Book V

In Ultan Long-Hand's house, that day, at pleasant Dunamain,
It chanced, his Queen, Finguala, and the women of her train
Were busied heating water for the bath; and with them there
Went, moping idly, Cuanna, long-handed Ultan's heir;
An orphan and an idiot. While as yet a little page
He had been sent to Tara, to the King, in fosterage;
But, ere the second week was passed within the royal school,
King Domnal's tutors finding him, or deeming him, a fool.
Had sent him to Hy-Brazil back: where Cuanna whiled away
His hours amongst the women. Now his stepmother, that day,
Had bade him fetch fresh firewood for the heating of the bath;
And Cuanna, had idiot-like raked up from pool and path
Green birchen twigs, and oziers dank, and brambles clogged with mire.
And with the smoky fuel green had well nigh quenched the fire.
"Done like thee," cried the stepmother, with angry bitter taunt;
"Done like an idiot, as thou art! Aye, wo is me; we want
Another sort of son this day, than such an one as thou.
Thou good-for-nothing imbecile! Know'st not that even now
Thy sire and royal foster-sire on Moyra's bloody plain
Are fighting for their lives, lilce men, 'gainst cruel Congal Claen;
Are fighting for their lives and crowns, their wives and children dear.
Like valiant men, at Moyra, and thou stand'st idling here?"
"Show me the way to Moyra," Cuanna answered, all a-flame.
"Small skill there needs to find it," replied tlie bitter dame:
"Get thee down to Neur-Kin-Troya, where the hosts have left their track
Plain enough for even an idiot to follow there and back."
"Bestow me arms and armour," cried Cuanna.
"Spear or shield
There is not left within the house since Ultan took the field,"
Replied the Queen: but this was false: for much she stood in dread
Lest Cuanna's scattered sparks of sense should gather to a head,
And all her hopes to see her own first-born assume the sway
Be, in the elder son's return to reason, swept away.
Wherefore she sought to urge him forth with words of taunt and scorn,
Naked, to war, that so perchance the youth might not return.
"Arms yet enough are left behind," said Cuanna; and he strode
To where the bill-hook lay wherewith, that morning, he had mowed
The dank soft twigs as with a scythe; and scythe-sharp was the blade.
And spear-keen was the iron spike the skilful smith had made
Projecting from the burnished hook; and javelin-long the shaft
Of tough ash 'twixt its brazen straps.
"Spear here," he cried, and laughed:
And, to the bath-house turning next, with ready art undid
The bolts that to the cauldron-head secured the brazen lid.
"Shield here," he cried, and laughed again; and with a leathern throng
Passed through the handle's inner eyes, in cross-lapped bandage strong
He braced the great disk to his arm. But when the Queen beheld
Young Cuanna's practice, fear and rage her jealous bosom swelled;
And, " Fool," she cried, " thou wouldst destroy the cauldron that thy Sire
Bought with three hundred kine: restore the cover, I desire,
Instantly to its former place."
But Cuanna laughed in scorn;
And when the Queen laid hands on him, and would, herself, have torn
The boss'd brass from his arm, with force so sudden Cuanna shook
Her weak grasp off, and gave withal so terrible a look
Of bloody meaning, that the Queen and all the maids and wives
About her fled a spear-cast off in terror of their lives.
Clapping their hands and raising loud their helpless ulalooSy
While Cuanna took his downward route straight for the Strand-End-Yews.
Arrived at Neur-Kin-Troya, all the Strand-End brown and vast
Was scored with tracks where chariot-wheels and weighted steeds had passed,
The hoof-prints pointing to the North: and northward, on the trail
Of horse and chariot, all alone, went Cuanna up the vale.
On came the royal idiot on the strong track of the war.
Till past the fords of Ornav he descried the fight afar:
And the first man he encountered on the borders of the strife
Was Fercar Finn, his father's steward: he had escaped with life,
But deeply wounded; and he cried, his labouring gasps between,
"Good, my dear Cuanna, wherefore thou in such a bloody scene?"
"I come to slay false Congal," the generous fool replied;
"And learn to be a warrior by my royal father's side."
