Chapter III: VOICE OF CIR out of a Century more remote, but unknown,

As a horseman breaks on a sea-gulf enwomb’d in the amber woods Where tide is at ebb, and out on the airy brim Glass’d upon cloud and azure stand multitudes Of the flame-white people of gulls—to the sky-line dim

All breast to the sun,—and his hoofs expand the desolate strait Into fevers of snows and ocean-wandering cries: Even so, chanters divine, in some woman’s fate At coming of him to be loved do her dreams arise.

And Deirdre the exquisite virgin pale as the coat of swans Took the flame of love in her heart at the time of dew

And clad her in ragged wool from a coffer of bronze And walked in the chill of night, for her soul was new.

“Why thick with the berries of sweetness, ye barren thorns of the spring? I could drink up this tempest cold as a burning wine. Why laugh, my grief, for art thou not bride of a king, And the drinkers drink to a couch array’d to be thine?”

Where the wounded toss without sleep in the warrior’s hive of stones— The house Bron Bhearg—she laid her cheek to the wall And bless’d them by stealth, with no pang at the sound of groans Having that in her rich heart which could heal them all.

To the fortress-gate on the steep that looketh toward Creeve Roe She fled, and spied not a sling-cast off the flare Of a torch, and the skull fixed over the gate. And lo, To the right hand watchmen paced by the water there.

And the shag-hair’d guard, with a mock, laid spears in their passage house Athwart, for who was this phantom over the grass Like a filcher of food? And Deirdre uncover’d her brows And cried: “I am Deirdre!” And sullen they gave her the pass.

And towards Creeve Roe the dip of the cuckoo’s vale was dark To blindness. She pluck’d her steps on that miry road Through copses alive with storm, till at length a spark Shew’d the forge where the smith on the heroes’ way abode.

Now Culann the smith was wise; and leaping her spirit stirr’d With the soft roar of his hide-wing’d fire as it soar’d: “Has the son of Usnach pass’d?” “Yea, gone back!” With the word He smote on a ribbon of iron to make him a sword.

And the argentine din of anvils behind her steadily dwindling The woman fled to the wastes, till she came to a Thorn Black, by the well of a God, with stars therein kindling And over it rags fluttering from boughs forlorn.

And she knelt and shore with a knife a lock of her deathless hair, And leash’d the black-shuddering branch with that tress, and pray’d: “Sloe-tree, thou snow of the darkness, O hear my prayer, And thou, black Depth, bubble-breather, vouchsafe thine aid;

“From Connachar’s eyes of love let me hide as a gray mole, Sons of the earth’s profound, that no weeper spurn! I have look’d on a face, and its kindness ravish’t my soul But deliverance pass’d; unto you for escape I turn.”

And loud as the sloven starlings in winter whistle and swarm Came the banish’d of Usnach nigh, thrice fifty strong As they drove from Eman away on that night of storm And Naois spoke with his brothers behind the throng:

“O, Aillean, O, Ardan, hark! What cry was that? For some cry Rang on my soul’s shield; hark! hear ye it now?” But they rein’d not their weary chariots, shouting reply “It was fate,’twas the curs’t hag that is crouch’d on a bough!”

Tossing they drove out of sight, Naois the last, and his hood Rain-dripping mantled the wind. One ran like a roe, And call’d on that great name from the nightbound wood, “Stay, long-awaited, stay! for with thee I go!”

And his brothers cried “Halt not! the host of the air makes moan Or a gang of the wild geese going back to the lake.” But Naois rear’d up the deep-ribb’d Srōn, “Good Srōn, Thou and I needs must turn for our fame’s sake.”

And he heard a voice: “Son of Usnach, take me to be thy wife!” He bent from the withers, the blaze of her trembling drew The breath from his lips and the beat from his heart’s life; And he said, “Who art thou, Queen?” But himself knew,

And mutter’d “Return, return, unto him that I hate. For know Him least of all I rob, least of all that live.” But she cried: “Am I then a colt, that ye snare from a foe With a bridle’s shaking? I am mine own to give.”

“Thy beauty would crumble away in the spate of my wild nights, And famine rake out thine embers, the lean paw Of jeopardy find thee. He is not rich in delights Whose harp is the gray fell in the winter’s flaw.”

