Chapter VII: Prologue (1)

Senchan, the king of bards, when centuries six
Had flowered and faded since the Birth Divine,
Summoned in synod all the island bards,
Demanding; ‘Is there who can yet recite
That first of Erin’s songs, “The Tain”?’ Not one
Could sing it, save in fragments. Then arose
Marbhan, and spake; ‘Send prayer to Erin’s Saints
That, bowed o’er Fergus’ grave, they lift their hands
For Erin at her need.’ Five Saints obeyed
And o’er that venerable spot three days
Fasting made prayer while knelt the bards around.
Then on the third day as the sun uprose
Behold! a purple mist engirt that grave;
And from it, fair as rainbow backed by cloud,
Shone out a kingly Phantom robed in green,
With red-brown locks, close clustered, drenched in dew,
And golden crown, and golden-hilted sword;--
His hand was on it. They who saw that Shape
Well knew him, Fergus Roy, the Exile-King.
Gracious as in the old days, that king rehearsed
The Tale so long desired, though many an age,
And that grey empire of departed Souls,
Had quelled at last the strong ones of that strain,
Record half jest, half earnest. Marbhan spoke
Once more; ‘Lest Erin lose again this Tale
Through fraud of demons or all-wasting time,
Amid yon Saints elect some scribe, their best,
And pray that scribe to write it.’ Straight, with help
It may be, of the bards, Saint Kiaran wrote
The Heroic Song on parchment fine, the skin
Of one he loved, his ‘little heifer grey’
That gave the book its name. Six centuries passed;
Then in Saint Kiaran’s House at Clonmacnoise
That book was found, and on it; ‘Reader, here
Are histories old with later fables blent,
Fancies full fair with idle Pagan vaunts:
Now therefore, since old things have in them worth
And teach by what they hold and what they lack
Whoso shall read this book, and know to choose
’Twixt Good and Ill, my blessing on him rest!’

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FRAGMENT I.

_THE CAUSE OF THE GREAT WAR._

ARGUMENT.

Meave, Queen of Connacht,[24] and Ailill her husband, waking one morning fall into a disputation, each claiming to be the worthier of the two, and the wealthier. Their lords decide that the king and queen are great and happy alike in all things save one only, namely, that Ailill possesses the far-famed white Bull, Fionbannah. Meave hearing that Conor Conchobar, King of Uladh,[25] boasts a black Bull mightier yet, is fain to purchase it, but cannot prevail so far. She therefore declares war against Uladh. There meets her Faythleen the Witch, who prophesies calamity, but promises that in aid of Meave she will breathe over the realm of Uladh a spirit of imbecility. This she does; yet Cuchullain, unaided, afflicts the whole army of Meave by exploits which to him are but sports. Fergus, the exiled King of Uladh, narrates to Meave the high deeds of Cuchullain wrought in his childhood.

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![26] 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[27] 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[28] 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’[29] 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.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

FRAGMENT II.

_THE DEEDS OF CUCHULLAIN._

ARGUMENT.

Fergus is sent to Cuchullain with gifts, and requires him to forsake King Conor. This he will not do, yet consents to forbear Meave’s host till she has reached the border of Uladh, the queen engaging that the warfare shall then be restricted to a combat between himself and a single champion sent against him day by day. Each day Meave’s champion is slain. Cailitin, lord of the Magic Clan, counsels Meave to send against Cuchullain his best-loved friend Ferdīa; yet she sends, instead, Lok Mac Favesh. When he too falls, Cailitin and his twenty-seven sons, all magicians, fling themselves upon Cuchullain to slay him. Cuchullain slays them. The Mor Reega, the War-Goddess of the Gael, prophesies to him that there yet awaits him the greatest of his trials. After ninety days of combat Cuchullain’s father brings him tidings that all Uladh lies bound under a spell of imbecility.