"Alas, dear child, since long ere noon thy royal Sire lies slain.
Pierced by a javelin, through the heart, by cruel Congal Claen."
"Right soon will I revenge his death," cried Cuanna. " Tell me where
"The traitor fights."
"Where thickest ranks thou seest recoiling, there
Be sure, is Congal, But beware: thou canst not bear the shock
Of battle with thy youthful frame: besides, they all would mock
Thine arms fantastic: for who yet ere sought a battlefield
With bill-hook for a spear, and lid of cauldron for a shield?"
"Let mock who will," the youth replied; " for see; the tide of war
Seethes like the rising seas I've seen on Cuan Carlinne's bar!
And all the hosts are this way driven. Now for the first essay
In arms of Cuanna, called the Fool no longer from to-day."
And heading onward through the press, within a little space,
He found himself with Congal Claen confronted, face to face.

"Take not my words in anger, I beseech thee, brother mine,"
Said Congal; " well I know that strife is no concern of thine."
And would have passed him by in scorn: but Cuanna, as he pass'd.
Pressed hard his foot against the ground, and made a mighty cast
Of the great bill-hook from behind: just where the rings were laced
Whereby the brass-seamed coat of mail round Congal's side was braced
The weapon entered: through the rings of brittle brass, and through
The deer-skin war-shirt underneath the rugged weapon flew.
And deep within his flank hung fixed: but, deep as was the wound.
It did not yet suffice to bring strong Congal to the ground.
He turned, and might have slain the fool; but Congal's heart disdained
That weapons of a warrior should with idiot blood be stained.
He laid his glittering weapons on the green grass at his feet,
And with both hands essayed to drag the weapon from its seat,
But failed: a second time he tugg'd with painful sick essay,
And failed: but at the third attempt the javelin came away.
Then round his lacerated side he drew his glittering belt,
Resumed his arms, and stood erect, as though he scarce had felt
The wound that through his vitals was diffusing death the while;
And said,
"It grieves me, Cuanna, that the weak hands imbecile
Of one devoid of reason, should have dealt the fatal blow;
For, that it is a mortal hurt thou'st given me, well I know:
And well I knew my death to-day at Moyra stood decreed:
Yet thought to find my destiny at other hands indeed.
Had many-battled Kellach dealt the final blow of fate,
I by a King, and like a King, had died with mind elate.
Or Crunvall, to whose royal Sire the stroke of fate I gave,
To die by him had been to feed the vengeance of the brave:
But thus at last to perish by thy weak, inglorious spear,
Forgive me, foolish Cuanna; this is hard indeed to bear."
Nought answered Cuanna; but caught up his weapon where it lay,
And towards the royal standard straight proceeded through the fray,
Where Domnal stood among his Chiefs and Bishops. Hard bested
He was to pass the thronging groups, 'mongst whom already spread
The rumour that a stranger youth had slain the dreaded King:
But, ever pressing on, at length he stood within the ring
Before the Monarch; and exclaimed, in eager accents clear,
Laying his bill at Domnal's feet, " The blood of Congal here."
Then, some who saw the feat achieved, avouching it for truth.
The King exclaimed, " Oh glorious deed; and thou, oh happy youth.
Say who thou art, and ask such boon as Domnal can bestow.
For this, thy realm-enfranchising and mischief-ending blow."
Then Cuanna from his brow and face put back the matted hair,
And drew his body to its height, and with a graceful air,
For tall and comely was the youth, and of a manly mould,
His simple story to the King with modest freedom told.
"My name is Cuanna, eldest son of Ultan, who, sometime,
Was King in Orior. When a child, my wicked Nurse, whose crime
Goes still unpunished, with a doll, dressed as a goblin, so
Scared me, that ever since I've lost my reason; but I know
Enough to know that cunning wretch, ere yet my mother died,
Inveigled Ultan to her bed; and now, where once she plied
Her menial office, sits his Queen. Now, when I grew of age
For nurture, I to thee, oh King, was sent in pupilage:
But, ere I spent the second week within your Highness's school.
