves. All were scattered far and wide, nor could one
tell whither any of the three others had been driven. At length it
abated a little of its violence, the deep became more settled, and
Fingula found herself alone. Not being able to see her brethren anywhere
around, she felt the deepest anxiety of mind, and at length broke forth
into the following words:--
Heart-broken o'er these seas I glide,
My frozen wings together clinging:
No more along the stormy tide
I hear my brethren singing.
Three lingering ages, marked by woes,
Since first we left Lone Dairvreac's water
Break, break, my heart, and give repose
To Lir's unhappy daughter.
Beloved alike, O loved so well,
That made your sister's breast your pillow.
Tell me, my wandering brethren, tell,
Where roam you o'er the billow?
Hid by what rocks or secret caves,
That wont beneath my wings to slumber,
I fear the dead will leave their graves,
Ere time restore our number.
Tossed by the surge and sleety storm
At random o'er this briny water;
Woe, woe to all who share the form
Of Lir's unhappy daughter.
Fingula remained that night on the Rock of the Seals. At sunrise the
next morning, looking out in every direction along the water, she saw
Cornu coming towards her with head drooping, and feathers drenched with
spray, so cold and feeble that he could not answer her questions.
Fingula received him lovingly under her wings, and said:--
"If Eugene were with us now, our condition would be tolerable."
Not long after she saw Eugene coming towards her, with a drooping head,
and wings hanging to the ground, and she welcomed him, and put him
under the feathers of her breast. Immediately after she saw Fiacra
approaching, and she then removed Cornu from beneath her right wing and
placed him under her left, and put Fiacra beneath her right wing, where
Cornu had been before. She then settled her feathers about them, and
said:--
"Severe, my dear brothers, as you have found the last night, you must
yet see many more as bad."
The children of Lir continued for a long time in the same condition on
the Sruih na Maoile, until one night they suffered so much from the cold
and wind and snow, that nothing they had hitherto felt was comparable to
it; which made Fingula utter the following words:--
Hard is our life and sharp with ill,
My brethren dear;
The snow so thick, the wind so chill,
The night so drear.
We strive to keep
Sad concert in our songs of pain,
But the wild deep,
Relentless, mars the rising strain.
Vainly we soothe our aching hearts
With converse sweet,
Wave after wave, high heaving, parts
Our union meet.
Ah, doom severe!
Harsh was our mother's vengeful will,
Ah, brethren dear,
Hard is our life, and sharp with ill.
They remained for a year on the Sea of Moyle, when one night, as they
were on the Rock of the Seals, the waters congealed around them with the
cold; and as they lay on the rock, their feet and wings were frozen to
it, so that they could not move a limb. When at length, after using what
strength remained in their bodies, they succeeded in getting free, the
skin of their feet, and the innermost down of their breasts, and the
quills of their wings, remained clinging to the icy crag.
"Woe to the children of Lir!" said Fingula, "mournful is our fate
to-night, for when the salt water pierces into our wounds, we shall be
pained to death"; and she sung these lines:--
Sad is our hap this mournful night,
With mangled feet and plumage bleeding;
Our wings no more sustain our flight,
Woe comes to linked woe succeeding.
Ah, cruel was our step-dame's mind,
When hard to nature's sweet emotion,
She sent us here 'mid wave and wind,
To freeze on Moyle's relentless ocean.
The wild sea-foam that strews the shore,
The weeds those briny waves engender,
For past delights are all our store,
Though fostered once in regal splendor.
Rise, sister of three brethren dear,
Let custom dull the edge of anguish,
In hollow rock or cavern drear,
By doom unrighteous, bound to languish.
Leaving the Rock of the Seals, they alighted again on the waters of
Moyle, where the sharp brine pierced them keenly, although they strove
to keep their feet under their wings as closely as they could. They
continued to suffer thus, until their feathers grew, and the wounds of
their feet were healed. They used frequently to go as near the shore as
they could, on that part of the Irish coast which looks towards
Scotland, and every night they came together to Moyle, which was their
constant place of rest. One day as they drew nigh the shore of Bama, to
the north, they saw a number of chariots and horsemen, splendidly
arrayed, with horses richly caparisoned, approaching from the west.