Thus ever day by day, and night by night,
Through strength of him that mid the royal host
Passed, and re-passed like thought, the bravest fell;
For ne’er against the inglorious or the small
That warrior raised his hand. Then Ailill spake;
‘Let Fergus seek that champion in the woods,
Gift-laden, and withdraw him from his king:’
But Fergus answered; ‘Sue and be refused!
That great one loves his country. Heard ye never
How when King Conor’s sin, that forfeit pledge
Plighted with Usnach’s sons, had left the Accursed
Crownless, and Eman’s bulwarks in the dust,
Her elders on Cuchullain worked, what time
He came my work of vengeance to complete?
They said, “Cuchullain loves his land o’er all!
The man besides, though terrible to foes,
Is tender to the weak. Through Eman’s streets
Send ye proclaim, ‘Will any holy Maid
To save the city take her station sole
On yonder bridge, at parting of the ways,
That city’s Emblem-Victim, robed in black
Down from her girdle to the naked feet;
Above that girdle this alone--the chains
Of Eman’s gate, circling that virgin throat
And down at each side streaming? It may be
That dread one will relent, pitying in her
Great Uladh’s self despoiled of robe and crown,
Her raiment bonds and shame.’ Of Eman’s maids
But one, the best and purest gave consent:
Alone she stood at parting of the ways:
While near and nearer yet that war-car drew
Wide-eyed she stood, death-pale: it stopp’d: she spake;
Eman, thy Mother, stands a widow now:
And many a famished babe that wrought no ill
Lies mid her ruins wailing.” To the left
The warrior turned his steeds. The land was saved.’
Then spake the kings confederate; ‘Hard albeit
That task, to draw Cuchullain from his charge,
Seek him, and proffer terms!’ Fergus next morn
Made way through those sea-skirting woods, and cried
Three times, ‘Setanta;’ and Cuchullain heard
And knew that voice, and, beaming, issued forth,
And clasped his ancient master round the neck,
And led him to his sylvan cell. Therein
Long time they held discourse of ancient days
Heaven-fair through mist of years. The youthful host
Set forth their rural feast, whate’er the woods
And they that in them dwelt, swine-herds, and hinds,
Yielded, their best: nor lacked it minstrel strain,
Bird-song by autumn chilled, that brake through boughs
Lit by unwarming sunshine. Banquet o’er,
Fergus his errand shewed, and named the gifts
By Ailill sent, and Meave. Cuchullain rose
And curtly answered; ‘Never will I break
My vow; nor wrong the land; nor sell my king:’
Fergus too royal was to hear surprised,
Or grieved, his friend’s resolve, nor touched again
Upon that pact unworthy. Happier themes
Succeeded, mirthful some. Of these the last
Made sport of Ailill. Fergus spake; ‘One night
To Meave’s pavilion swift of foot I sped;
War-tidings wait not. Ailill from afar
Furtively followed, stung by jealous spleen.
The queen had passed into the inner tent;
I sought her there. In the outer Ailill marked
My sword, that morning thither sent, a loan,
For Meave had vowed with braided gems, her boast,
To out-brave its hilt. His wrath was changed to joy!
He snatched it up; he cried; “Hail, forfeit mine!
Hail Eric just!”[30] and laughed his childish laugh.
Since then he neither frowns on me nor smiles:
He will not let me rule his foolish kings;
Yet, deeming still my sword a charm ’gainst fate
Wears it. An apter one for him I keep:
One day ’twill raise a laugh!’ In graver mood
At parting Fergus spake; ‘For thee unmeet
That pact of Meave, though not for her: but thou
Conceal not, know’st thou meeter terms, and fit?’
To whom Cuchullain; ‘Fergus, terms there be,
Other, and fitter. I divulge them not:
Divine them he that seeks them!’ On the morn
Fergus these things narrated to the chiefs
In synod met. Then rose a recreant churl,
And thus gave counsel; ‘Lure Cuchullain here
On pretext fair; and slay him at the feast!’