Thy tutors, finding, or, at least, supposing, me a fool,
Returned me home; and as a fool and idiot ever since
I've had their usage—used, indeed, not as an idiot prince.
But as a menial slave, by her, who longs to see me dead.
That her own son, without dispute, might reign in Ultan's stead.
Wherefore, to-day, she would have urged me forth to battle here,
Naked, pretending that the house held neither shield nor spear.
Although in Ultan's inner hall a hundred men might find
Weapons and tackle competent, and still leave store behind.
And so, with such rude substitutes as these which here ye see
Perforce I came: and God to these has given the victory.
And now, oh King, the boon I crave is, to be set at large
Forthwith from Queen Finguala's thrall; and from the shameful charge
Of women tutors; and to wear a good sword by my side.
And have my hound to chase the deer, and have my horse to ride.

"All that thou wouldst," replied the King, " dear Cuanna, shall be done.
And furthermore, I make a vow, thy wicked stepdame's son
Shall never sit in Ultan's place: and if in Dunamain
Arms but for one be found, she wears, for life, the captive's chain."
"'Tis good," said Cuanna; and sat down; and from the gravelly soil
Picking the pebbles smooth, began to toss, with patient toil.
The little stones from hand to hand, alternate back and palm.
Regardless of the presence round, and lapsed in childish calm.
But Congal, conscious that his strength by slow degrees decayed,
Resolved, while yet his arm had nerve to lift the wearying blade,
To spend his still-remaining power in one supreme attack,
That Ulster so with victory, though Kingless, might go back.
Then once again the lines of fight were stretched from wing to wing
Of Congal's battle; and the hosts led by the vigorous King,
For so to all their eyes he seemed, once more in dense array
Across the corpse-encumbered mead moved to renew the fray
An onset terrible it was: on all the fight till then
Fell not so many of the flower of Erin's youths and men.
Full on Momonia fell the brunt; the burst Momonian host
An arrow-flight on either hand recoiled; and well nigh lost
For Domnal seemed the day; when lo, forth came Aed Bennan's son,
His bedfellow and fosterer in former days, Maldun,
And challenged Congal to the strife: thrice had he thought before
To raise his courage to the feat; and thrice his feet forbore
To bear him past the sheltering ranks: but now, that Cuanna's blow.
Through Congal's ghastly cheek, proclaimed that life was ebbing low,
He deemed the hour at length arrived when he might safely dare
The King's encounter: and he cried, " Turn, Congal, and prepare
To meet a traitor's recompense. No second rumour vain
Shall now delude us, heralding the King of Ulster slain."

And therewithal he cast his spear. But Congal's rallying look,
For all the boldness of his speech, his heart within him shook;
And feebly, with a wavering flight, the aimless javelin strayed
Past Congal's shoulder. Then the King swung high his glittering blade.
And gathering all the force that still lodged in his mighty frame,
Struck on the helmet of Maldun; but struck with luckless aim,
For, even as crest and crashing helm half yielded to the stroke.
Short from its rivets, at the hilt, the faithless weapon broke;
And, high as from a tree-top, in the pairing time of spring,
A warbling bird springs up to heaven, its lay of love to sing,
So high above the warriors' heads leaped Congal's flickering blade:
But the blind counter-stroke Maldun, with aimless instinct, made,
As Congal from his crest drew back the remnant of the brand.
Sheer from the King's extended wrist smote off" the good right hand.
Then maddened Congal would have dosed; but, at his aspect dread,
Maldun, unconscious of his own achievement, turned and fled.
"Aye, go thy ways," exclaimed the King, in bitter scornful ire;
"Thou now art treading worthily the footsteps of thy sire.
I little thought, though well prepared to meet a warrior's doom.
That 'twas from hands like his and thine the stroke of fate should come."
With this, the Meathmen's parting ranks to Congal's gaze revealed
Kellach, new-armed, and fresh from rest, advancing on the field.
So from his cloud the eagle comes; so from the leafy walks
Of brown Gaetulian thicket-sides the lordly lion stalks.
Darkness came with him: all the heavens with sudden gloom were spread,
And gathering mists of faintness closed round Congal's drooping head;
But still he kept his wavering feet, still waved his flickering shield.