"Do you observe that brilliant company, you sons of Lir?" said Fingula.
"We know not who they are," replied her brethren, "but they seem to be
Irish; whether of the Sons of Mile, or the Tuatha Danaans, it is
impossible for us to conjecture."
They drew close to the shore, in order to observe more accurately. When
the horsemen saw them coming, they hastened towards them, until they
came within speaking distance. The persons of note who were amongst them
were Aodh Aithiosatch, or Merry Hugh, and Feargus Fithcall (of the
Complete Armor), the two sons of Bogh Dearg the Monarch, and the third
part of his bodyguard. The children of Lir inquired how the Tuatha
Danaans were, and especially Lir and Bogh Dearg, with their friends and
dependants.
"They are all well in their respective homes," replied the horsemen. "At
present, it is true, they are in your father's palace, partaking of a
splendid banquet, in health and joy, knowing no other want than that of
your absence, and their ignorance of your place of abode, since you left
the Lake of the Speckled Oak."
"Evil has been our life since then," said Fingula, "for neither we nor
any other creature, that we have heard of, ever suffered so much as we
have done, since we came to the waters of Moyle"; and she uttered the
following words:--
We four are well,
Though in keen want and sombre grief we dwell.
Happy are they
Who sit in Lir's bright hall, and share his banquet gay.
Rich food and wine
For them in sparkling gold and silver shine;
While far away
His children shiver in the hungry spray!
We, who of yore
On dainties fared, and silken garments wore,
Now all our fare,
Cold sand, and bitter brine, for wax and honey rare;
Our softest bed,
The crag that o'er those surges lifts its head;
Oft have we laid
Our limbs on beds of tenderest down arrayed.
Now must we lie,
On Moyle's rough wave, with plumage seldom dry;
A pageant rare
Oft bore us to our grandsire's palace fair.
Ah, mournful change!
Now with faint wings these dreary shores I range.
O'er Moyle's dark tide,
Plume touching plume, we wander side by side;
Sharing no more
The joys that cheered our happy hearts of yore;
The welcome mild,
That on our grandsire's kingly features smiled;
Lir's counsel meet,
And fond paternal kiss, that made the morning sweet.
The horsemen returned soon after to the house of Lir, and told the
principal men of the Tuatha Danaans where they had seen the birds, and
the dialogue they had held together.
"We cannot assist them," they replied, "but we are well pleased to hear
that they live, for they will be restored to their former shape, after a
long time has elapsed."
The children of Lir, meantime, returned northwards to the Sea of Moyle,
where they remained until their time in that place had expired. Then
Fingula spoke to her brothers, and said:--
"It is time for us to depart from hence, for the period appointed for us
to remain here is at an end"; and she added these verses:--
At length we leave this cheerless shore,
Unblest by summer's sunshine splendid;
Its storm for us shall howl no more,
Our time on gloomy Moyle is ended.
Three hundred sunless summers past,
We leave at length this loveless billow;
Where oft we felt the icy blast,
And made the shelving crag our pillow.
Still on our lingering night of pain,
Far distant beams the dawn of gladness;
Light ease beside the western main
Awaits our long accustomed sadness.
Long must we haunt that billowy shore,
Ere breaks for us the daybeam splendid,
But here our numbered years are o'er,
Our time on gloomy Moyle is ended.
After that time the children of Lir left the Sea of Moyle, and flew
until they came to the most westerly part of the ocean. They were there
for a long time, suffering all kinds of hardship, until they happened to
see a man, a tiller of the ground, who used often to watch them when
they came near the shore, and took great pleasure in listening to their
music. He told the people on the coast of what he had seen, and spread
the tidings of the prodigy far and near. However, the same tale remains
to be repeated, for the children of Lir never suffered so much before or
after as they did on that very night, after the husbandman had seen
them; the frost was so keen, and the snow coming so thick upon the wind.