Against that recreant Fergus hurled his spear,
And slew him, and continued, ‘Hundreds six,
Our best, have perished, and our march is slow:
Now, warriors, hear my counsel, and my terms.
Cuchullain scorns your gifts--of such no more!
’Twixt southern Erin and my Uladh’s realm,
Runs Neeth: across that river lies a ford;
Speak to Cuchullain; “By that ford stand thou,
Guarding thy land. Against thee, day by day,
Be ours to send one champion--one alone:--
While lasts that strife forbear the host beside!”’
Then roared the kings a long and loud applause,
Since wise appeared that counsel: faith they pledged,
And sureties in the hearing of the Gods:
Likewise Cuchullain, when his friend returned,
Made answer; ‘Well you guessed! a month or more
My strength will hold: meantime our Uladh arms.’
To seal that pact he sought the hostile camp,
And shared the banquet. Wondering, all men gazed,
And maidens, lifted on the warriors’ shields,
Gladdened, so bright that youthful face. At morn
Meave, when the chief departed, kissed his cheek:
‘Pity,’ she said, ‘that such a one should die!’
The one sole time that Meave compassion felt.
That eve Cuchullain drank the wave of Neeth,
And wading reached Murthemné’s soil, his charge
And knelt, and kissed it. As the sun declined
He clomb a rocky height, and northward gazed,
And cried; ‘Ye Red Branch warriors, haste! I keep
The ford; but who shall guard it when I die?’
Next morning by that stream the fight began,
Two champions face to face: and, every morn,
Rang out, renewed, that combat; every eve
Again went up from that confederate host
The shout of rage. Daily their bravest died,
Thirty in thirty days. Feerbraoth fell;
And Natherandal, though the Druid horde
Above his javelins, carved at set of moon
From the ever-sacred holly stem, had breathed
Vain consecration, and with futile salve
Anointed them: confuted soon they sailed
In ignominy adown that seaward tide
With him that hurled them. Eterconnel next,
Dalot, and Cuir. Yet he who laid them low
Was beardless at the lip:--While thus they strove
A second month went by.
Such things beholding
The queen was moved; and in her grew one day
Craving for Cruachan. But on her ear
Rolled forth that hour the lowings of that Bull
Cuailgné’s Donn: for he from Daré’s house
Had heard, though far, the clamours of the host,
And answered rage with rage. Then Meave resolved,
Though all my host should perish to a man
This foot shall tread no more my native plains
Save with that Bull in charge!
To her by night
Came Cailitin, who ever walked by night
Shunning mankind, and Fergus most of all,
Cailitin, father of the Magic Clan,
And thus addressed her; ‘Place in me thy trust!
I hate Cuchullain, for he hates my spells
Resting his hope on virtue. In thy camp
Ferdīa bides, a Firbolg feared of all.
Win him to meet Cuchullain. They in youth
Were friends: to slay that friend will lay a hand
Icy as death upon Cuchullain’s heart.
Ferdīa dies--thus much mine art foreshews--
Then I, since magic spells have puissance most
Upon a soul depressed and body sick,
Fall on him with my seven and twenty sons,
Magicians all. One are we: thence with one
May fight, thy pledge unflawed. A drop of blood
Shed by our swords, though small as beetle’s eye,
Costs him his life.’ Fiercely the queen replied,
‘A Firbolg! Never!’ Cailitin resumed,
‘Then send for Lok Mac Favesh!’
With the morn
Mac Favesh sought her tent. Direful his mien;
Massive his stride; his body brawny and huge;
For, though of Gaelic race, the stock of Ir,
With him was mingled giant blood of old,
Wild blood of Nemedh’s brood that hurled sea rocks
’Gainst the Fomorian. Oft the advancing tide
Drowned both, in battle knit. Before the queen
Boastful the sea-king laid his club, and spake:
‘Queen, though to combat with a beardless boy
Affronts my name, my lineage, and my strength,
His petulance shall vex thine eye no more!