And said,
"Oh Kellach, thou art late My conquest now can yield
Small fame; but if Malcova's son desire, in future days,
With idiot Cuanna and with him to share inglorious praise
Approach and slaughter Congal Claen, where maimed and bare he stands,
An easy prey to butcher-swords, left by ignoble hands"
"No, Congal," generous Kellach said: " no blood of thine shall dim
The weapons of Malcova's son, while armed and whole of limb
He; mutilated, swordless thou; nor shall this spear deprive
Young Cuanna of his just renown: but yield thyself alive."
He sank his spear half-raised to cast, and sprang to seize the King;
But, ere he reached him, Congal dropped; and with a swooping wing,
Sudden and black, the storm came down: with scourge of hissing hail
It lashed the blinded, stumbling hosts: a shrill loud-whistling wail
And thunderous clamors filled the sky, it seemed, with such a sound
As though to giant herdsman's call there barked a giant hound
Within the cloud above their heads; and loud rebounding strokes
They also heard, or seemed to hear, the claps of flapping cloaks
Within the bosom of the cloud: so deemed they; but anon
The storm rolled northward; and the hosts perceived the King was gone.
Light from the sun, and panic-dread diffusive as the light,
From heaven at once together fell on Congal's line of fight;
And though they held no counsel, nor did man confer with man,
Yet through the whole invading host, from wing to centre, ran
The desperate simultaneous wish to turn from Domnal's face
Their firm opposing bucklers, and expose him, in their place,
Their shoulders and their hollow spines, exchanging strength and fame.
Safety and pride, for helpless flight, destruction, death and shame.
Then dire was their disorder, as the wavering line at first
Swayed to and fro irresolute; then, all disrupted, burst
Like waters from a broken dam effused upon the plain.
The shelter of Killultagh's woods and winding glens to gain.
To expedite their running, in their shameful-vieing race.
Helmet and shield they cast away, long lance and iron mace.
Gold-sparkling swords and shirts of mail in glittering heaps were spread,
Resplendent, gleaming 'mongst the heaps of wounded and of dead.
But, though prodigious plunder so encumbered all their track,
For beaten gold nor cloth of gold would Domnal's Chiefs hold back
Their eager hands from vengeance, or their feet from warrior-toil;
But, leaving slave and horse boy to collect the glittering spoil.
Themselves, with leaps and spurnings amid the entangling throes
Of writhing, prostrate enemies, with close, limb-severing blows.
Urged on the pitiless pursuit; the helpless flying crowd
Consumed beneath the wasting sword as melts the morning cloud.
Death levels all: and where they ran, hard by the brink of death.
Speed was the last distinction left; and he whose store of breath
Sufficed to bear him farthest forth, was deemed of all the rest.
Richest: nor ran there there a man who, if he had possessed
The world and all its cattle, would have grudged to give the whole
For one hour's fleetness of a deer to gain the sheltering goal.

There many a haughty noble ran, of stripe and badge bereft;
Ran many a lithe-ham'd vaulter, without leap or breathing left;
And men who, in the morning, would have rather died than fled,
Now, even as wide-winged running birds, with labouring arms outspread
And shoulders raised alternate, bounded forward like the wind.
Eager only in their horror to leave friend and foe behind.
Of all the field Halt Kellach on his chair alone sat still.
Where placed to view the battle on the airy, green-sloped hill:
And, like a sea-rock that alone of all around stands fast,
Mid scudding clouds, and hurrying waves, and hoarse tides racing past.
So sat he rooted mid the rout; so, past his brazen chair
Was poured the heavy-rolling tide of ruin and despair:
And oft he cried to those who fled, with shrill, disdainful call,
"Stand fast: fear nothing: turn like men! " but none gave heed at all;
Till, Druid Drostan hurrying by, like maniac horror-driven.
He hailed him mid the long-hair'd rout, " Bald-head, how fare my Seven?"
"Slain all," was all the sage replied, as labouring on he went:
Then Kellach leaned upon his couch, and said, " I am content."