The waters all congealed into ice, so that the woods and the sea were of
one color. Their feet stuck to the ground, leaving them unable to move,
and they began to utter the most lamentable cries, while Fingula
comforted, and strove to persuade them not to grieve, but in vain; and
she repeated these lines:--
Sad are my suffering brethren's piercing cries,
This dreary night!
Sharp drives the snow shower, o'er the moonless skies,
With ceaseless flight!
Where'er they search the frost-bound ocean o'er,
On solid ice their thirsty beaks are ringing,
Nor on the wintry shore
Fresh water laves their plumes, nor bubbling fount is springing.
O thou dread Monarch, who to sea and coast
Their being gave,
And led'st, as shadowy rumor tells, a host,
Through the deep wave!
Behold these wretched birds with pitying eyes,
Their lingering years in joyless slavery spending,
In thy great might arise,
And bid our souls be free, their bonds of anguish rending.
"Brothers," said Fingula, "confide in Him who made heaven, and the
elements, the earth with all its fruit, and the sea with all its
wonders, and you will find comfort and relief."
"We do confide in him," they answered.
"And I confide with you," said Fingula, "in the only being who is full
of knowledge and of pity." They remained on the Oraas Domhnan (Deep
Seas) until their time was fulfilled, when Fingula said:--
"It is time for us to go to Fioncha, where Lir and his people dwell, and
our people also."
"We are well content to do so," replied they; and all proceeded
together somewhat joyfully, until they came to Fioncha. They found the
place where their father's palace had stood, and all around it, without
either house or inhabitants, but everything looking dreary and dull.
They saw smoke at a distance, and the four came towards it, and uttered
three mournful cries, and Fingula repeated these words:--
A mournful wonder is this place to me,
Which once I knew so well!
Not even the trace of that loved home I see,
Where Lir was wont to dwell.
Nor hound, nor steed, nor lord nor lady bright,
Nor welcome spoken!
Since I have lived to see this mournful sight,
My heart is broken.
This was not in our father's time of old,
A loveless, lightless waste,
Without a cup the sparkling wine to hold,
Or princely guest to taste.
The home where oft we hailed each joyous morn
Is bleak and lonely!
And nothing left to us, its heirs forlorn,
Save memory only.
Now do I know the deep devouring grave
Holds all who once were dear!
Sad was our life on Moyle's tempestuous wave,
But keener grief is here.
Low rustling grass, and winds that sadly blow
Through dry leaves creeping!
And he who should his cherished darlings know,
Forever sleeping!
The children of Lir remained in the place where their father and their
ancestors had lived, and where they had themselves been nursed and
educated, and late at night they began to sing most melodious music. In
the morning they took wing and flew until they came to Inis Gluaire
Breanain, and they began to sing there; so that all the birds of the
country that could swim came to that place, which was called Lochan na
Heanlaithe (or the Lake of the Birds). They continued in that condition
for a long time, until the Christian doctrine was preached in those
countries, when St. Patrick came to Ireland, and St. Macaomh Og came to
Inis Gluaire Breanain. The first night he came there the children of Lir
heard the sound of the bell ringing near them, and were greatly
rejoiced. They hastened towards the place from whence they heard the
bells, and the three sons of Lir made such speed that they left Fingula
by herself.
"What is the matter with you, dear brethren?" said Fingula.
"We cannot tell," they replied, "we know not how to account for the
heavenly music we have heard."
"I will explain it to you," said she; "that is the bell of Macaomh Og,
and it is by him you shall be released from your pain and trouble, and
you shall be comforted"; and she said these lines:--
List, list to the sound of the anchoret's bell,
Rise, children of Lir, from the wave where ye dwell,
Uplift your glad wings and exult as ye hear,
And give thanks, for the hour of your freedom is near.
He merits our duty, the Mighty to save
From the rock and the surge, from the storm and the wave.
Who clings to his doctrine with constant endeavor,
His grief shall be turned into glory forever.
Past moments of anguish, forever farewell!
List, children of Lir, to the sound of the bell.
The children of Lir were listening to the music of the bell until the
saint had finished his prayers.