Uladh is thine to-morrow!’ At the dawn
By hundreds girt, the great ones of his clan,
Down drave he to the ford, and onward strode
Trampling the last year’s branches strewn hard by
That snapp’d beneath him. Hides of oxen seven
Sustained the brazen bosses of his shield;
And forth he stretched a hand that might have grasped
A tiger’s throat and choked him. O’er his helm
Hovered an imaged demon raven-black.
Cuchullain met him; hours endured the strife,
That mountained strength triumphant now, anon
Cuchullain’s might divine. Then first that might
Was fully tasked. Upon the bank that day
Stood up a Portent seen by none save him,
A Shape not human. Terribly it fixed
On him alone its never-wandering eye;
The dread Mor Reega,[31] she that from the skies
O’er-rules the battle-fields, and sways at will
This way or that the sable tides of death.
He gazed; and, though incapable of fear,
Awe, such as heroes feel, possessed his heart:
Its beatings shook his brain: his corporal mould
Throbbed as a branch against some river swift;
And backward turned his hair like berried trails
Of thorn athwart the hedge. Three several times
He saw her, yet fought on. With beckoning hand
At last that Portent summoned from the main
A huge sea-snake: round him it twined its knots:
Then on Cuchullain fell the rage from heaven:
A sword-blow, and that vast sea-worm lay dead!
A sword uplifted, and Mac Favesh fell
Prone on the shuddering flood. In death he cried,
‘Lay me with forehead turned to Uladh’s realm;--
They shall not say that fugitive I died.’
Cuchullain wrought his will: then, bleeding fast,
Stood upright, leaning on his spear aslant;
A warrior battle-wearied.
From the bank
Meantime, the dark magician, Cailitin,
He and his sons, with wide and greedy eyes,
That still, like one man’s eyes, together moved,
Had watched that fight, counting each drop that fell
Down from Cuchullain’s wounds. When faint he stood
At once their cry rang out like one man’s cry;
Like one their seven and twenty javelins flew:
As swift, Cuchullain caught them on his shield:
An instant more, and all that horde accursed
Was dealing with him. From the trampled ford
Went up a mist of spray that veiled that strife,
Though pierced by demon cries, and flash beside
Of demon swords. O’er it at last up-towered
On-borne, such power to blend have Spirits impure,
A single Form--as when o’er seas storm-laid
The watery column reels, and draws from heaven
The cloud, and drowns the ship--a single Form,
And Head, and Hand, clutching Cuchullain’s crest:
Not wholly sank he. O’er that mist of spray
Glittered his sword. There fell a silence strange:
Slowly that mist dispersed; and on the sands
That false Enchanter lay with all his sons
Black, bleeding bulks of death.
Amid them stood
Cuchullain; near him, seen by him alone,
That dread Mor Reega, now benign. She spake:
‘I hated thee, since less in me thy trust
Than in great Virtue’s aid. I hate no more.
Be strong! a trial waits thee heavier yet--
No man is friend of mine till trial-proved.’
Yet sad at heart that eve Cuchullain clomb
His wonted rock, and faint with loss of blood,
And mused; ‘My strength must lessen day by day;’
And northward gazed, thus murmuring; ‘All too late
To save the land those Red Branch Knights will come
When I am dead--
My war-car, and my war-steeds are far off
And I am here alone.’ Through grief that night
He slept not; for the Magic Clan had power,
Though dead, to lean above him as a cloud
Darkening his spirit. Happy days gone by
They changed to grief and shame.
While thus he sat
He saw, not distant, on the forest floor,
In moonbeams clad, though moon was near him none,
A pure and princely presence. Lithe his form
In youthful prime: chain armour round him clung
Bright as if woven of diamonds. Glad his eye;
Dulcet his voice as strain from Elfin glen
Far heard o’er waters. Thus that warrior spake:
‘My child, an ancestor of thine I come,