Nor spoke he more till Elar Derg cried, " Old man of the chair.
Courage: young Brasil still survives, and seeks thee everywhere."
And Brasil's self, emerging from the flying throng, appeared,
Bloody and faint, but calling out incessant as he neared,
"Ho, father, I am with thee. Courage, father; I am here:
Up; mount upon my shoulders: I have strength to bear thee clear."
And ran and knelt beside the chair, to heave him on his back;
But as he stopped, even through the curls that clustered on his neck.
An arrow smote him. Kellach said, " Best so. I thank thee, God,
"That by no son of mine the path of shame will now be trod." '
And leaned again upon his couch; and set his hoary head
Awaiting death, with face as fixed as if already dead.
But keen-eyed Domnal, where he stood to view the rout, ere long
Spying that white unmoving head amid the scattering throng,
Exclaimed, " Of all their broken host one only man I see
Not flying; and I therefore judge him impotent to be
Of use of limb. Go: take alive," he cried, " and hither fetch
The hoary-haired unmoving man: 'tis Kellach, hapless wretch.
The very author of the war. There lives not on the face
Of earth a man stands so in need of God's forgiving grace:
And,—for he was my father's friend, and that white helpless head
Stirs my compassion,—though my foe, I would not see him sped
Unshrived to that accounting dread; if yet your pious care,
Oh, Pontiffs, may prevail to bend his stubborn heart to prayer."
Said Bishop Ere,—the kinsman he of Ere of Slane,— " The ban
Already has gone duly forth against the impious man:
And till the power that laid it on, that sentence shall reverse.
He who to Kellach proffers grace, is partner in his curse."
Said Senach, " No authentic note to me has yet arrived
Of such a sentence. If he will, the Senior shall be shrived."
"I know the man," said Ronan Finn. " A Pagan strong: beware
Lest he repay with blasphemy your proffered call to prayer."
While thus the Prelates; from their side, as strong-cast javelin, sent
From palm of long-armed warrior, a swift battalion went
And, breaking through the hindmost line, where Kellach sat hard by.
Took him alive; and chair and man uphoisting shoulder-high.
They bore him back, his hoary locks and red eyes gleaming far.
The grimmest standard yet displayed that day o'er all the war;
And grimly, where they set him down, he eyed the encircling ring
Of Bishops and of chafing Chiefs who stood about the King.
Then, with his crozier's nether end turned towards him, Bishop Ere
Said, " Wretch abhorred, to thee it is we owe this bloody work;
By whose malignant counsel moved, thy hapless nephew first
Sought impious aid of foreigners; for which be thou accurst.'
And turned and left them.
Senach then approaching, mildly said,
"No curse so strong, but in the blood for man's redemption shed.
May man dissolve; and also thou, unhappy, if thou wilt,
May'st purchase peace and pardon now, and every stain of guilt
That soils thy soul, may'st wash away; if but with heart sincere
Thou wilt repent thee, and embrace the heavenly boon which here
I offer."
"Speak him louder. Sir," said harsher Ronan Finn.
"Kellach, repent thy sins," he cried; " and presently begin:
For few the moments left thee now: and, ere the hour be past,
Thy lot may, for eternity, in Heaven or Hell be cast."
"Repent thy sins," said Domnal; " and implore the Church's grace;
So shall thy life be spared thee yet a little breathing-space."
Then Kellach from the Bishops' gaze withdrew his wavering glance,
And, fixing his fast-glazing eyes on Domnal's countenance.
Said, " I am old, and mainly deaf; and much of what they say
I hear not: but I tell thee this; we'd not be here to-day
But for this trick of cursing; wherein much more expert
Are these front-shaven Druids than in any manly art."
"Injurious Kellach," said the King, " beware the chastening rod
The Church of Christ reserves for those who mock the priests of God."
"Of no good God are these the priests," said Kellach; " and, for me,
I ne'er sought evil Spirit's aid 'gainst any enemy:
But what I've learned in better times among my noble peers.