And she laid her arm round the neck of Srōn: “Hast heard, Horse swollen-vein’d from battle, insulter of death— Whose back is only a perch for the desert bird— Whose fore-hooves fight—whose passage is torn with teeth,

“And dost thou not shudder off the knees of a master deaf To the grief of the weak?” And the lad, deeply-moved, rejoins “Mount then, O woman, behind me,”—and light as a leaf Drawing her up from his foot to the smoking loins

Shook loose the ox-hide bridle. Even as the great gull dives From Muilréa’s moon-glittering peak when the sky is bare, Scraped naked by nine days’ wind, and sweepingly drives Overnight-blurr’d gulfs and the long glens of the air,

And feels up-tossing his breast an exhaustless breath bear on Spouted from isleless ocean to aid his flight— So fiercely, so steadily gallop’d the sinewy Srōn, Braced by that double burden to more delight.

Though his mane wrapp’d a wounded bridle-hand, fast, fast As giddy foam-weltering waters dash’d by the hoof Flee away from the weirs of Callan, even so pass’d Dark plains away to the world’s edge, behind and aloof.

And the rider stoop’d and whisper’d amidst the thunder of weirs Such sweetness of praise to his horse in the swirl of the flood That Srōn twitch’d back for an instant his moonëd ears— Strain’d forth like a hare’s,—as his haunches up to the wood

Wrested them. Beaks of magic, the wreckage of time, came out And talon’d things of the forest would waft and sway But Naois raised unforgotten that battle-shout That scatters the thrilling wreath of all fears away.

So they measured the Plain of the Dreamers, the Brake of the Black Ram, Till the Crag of the Dances before them did shape and loom. And the Meads of the Faery Hurlers in silver swam Then up to the Gap of the Winds, and the far-seen tomb

White on Slieve Fuad’s side. By many a marchland old And cairn of princes—yea, to mine own bedside— They adventured. Think ye, sweet bards, that I could lie cold When my chamber of rock fore-knew that impassion’d stride?

Had I, too, not pluck’d the webs of rain-sweet drops from the harp And torn from its wave of chords an imperishable love To sleep on this breast? Here, through the mountain sharp My grave-chamber tunnell’d is, and one door from above

Westward surveys green territories, gentle with flowers and charm, But forth from the eastern face of the ridge is unquell’d Wilderness, besown with boulders and grass of harm. And even in my trance could I feel those riders approach and beheld

Naois assault the ridge, to the wilderness setting his face Expectant, unconscious, as one whom his foes arouse; His heart was a forge—his onset enkindled space— He shook off the gusty leagues like locks from his brows.

What should he reck of Earth save that under his wounds he felt Stolen round him, as dreamy water steals round a shore, A girdle, the arms of Deirdre, clasp’d for a belt That terror of main kings should unlock no more?

I was caught from the grave’s high gate as that spume-flaked ecstacy drew Upward, and wing’d like the kiss of Aengus, strove For utterance to greet them—encircling their heads that flew— But who loops the whirlwind’s foot or out-dreameth love?

He wheel’d round Srōn on the crest. Abrupt he flung back a hand And spoke, “Dost thou know the truth? Look where night is low! Soon the ants of that mound shall shake the ledge where we stand: Now the tribes are summon’d, the Night prepares his blow.

“Now wrath spurts, hot from the trumpet—the main beacon flares— Now tackle the arrogant chariots—dogs in their glee Hang on the leash-slaves, numb in the cockcrow airs. Why, out of all that host, hast thou singled me?”

I heard her behind him breathe, “Because out of all that host Aptest art thou in feats, held in honour more Than any save bright Cuchullain.”[1] He turn’d as one lost, “Is this time a time to mock? Are there not fourscore

“Better at feats than I, my masters, the noble teams, The attemper’d knights of the Red Branch every one? Nay, though I knead up the whole earth in my dreams, Nought to such men am I, who have nothing done.”

I heard the blowings of Srōn, and then lasting words: “I choose Thee—wherefore? Ah, how interpret? To-day on the slope Where first by the wall I saw thee at gloam of dews I knew it was fated. It was not some leaf of hope

Eddying. Thou wast the token—half of the potter’s shard— That a chief beleaguer’d cons in his desperate camp Pass’d in by some hand unseen to the outmost guard, And fits to the other half by his wasted lamp.

“Seeing thee, I knew myself to be shaped of the self-same clay— Half of the symbol—and broken, mayhap, to serve As language to them of the night from powers of the day.” By the Path of the throbbing Curlew no step may swerve

Where they rode through the Gap; and at last she murmur’d, “Dost grieve at me still?” And he said, “Glorious is it to me that behind us pursuit Shall be wide as the red of the morning, for thou art my will! To the beach of the world of the dead, and beyond it to boot,

“Let me take and defend thee.” In silence the hearts of the twain were screen’d,— But crossing the mires and the torrents I saw strange ease Afloat, like a spark, on the woman’s eyes as she lean’d Forth, and a shadow betwixt her lips like peace.

Footnote 1:

Pronounced Cuhoollin.