Fragment I: The Cause of the Great War

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! 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 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

In woods remote; and earthward bowed his head;
And said; ‘that sound is distant thirty leagues,
And huge that host;’ then bade prepare his car,
And southward sped, counsel to hold as wont
With Faythleen nigh to Tara.
Eve grew dim
When lo! a chariot from the woods emerged
In swift pursuit: an old man urged the steeds,
A grey old man that chattered evermore
With blinking eyes that ceased not from amaze.
That sight displeased Cuchullain: ne’ertheless
He stayed his course; and Saltain soon drew nigh,
Clamouring, ‘O son—and when was son like thee—
Forsake not thou thy father! In old time,
Then when some God had laid on me his hand,
Dectara, my wife, immured me in my house,
Year after year, and weighed the lessening dole:
But thou, to manhood grown, though even to her
Reverent, didst pluck her from that place usurped,
Lifting thy poor old father.’ At that word
Cuchullain left his car, and kissed his sire,
And soothed his wandering wits with meat and wine;
And spake dissembling; ‘lo, these mantles warm!
Prescient, for thee I stored them! Night is near;
Lie down and rest.’ Thus speaking, with both hands
Deftly he spread them wide; and Saltain slept:
Then, tethering first the horses of his sire,
Lastly his own, upon the chill, wet grass
He likewise lay, and slept not.
On, at dawn
They drave; but Faythleen, witch perverse of will,
That oft through spleenful change her purpose slew,
Had broken tryst; and northward they returned.
That day Cuchullain clomb a rock tree-girt
And kenned beyond the forest’s roof a host
Innumerable, the standards of Queen Meave,
And Fergus, and the great confederate kings.
The warrior eyed them long with bitter smile;
Few words he spake: ‘At fifty thousand men
I count them.’ To his father then he turned:
‘Haste to Emania! Bid the Red Branch Knights
Attend me in Murthemné. I till then
Hang on the invaders’ flank, a fiery scourge.’
Saltain made answer: ‘Be it! northward I:
But Dectara, thy mother, and my wife,
Till thou art by my side I will not see;
For dreadful are her eyes as death or fate;
And many deem her mad.’
He spake, and drave
Northward; nor ceased from chatterings all day long,
Since, like a Poplar, vocal was the man
Not less than visible. Meantime his son
Took counsel in his heart, and made resolve
To skirt, in homeward course, that eastern sea,
The woods primeval ’twixt him and the foe,
Still sallying night and day through alley and glade
And taming thus their pride.
Three days went by:
Then stood Cuchullain where great wood-ways met;
And lo! betwixt four yews a warrior’s grave,
The pillar-stone above it! O’er that stone
In mirthful mood he twined an osier wreath,
Cyphering thereon his name in Ogham signs:
For thus he said; ‘On no man unawares
Fall I, but warned.’ The hostile host approached,
And, halting stood in wonder at that wreath;
Yet none could spell the Ogham. Last drew nigh
Fergus, and read it: on him fell that hour
Memories full dear, and loud he sang and long;
He sang a warrior’s praise: yet named him not;
He sang; ‘From name of man to name of beast
A warrior changed: then mightiest grew of men!’
And, as he sang, the cheek of Meave grew red.
Next morn Neara’s sons outsped the rest
Car-borne with brandished spears; and, ere the dew
Was lifted, came to where Cuchullain sat
Beneath an oak, sporting with black-birds twain
That followed him for aye. Toward the youths
He waved his hand; ‘Away, for ye are young!’
In answer forth they flung their spears: he caught them,
And snapt them on his knee; next, swift as fire,
Sprang on the twain, and slew them with his sword,
One blow:—anon he loosed their horses’ bits,
And they, with madness winged, rejoined the host,
Bearing those headless bulks. Forth looked the queen;
Beheld; and, trembling, cried; ‘It might have been
Orloff, my son!’
That eve, at banquet ranged
The warriors questioned Fergus; ‘Who is best
Among the Uladh chiefs?’ Ere answer came
King Conor’s son self-exiled, Conlinglas,
Upleaping cried, ‘Cuchullain is his name!
Cuchullain! From his childhood man was he!
On Eman Macha ever was his thought,
Its walls, its bulwarks, and its Red Branch Knights,
The wonder of the world.’ Then told the prince
How, when his mother mocked his zeal, that child
Fared forth alone, with wooden sword and shield,
And fife, and silver ball; and how he hurled
His little spears before him as he ran,
And caught them ere they fell; and how, arrived,
He spurned great Eman’s gates, and scaled its wall,
And lighted in the pleasaunce of the king,
His mother’s brother, Conor Conchobar;
And how the noble youths of all that land
There trained in warlike arts, had on him dashed
With insult and with blows: and how the child
This way and that had hurled them, while the king
Who sat that hour with Fergus, playing chess,
Gazed from his turret wondering.