That I have practised and upheld for well-nigh fourscore years;
And never asked from clerk or witch, by sacrifice or charm,
To buy a demon's venal help to aid my own right arm;
But in my house, good Poets, men expert in song and lay,
I've kept, in bounteous sort, to teach my sons the prosperous way
Of open truth and manliness: for, ever since the time
When Cathbad smothered Usnach's sons in that foul sea of slime
Raised by abominable spells at Creeveroe's bloody gate,
Do ruin and dishonour still on priest-led Kings await.
Wherefore, by Fergus, son of Roy, ere that year pass'd away,
Emania was left bare and black; and so lies at this day:
And thou in desert Tara darest not, thyself, to dwell,
Since that other bald magician, of Lorrah, from his bell
Shook out his maledictions on the unoffending hill."
Said Domnal, " By my valour, old man, thou doest ill,
Comparing blessed Saints of Christ with Pagan priests of Crom."
"Crom, or whomever else they serve," said Kellach; " them that come
Cursing, I curse."
Then Ronan Finn, upheaving high his bell,
Rang it, and gave the banning word; and Kellach therewith fell
Off his tolg side upon the ground, stone dead. The Poets there,
Next night, in secret, buried him upon his brazen chair.
Brass-armed complete for standing fight, in Cahir-Laery's wall.
Sun-smitten Laery, rampart-tomb'd, awaits the judgment-call,
Facing the Leinstermen; years roll; and Leinster is no more
The dragon-den of hostile men it was in days of yore;
Still, constant till the day of doom, while the great stonework lasts,
Laery stands listening for the trump, at whose wall-bursting blasts
He leaps again to fire thy plain, oh Liffey, with the glare
Of that dread golden-bordered shield: thus ever, on his chair,
Kellach awaits from age to age, the coming of the time
Will bring the cursers and the curs'd before the Judge sublime.
But, rapt in darkness and in swoon of anguish and despair.
As in a whirlwind, Congal Claen seemed borne thro' upper air;
And, conscious only of the grief surviving at his heart.
Now deemed himself already dead, and that his deathless part
Journeyed to judgment; but before what God's or demon's seat
Dared not conjecture; though, at times, from tramp of giant feet
And heavy flappings heard in air, around and underneath.
He darkly surmised who might be the messenger of death
Who bore him doomward: but anon, laid softly on the ground.
His mortal body with him still, and still alive he found.
Loathing the Hght of day he lay; nor knew nor reck'd he where;
For present anguish left his mind no room for other care;
All his great heart to bursting filled with rage, remorse and shame,
To think what labour come to nought, what hopes of power and fame
Turned in a moment to contempt; what hatred and disgrace
Fixed thenceforth irremovably on all his name and race ;—
Till Ardan's voice beside him rose, " Lo, Congal, we are here.
Not, I attest all Earth and Heaven, through willing flight or fear:
But, when from Kellach's last assault I caught thee to my car
Fainting, a frenzy seized the steeds, and swept us from the war;
And all night long, with furious hoofs, and necks that scorned control,
They've borne us northward, and have here attained their fated goal."
Then Congal raised his drooping head, and saw with bloodshot eyes
His native vale before him spread; saw grassy Collin rise
High o'er the homely Antrim hills. He groaned with rage and shame.
"And have I fled the field," he cried; " and shall my hapless name
Become this byword of reproach? Rise; bear me back again,
And lay me where I yet may lie among the valiant slain."
"The steeds," said Ardan, " 'neath the yoke, behold, lie stiff in death.
Here fate has fixed that thou and I shall draw our last of breath;
For I am worn with weight of years, and feebly now inhale
The vital air: and newer life from mountain and from vale
Rises and pushes me aside. A voice that seems to cry,
'Make way; make straight another way,' is filling earth and sky."
A thought came into Congal's mind,—how sent let faith divine,—
He said, " No man had ever shame or grief compared to mine.
A fugitive against my will: in sacrilegious feud,
A proud invader, shamefully by idiot hands subdued.
But more than for myself I mourn my generous friends deceived,
And all their wives and little ones of lord and sire bereaved."