Great Ethland’s son, in virtuous battle slain.
Among the Sidils[32] now, and fairy haunts
Moon-lit, and under depths of lucent lakes,
Gladness I have who in my day had woe,
And youth perpetual though I died in age.
Repose thou need’st: for sixty days thine eyes
Have closed reluctant. Sleep a three days’ sleep
Whilst I thy semblance bearing meet thy foes.’
Thus spake the youth, then sang Lethean song,
And, straight, Cuchullain slept. Three days gone by,
Again that vision came. ‘Arise,’ he said:
The warrior rose; and lo! his wounds were healed:
Down to the river sped he.
Waiting there
Stood up Iarion, champion of the queen,
There stood, nor thence returned. Eochar next
Perished, then Tubar, Chylair, Alp, and Ord,
In all full ninety warriors. Ninety days
Had fled successive since that strife began,
When, on the evening of the ninetieth day,
His strength entire, and victory eagle-winged
Fanning his ardent cheek, Cuchullain scaled
Once more that specular rock. Within his heart
Spirit illusive that, with purpose veiled,
Oft tries the loftiest most, this presage sang
‘Southward, not distant, thou shalt see them march
At last, that Red Branch Order, in their van
Thy Conal Carnach!’ Other spectacle
Met him, a chariot small with horses small,
And, o’er the axle bent, a small old man
Urging them feebly on. It was his sire!
T’wards him Cuchullain rushed: the old man wept,
For gladness wept, and afterwards for woe,
Kissing the wounds unnumbered of his son:
Reverent, Cuchullain led him to his cell;
Reverent, he placed before him wine and meat;
Nor questioned yet. The old man satisfied,
Garrulity returned, though less than once,
Now quelled by patriot passion. Thus he spake:--
‘Setanta! son of mine! I bring ill news:
Uladh is mad; the Red Branch House is mad:
We two are mad; and all the world are mad,
Mad as thy mother! Through the realm I sped:
A mist hung o’er it heavy, and on her sons
Imbecile spirit, and a heartless mind,
And base soul-sickness. Evermore I cried,
“Arise! the stranger’s foot is on your soil:
They come to stall their horses in your halls;
To slay your sons; enslave your spotless maids;
Alone my son withstands them!” Shrewd of eye
Men answered; “Merchant; see thy wares be sound!
No lack-wits we!” Old seers I saw that decked
Time-honoured foreheads with a jester’s crown:
I saw an ollamb trample under foot
His sacred Oghams: next I saw him grave
His own blear image on the tide-washed sands,
Boasting, “The unnumbered ages here shall stoop
Honouring true Wisdom’s image.” Shepherds set
The wolf to guard their fold. The wittol bade
The losel lead his wife to feast and dance:
Young warriors looked on maids with woman’s eyes.
I drave to Daré’s Dûn: his loud-voiced sons
Adored the Donn Cuailgné as their sire,
And called their sire a calf. To Iliach’s tower
I sped: he answered; “What! the foe! they come!
Climb we yon apple trees, and garner store!
Wayfarers need much victual!” Onward next
To Sencha’s castle:--On the roof he knelt,
Self-styled the kingdom’s chief astrologer,
Waiting the unrisen stars. To Olchar’s Dûn
I journeyed: wrapp’d in rags the strong man lay,
Thin from long fast; with eyelids well nigh closed:
Not less beneath them lay a gleaming streak:
“Awake me not,” he said: “a dormouse I!
Till peace returns I simulate to sleep.”
I sought the brothers Nemeth: one his eyes
Bent on the smoke-wreath from his chimney’s top,
One on the foam-streak wavering down the stream;
While each a finger raised, and said “Tread light!
Our earth is grass o’er glass!” I sought the mart:
Men babbled; “Bid the Druids find the king!”
I sought the Druids’ College: in a hall
Reed-strewn to smother sound they held debate
On Firbolg and Dedannan contracts pledged
Ere landed first the Gael. The Red Branch House
Was changed to hospital; and knights full-armed
Nodded o’er lepers’ beds. I sought the king:
From hall deserted on to hall I roamed:
I found him in his armoury walled around
With mail of warriors dead. There stood, or lay,
The chiefs by Uladh worshipp’d. Nearest, crouched
Great Conal Carnach patting of his sword
Like nurse that lulls an infant. On his throne
Sat Conchobar in miniver and gold:
His eyes were on his grandsire’s shield that breathed
At times a sigh athwart the steel-lit gloom:
Around his lips an idiot’s smile was curled:
“What will be will be,” spake the king at last:
“All things go well.”’
Thus Saltain told his tale:
One thing he told not--how, a moment’s space,
The passion of an old man’s scorn had wrought
Deliverance strange for that astonished throng,
High miracle of nature. He, the man
Despised since youth, the laughter of the crowd,
Himself restored to youth by change like death,
Had rolled his voice abroad, a mighty voice;
They heard it: from their trance they burst: they stood
Radiant once more with mind! They stood till died
The noble anger’s latest echo. Then
That mist storm-riven put forth once more its hand,
And downward dragged its prey.
Upon his feet
Cuchullain sprang, his father’s tale complete:
That rage divine which gave him strength divine
Had fallen on him from heaven. He raised his hands,
And roared against the synod of the Gods
That suffer shames below. Beyond the stream
That host confederate heard and armed in haste,
And slept that night in armour. Far away
Compassion touched the strong hearts of the Gods,
The strongest most--Mor Reega’s. Ere that cry
Had left its last vibration on the air
High up the Battle-Goddess, adamant-mailed,
Was drifting over Uladh. Eman’s towers
Flashed back her helmet’s beam. With lifted spear
She smote the brazen centre of her shield
Three times; and thunder, triple-bolted, rolled
Three times from sea to sea. The spell was snapp’d:
Humanity returned to man! The first
Who woke was Leagh, Cuchullain’s charioteer:
Forth from the opprobrious mist he passed like ship
That cleaves the limit of some low marsh-fog
And sweeps into main ocean. Forth he rushed--
Forth to Cuchullain’s chariot-house, and dragged
Abroad that war-car feared of man and yoked
White Liath Macha, and his comrade black,
And dashed adown the vacant, echoing streets,
And passed the gateway towers: the warders slept:
Beyond them, propp’d against the city wall,
A cripple crunched his mouldering crust. Still on
He rushed, the reins forth shaking and the scourge,
Clamouring and crying; ‘Haste, Cuchullain’s steeds!
On Liath Macha! Sable Sangland on!
Your master needs you! Aye! ye know it now!
The blood-red nostril smells the fight far off!
On to Murthemné, and Cuailgné’s hills,
And Neeth’s remembered ford!’ Unseen he drave;
So slowly, clinging still to brake and rock,
And oft re-settling, vanished from the land
The insane mist. That hurricane of wheels
Not less was heard by men who nothing saw:
On stony plain, in hamlet, and in vale:--
They muttered as in sleep; ‘Deliverance comes.’

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FRAGMENT III.

_THE COMBAT AT THE FORD._

ARGUMENT.

Queen Meave sends her herald to Ferdīa the Firbolg, requiring him to engage with Cuchullain in single combat. Ferdīa refuses to fight against his ancient friend; yet, later he attends a royal banquet given in his honour; and there, being drawn aside through the witcheries of the Princess Finobar, he consents to the fight. The charioteer of Ferdīa sees Cuchullain advancing in his war-car to the Ford, and, rapt by a prophetic spirit, sings his triumph. For two days the ancient friends contend against each other with reluctance and remorse: but on the third day the battle-rage bursts fully forth: and on the fourth, Cuchullain, himself pierced through with wounds innumerable, slays Ferdīa by the Gae-Bulg. He lays his friend upon the bank, at its northern side, and, standing beside him, sings his dirge.