Next he told
How to that child, Setanta first, there fell
Cuchullain’s nobler name. ‘To Eman near
There dwelt an armourer, Cullain was his name,
That earliest rose, and latest with his forge
Reddened the night: mail-clad in might of his
The Red Branch Knights forth rode; the bard, the chief
Claimed him for friend. One day, when Conor’s self
Partook his feast, the armourer held discourse;
“The Gods have made my house a house of fame:
The craftsmen grin and grudge because I prosper:
The forest bandits hunger for my goods,
Yea, and would eat mine anvil if they might—
Trow ye what saves me, Sirs? A Hound is mine,
Each eve I loose him, lion-like, and fell;
The blood of many a rogue is on his mouth:
The bravest, if they hear him bay far off,
Flee like a deer!” Setanta’s shout rang loud
That moment at the gate, and, with it blent,
The baying of that hound! “The boy is dead,”
King Conor cried in horror. Forth they rushed—
There stood he, bright and calm, his rigid hands
Clasping the dead hound’s throat! They wept for joy:
The armourer wept for grief. “My friend is dead!
My friend that kept my house and me at peace:
My friend that loved his lord!” Setanta heard
Then first that cry forth issuing from the heart
Of him whose labour wins his children’s bread;
That cry he honours yet. Red-cheeked he spake;
“Cullain! unwittingly I did thee wrong!
I make amends. I, child of kings, henceforth
Abide, thy watch-hound, warder of thy house.”
Thenceforth the ‘Hound of Cullain’ was his name,
And Cullain’s house well warded.’
Stern of brow
The queen arose: ‘Enough of fables, lords!
Drink to the victory! Ere yon moon is dead
We knock at gates of Eman.’ High she held
The crimson goblet. Instant, felt ere heard,
Vibration strange troubled the moonlit air;
A long-drawn hiss o’er-ran it: then a cry,
Death-cry of warrior wounded to the death.
They rose: they gazed around: upon a rock
Cuchullain stood. The warrior said in heart,
‘I will not slay her; yet her pride shall die!’
Again that hiss: instant the golden crown
Fell from her head! In anger round she glared:—
Once more that hiss long-drawn, and in her hand
The goblet, shivered, stood! She cast it down;
She cried; ‘Since first I sat, a queen new-crowned,
Never such ignominy, or spleen of scorn
Hath mocked my greatness!’ Fiercely rushed the chiefs
Against the aggressor. Through the high-roofed woods
They saw him distant like a falling star
Kindling the air with speed. Ere long, close by
He stood with sling high holden. At its sound
Ever some great one died!
The morrow morn
Cuchullain reached a lawn: tall autumn grass
Whitened within it; but the Beech trees round
Were russet brown, the thorn-brakes berry-flushed:
Passing, he raised his spear, and launched it forth
Earthward: there stood it buried in the soil
Halfway, and quivering. Loud Cuchullain laughed,
And cried, ‘It quivers like the tail of swine
Gladdened by acorn feast!’ then drew he rein
And with one sword-stroke felled a youngling Birch
And bound it to that spear, and on its bark
Silvery and smooth, graved with his lance’s point
In Ogham characters the words, ‘Beware!
Unless thou know’st what hand this Ogham traced
Twine yonder berries mid thy young bride’s locks,
But spare to tempt that hand!’ An hour passed by
And Meave had reached the spot. Chief following chief
Drew near in turn; yet none could drag from earth
That spear deep-buried. Fergus laughed; ‘Let be
Connacians! Task is here for Uladh’s hand!’
Then, standing in his car, he clutched the spear
And tugged it thrice. The third time ’neath his feet
Down crashed the strong-built chariot to the ground.
He laughed! The queen in anger cried, ‘March on!’
The host advanced, disordered. Foremost drave
Orloff, Meave’s son. That morning he had wed
A maid, the loveliest in his mother’s court,
And yearned to prove his valour in her eyes.
Sudden he came to where Cuchullain stood
Pasturing his steeds with grass and flower forth held
In wooing, dallying hand. Cuchullain said
‘The queen’s son this! I will not harm the youth,’
And waved him to depart. That stripling turned
Yet, turning, hurled his javelin. As it flew
The swift one caught it; poised it; hurled it home:
It pierced that youth from back to breast; he fell
Dead on the chariot’s floor. The steeds rushed on
Wind-swift; and reached the camp. There sat the queen
Throned in her car, listening the host’s applause:
In swoon she fell, and lay as lie the dead.
Next morn again the invaders marched, nor knew
What foe was he who, mocking, thinned their ranks,
Trampled their pride; who, lacking spear and car,
Viewless by day, by night a fleeting fire,
Dragged down their mightiest, in the death cry shrill
Drowning the revel. Fergus knew the man,
Fergus alone; nor yet divulged his name,
Oft muttering, ‘These be men who fight for Bulls—
I war to shake a Perjurer from his throne,
And count no brave man foe.’ Again at feast
Ailill made question of the Red Branch Knights:
Fergus replied; ‘Cuchullain is their best:
I taught him arms! Hear of his Knighting Day!
‘Northward of Eman lies a pleasaunce green:
The Arch-Druid, Cathbad, gazer on the stars,
While there the youths contended, beckoned one
And whispered, “Happy shall that stripling prove
Knighted this day! Glorious his life, though brief!”
That hour Cuchullain stood beyond the wall
South of the city, yet that whisper heard!