Tears sent from whence the thought had come,—let faith divine their source,—
Rose at the thought to Congal's eyes, and pressed with tender force
Unwonted passage; and he wept, with many bitter sighs,
In sudden vision of his life and all its vanities.
As when a tempest—which, all day, with whirlwind, fire and hail,
Vexing mid-air, has hid the sight of sunshine from the vale,—
Towards sunset rolls its thunders up: fast as it mounts on high,
A flood of placid light re-fills the lately troubled sky;
Shine all the full down-sliding streams, wet blades and quivering sprays.
And all the grassy-sided vales with emerald lustre blaze;
So, in the shower of Congal's tears, his storms of passion pass'd;
So, o'er his long distempered soul came tranquil light at last.
Ere wonder in his calming mind had found reflection's aid.
There came across the daisied lawn a veiled religious maid
From wicket of a neighbouring close; and, as she nearer drew.
The peerless gesture and the grace indelible he knew.
She, when she saw the wounded man was Congal, stood and prayed
A little space, and trembled much: then came, and meekly said,
"Sir, thou art wounded; and I come from Brigid's cell hard by
To tend thy wants, if thou wilt brook a sister's charity."
"And is my aspect also, then, so altered," Congal cried,
"That thou, Lafinda, knowest me not, that shouldst have been my bride?"
"Bride now of Christ," she answered low; " I know thee but as one
For whom my heavenly Spouse has died."
"And other nuptials none
Desire I for thee now," he said; " for nothing now is mine.
Save the fast-fleeting breath of life I hasten to resign."
She knelt to aid him. As she knelt, light-wafted o'er the green,
In shadow of a passing cloud, was flying Sweeny seen.
Whom, when, at first, Lafinda knew, her cheek, so pale but now.
And all the veil allowed to view of neck and marble brow.
Grew red with shame. But Congal said,
"Although the assembled host
Have seen him fly, yet scorn him not, nor deem thy brother lost,
More than his Chief, who also fled."
"The red blood on thy cheek,"
Said Ardan, " maid, mis-seems thee not. Though vowed submiss and meek.
Thou art a royal daughter still. But deem not that he flies.
Impelled by dread of mortal foe. The demons of the skies.
Wielding the unseen whips of God, are they who drive them on.
Mad, but in no disgraceful flight unworthy Colman's son."
"Sister," said Sweeny; and he came, with light foot, gliding nigh;
"I come not hither as he comes, in sight of home to die.
My day, indeed, is distant yet: and many a wandering race
Must I with wind and shower maintain; and many a rainbow chase
Across the wet-bright meads, ere I, like him, obtain release
From furious fancy's urgent stings, and lay my limbs in peace.
Lo, all is changed. In Brigid's cell thou, now, a close-shut nun.
That wert the assemblies pride before. I with the clouds and sun,
And bellowing creatures of the glade, for comrades of my way,
Roam homeless; I, that was a king of thousands yes-day."
"Grieve not for me," Lafinda said. " In Brigid's cell I find
The calm enforcing discipline and humbleness of mind
My nature needed, and yet needs. And thou, my brother wild.
Take ghostly counsel; and thou, too, may'st yet be reconciled
To God and reason."
Sweeny said; " Some holy man, perchance
May aid me; but unless he dwell where morning sunbeams dance
In spray of upland waterfalls, or tell his beads below
Where, deep in murky mountain-clefts the moon-white waters flow,
Small chance is his and mine to meet: for there my path must lie;
And thither rise my feet to run o'er crags and hill-tops high.
But not alone I course the wild. Although apart from men,
Shapes of the air attend my steps, and have me in their ken."
Even as he spoke, soft-rustling sounds to all their ears were borne.
Such as warm winds at eve excite 'mongst brown-ripe rolling corn.
All, but Lafinda, looked: but she, behind a steadfast lid.
Kept her calm eyes from that she deemed a sight unholy, hid.
And Congal reck'd not if the Shape that passed before his eyes
Lived only on the inward film, or outward 'neath the skies.
No longer soiled with stain of earth, what seemed his mantle shone'
Rich with innumerable hues refulgent, such as one
Beholds, and thankful-hearted he, who casts abroad his gaze
O'er some rich tillage-country-side, when mellow Autumn days
Gild all the sheafy foodful stooks; and broad before him spread,—
He looking landward from the brow of some great sea-cape's head,
Bray or Ben-Edar—sees beneath, in silent pageant grand,
Slow fields of sunshine spread o'er fields of rich, corn-bearing land;
Red glebe and meadow-margin green commingling to the view
With yellow stubble, browning woods, and upland tracts of blue ;—
Then, sated with the pomp of fields, turns, seaward, to the verge
Where, mingling with the murmuring wash made by the far-down surge.
Comes up the clangorous song of birds unseen, that, low beneath,
Poised off the rock, ply underfoot; and, 'mid the blossoming heath,
And mint-sweet herb that loves the ledge rare-air'd, at ease reclined.
Surveys the wide pale-heaving floor crisped by a curling wind;
With all its shifting, shadowy belts, and chasing scopes of green,
Sun-strown, foam-freckled, sail-embossed, and blackening squalls between,
And slant, cerulean-skirted showers that with a drowsy sound,
Heard inward, of ebullient waves, stalk all the horizon round;
And haply, being a citizen just 'scaped from some disease
That long has held him sick indoors, now, in the brine-fresh breeze,
Health-salted, bathes; and says, the while he breathes reviving bliss,
"I am not good enough, oh God, nor pure enough for this! "—
Such seemed its hues. His feet were set in fields of waving grain;
His head, above, obscured the sun: all round the leafy plain
Blackbird and thrush piped loud acclaims: in middle air, breast-high.
The lark shrill carolled: overhead, and halfway up the sky,
Sailed the far eagle: from his knees, down dale and grassy steep.
Thronged the dun, mighty upland droves, and mountain-mottling sheep.
And by the river-margins green, and o'er the thymy meads
Before his feet, careered, at large, the slim-knee'd, slender steeds.
It passed. Light Sweeny, as it passed, went also from their view:
And conscious only of her task, Lafinda bent anew
At Congal's side. She bound his wounds, and asked him, " Has thy heart
At all repented of its sins, unhappy that thou art?"
"My sins," said Congal, " and my deeds of strife and bloodshed seem
No longer mine, but as the shapes and shadows of a dream:
And I myself, as one oppressed with sleep's deceptive shows.
Awaking only now to life, when life is at its close."
"Oh, grant," she cried with tender joy, " Thou, who alone canst save,
That this awaking be to light and life beyond the grave!"
'Twas then the long-corroded links of life's mysterious chain
Snapped softly; and his mortal change passed upon Congal Claen.
As sank the limbs relaxed in death, from Brigid's neighbouring cell.
With clang importunate began the Sisters' morning bell.
She closed the eyes; the straightened limbs in comely posture laid;
And, going with submissive steps, the call to prayer obeyed.
Then Ardan spread his hands to heaven, and said, " I stand alone.
Last wreck remaining of a Power and Order over-thrown,
Much needing solace: and, ah me, not in the empty lore
Of Bard or Druid does my soul find peace or comfort more;
Nor in the bells or crooked staves or sacrificial shows
Find I the help my soul desires, or in the chaunts of those
Who claim our Druids' vacant place. Alone and faint, I crave,
Oh God, one .ray of Heavenly light to help me to the grave.
Such even as thou, dead Congal, hadst; that so, these eyes of mine
May look their last on earth and heaven with calmness such as thine."
The wicket opened once again, and forth came Seniors four,
Who, raising Congal on a bier, the royal body bore
Into the consecrated close. While yet half open lay
The wicket-gate, the distant sounds of tumult and affray
Came on the breeze.
"Old man," said one; " approaching foes begin
To fill the vale with death. If thou wouldst save thy life, come in."
"Servants of Brigid," Ardan said. " To God be thankful praise.
Who turns the hearts of men like you towards me in tender ways:
Yet, since my King has found the peace I seek to share, outside
Your Saint's enclosure, here will I the will of Heaven abide."
"On his own head. Lord, not on ours," they said, " let lie the blame."
And closed the gate; while up the hill the hosts of Domnal came