He heard, and cried; “Enough one day of life
If great my deeds, and helpful!” Swift of foot
He sped to Conor. “I demand, great king,
Knighthood this day, and knighthood at thy hand.”
But Conor laughed; “Not fifteen years are thine!
Withhold thyself yet three.” That self-same hour
Old Cathbad entered, and his Druid clan,
And spake; “King Conor! by my bed last night
Great Macha stood, the worship of our race,
Our strength in realms unseen. ‘Arise,’ she said;
‘To Conor speed: to him report my will:
That youth knighted this day is mine Elect!
I, Macha, send him forth!’
‘“She spake and passed:
Trembled the place like cliffs o’er ocean caves:
Like thunder underground I heard her wheels
In echoes slowly dying.”
‘Fixed and firm
King Conor stood. Sternly he made reply:
“Queen Macha had her day and ruled: far down
Doubtless this hour she rules, or rules aloft:
I rule in Eman and this Uladh realm:
I will not knight a stripling!” Prophet-like
Up-towered old Cathbad, and his clan black-stoled.
This way and that they rolled prophetic bolts
Three hours; and brake with warnings from the stars
And mandates from the synod of the Gods,
The king’s resolve. At last he cried, “So be it!
Since Gods, like men, grow witless, be it so!
The worse for Eman, and great Macha’s land—
Stand forth, my sister’s son!” He spake and bound
The Geisa, and the edicts, and the vows
Of that dread Red Branch Order on the boy,
And gave him sword and lance.
‘An eye star-keen
That boy upon them fixed, and, each on each,
Smote them. They snapt in twain. Laughing, he cried,
“Good art thou, Uncle mine; but these are base:
I need a warrior’s weapons!” Conor signed;
Then brought his knaves ten swords, and lances ten:
Cuchullain eyed them each and snapt them all,
The concourse marvelling. “Varlets,” cried the king,
“Bring forth my arms of battle!” These in turn
Cuchullain proved: they brake not. Up they dragged
A battle-car. Cuchullain leaped therein:
With feet far set he spurned its brazen floor
That roared and sank in fragments. Chariots twelve
Successive thus he vanquished. “Uncle mine,
Good art thou,” cried the youth; “but these are base!”
King Conor signed, “My car of battle!” Leagh
The charioteer forth brought it with the steeds:
Cuchullain proved that war-car and it stood.
Careless he spake: “So, well! The car will serve!
Abide ye my return.”
‘He shook the reins:
He called the horses by their names well-known:
He dashed through Eman’s gateway as a storm:
Far off a darksome wood and darksome tower
Frowned over Mallok’s wave: therein abode
Three bandit chieftains, foes to man: well pleased
Those bandits eyed the on-rushing car, and youth,
Exulting in their prey: arrived, with gibes
He summoned them to judgment: forth they thronged,
They and their clan: he slew them with his sling,
The three; and severed with his sword their heads,
And fixed them on the chariot’s front. His mood
Changed into mirthful: fleeter than the wind
Six stags went by him, stateliest of the herd;
Afoot he chased them, caught them, bound them fast
Behind the chariot rail. Birds saw he next
White as a foam-wreath of their native sea,
Spotting the glebe new turned. A net lay near:
He caged them; next he tied them to his car
Wide-winged, and wailing loud. To Eman’s towers
Returned he then with laughter: at its gate
The king, the chiefs, grey Druids, maids red-cloaked,
Agape to see him—on his chariot’s front
The grim heads of those bandits; in its rear
Those stags wide-horned; and, high o’erhead the birds!’
The laughter ceasing, spake King Conor’s son;
‘Recount the wonder of those fairy steeds
That drag Cuchullain’s war-car!’ Fergus then,
Despite Queen Meave, who plaited still her robe
With angry hectic hand, the tale began.
‘Cuchullain paced the herbage thin that clothes
Slieve Fuad’s summit. On that airy height
A wan lake glittered, whitening in the blast,
Pale plains around it. From beneath that lake
Emerged a horse foam-white! Cuchullain saw,
And straightway round that creature’s neck high-held
Locked the lithe arms no struggles could unwind.
That courser baffled clothed his strength with speed:
From cliff to cliff he sped; cleared at a bound
Inlet, and rocky rift; nor stayed his course,
Men say, till he had circled Erin’s Isle.
Panting then lay he, on his conqueror’s knee
Resting his head; thenceforth that conqueror’s friend,
His “Liath Macha.” Gentle-souled is she
“Sangland,” the wild one’s comrade. As the night
Sank on those huge red-berried woods of Yew
Loch Darvra’s girdle, from beneath the wave
She issued, darker still. Softly she paced,
As though with woman’s foot, the grassy marge
In violets diapered, and laid her head
Upon Cuchullain’s shoulder. In his wars
Emulous those mated marvels drag his car:
In peace he yokes them never.’
Fergus rose:
‘Night wanes,’ he said, ‘and tasks await my hand:’
Passing the throne he whispered thus the queen,
‘The Hound of Uladh is your visitant
Both day and night.’ The cheek of Meave grew pale.