{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_49610/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_49610","id":"gutenberg_49610","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/49610","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Plays/Films/Dramas","Category: Poetry","English literature -- Irish authors","Nobel Prizes in Literature"],"text":"Produced by Emmy, mollypit and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was\nproduced from images generously made available by The\nInternet Archive) Music transcribed by Linda Cantoni.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE COLLECTED WORKS OF\n\nWILLIAM BUTLER YEATS\n\n[Illustration:\n\n    _Emery Walker Ph. sc._\n\n_From a picture by Charles Shannon_]\n\n\n\n\n    THE COUNTESS CATHLEEN. THE\n    LAND OF HEART\u2019S DESIRE. THE\n    UNICORN FROM THE STARS :: BEING\n    THE THIRD VOLUME OF THE\n    COLLECTED WORKS IN VERSE\n    AND PROSE OF WILLIAM BUTLER\n    YEATS :: IMPRINTED AT THE\n    SHAKESPEARE HEAD PRESS ::\n    STRATFORD-ON-AVON\n    MCMVIII\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n                                          PAGE\n    THE COUNTESS CATHLEEN                    1\n\n    THE LAND OF HEART\u2019S DESIRE              89\n\n    THE UNICORN FROM THE STARS,\n      BY LADY GREGORY AND W. B. YEATS      121\n\n    APPENDIX:\n      THE COUNTESS CATHLEEN                209\n\n    NOTES                                  214\n\n\n\n\nTHE COUNTESS CATHLEEN\n\n\n\n\n    \u2018_The sorrowful are dumb for thee._\u2019\n                  Lament of MORION SHEHONE for\n                         MISS MARY BOURKE.\n\n\n\n\nTO MAUD GONNE.\n\n\n\n\n_PERSONS IN THE PLAY_\n\n\n    SHEMUS RUA, _a peasant_\n    TEIG, _his son_\n    ALEEL, _a young bard_\n    MAURTEEN, _a gardener_\n    THE COUNTESS CATHLEEN\n    OONA, _her foster-mother_\n    MAIRE, _wife of Shemus Rua_\n    TWO DEMONS _disguised as merchants_\n    MUSICIANS\n    PEASANTS, SERVANTS, &C.\n    ANGELICAL BEINGS, SPIRITS, AND FAERIES\n\n_The scene is laid in Ireland, and in old times._\n\n\n\n\nTHE COUNTESS CATHLEEN.\n\n\n\n\nACT I.\n\n\n    _The cottage of SHEMUS REA. The door into the open air\n    is at right side of room. There is a window at one\n    side of the door, and a little shrine of the Virgin\n    Mother at the other. At the back is a door opening into\n    a bedroom, and at the left side of the room a pantry\n    door. A wood of oak, beech, hazel, and quicken is seen\n    through the window half hidden in vapour and twilight.\n    MAIRE watches TEIG, who fills a pot with water. He\n    stops as if to listen, and spills some of the water._\n\nMAIRE.\n\n    You are all thumbs.\n\nTEIG.\n\n                 Hear how the dog bays, mother,\n    And how the gray hen flutters in the coop.\n    Strange things are going up and down the land,\n    These famine times: by Tubber-vanach crossroads\n    A woman met a man with ears spread out,\n    And they moved up and down like wings of bats.\n\nMAIRE.\n\n    Shemus stays late.\n\nTEIG.\n\n                     By Carrick-orus churchyard,\n    A herdsman met a man who had no mouth,\n    Nor ears, nor eyes: his face a wall of flesh;\n    He saw him plainly by the moon.\n\nMAIRE.\n\n[_Going over to the little shrine._]\n\n                                White Mary,\n    Bring Shemus home out of the wicked woods;\n    Save Shemus from the wolves; Shemus is daring;\n    And save him from the demons of the woods,\n    Who have crept out and wander on the roads,\n    Deluding dim-eyed souls now newly dead,\n    And those alive who have gone crazed with famine.\n    Save him, White Mary Virgin.\n\nTEIG.\n\n                                  And but now\n    I thought I heard far-off tympans and harps.\n\n    [_Knocking at the door._\n\nMAIRE.\n\n    Shemus has come.\n\nTEIG.\n\n                    May he bring better food\n    Than the lean crow he brought us yesterday.\n\n    [_MAIRE opens the door, and SHEMUS comes in with a dead\n    wolf on his shoulder._\n\nMAIRE.\n\n    Shemus, you are late home: you have been lounging\n    And chattering with some one: you know well\n    How the dreams trouble me, and how I pray,\n    Yet you lie sweating on the hill from morn,\n    Or linger at the crossways with all comers,\n    Telling or gathering up calamity.\n\nSHEMUS.\n\n    You would rail my head off. Here is a good dinner.\n\n    [_He throws the wolf on the table._\n\n    A wolf is better than a carrion crow.\n    I searched all day: the mice and rats and hedgehogs\n    Seemed to be dead, and I could hardly hear\n    A wing moving in all the famished woods,\n    Though the dead leaves and clauber of four forests\n    Cling to my footsole. I turned home but now,\n    And saw, sniffing the floor in a bare cow-house,\n    This young wolf here: the crossbow brought him down.\n\nMAIRE.\n\n    Praise be the saints!          [_After a pause._\n                      Why did the house dog bay?\n\nSHEMUS.\n\n    He heard me coming and smelt food\u2014what else?\n\nTEIG.\n\n    We will not starve awhile.\n\nSHEMUS.\n\n    What food is within?\n\nTEIG.\n\n    There is a bag half full of meal, a pan\n    Half full of milk.\n\nSHEMUS.\n\n    And we have one old hen.\n\nTEIG.\n\n    The bogwood were less hard.\n\nMAIRE.\n\n                               Before you came\n    She made a great noise in the hencoop, Shemus.\n    What fluttered in the window?\n\nTEIG.\n\n                                Two horned owls\n    Have blinked and fluttered on the window sill\n    From when the dog began to bay.\n\nSHEMUS.\n\n    Hush, hush.\n\n    [_He fits an arrow to the crossbow, and goes towards\n    the door. A sudden burst of music without._\n\n    They are off again: ladies or gentlemen\n    Travel in the woods with tympan and with harp.\n    Teig, put the wolf upon the biggest hook\n    And shut the door.\n\n    [_TEIG goes into the cupboard with the wolf: returns\n    and fastens the door behind him._\n\n                   Sit on the creepy stool\n    And call up a whey face and a crying voice,\n    And let your head be bowed upon your knees.\n\n    [_He opens the door of the cabin._\n\n    Come in, your honours: a full score of evenings\n    This threshold worn away by many a foot\n    Has been passed only by the snails and birds\n    And by our own poor hunger-shaken feet.\n\n    [_The COUNTESS CATHLEEN, ALEEL, who carries a small\n    square harp, OONA, and a little group of fantastically\n    dressed musicians come in._\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    Are you so hungry?\n\nTEIG.\n\n    [_From beside the fire._]\n\n                       Lady, I fell but now,\n    And lay upon the threshold like a log.\n    I have not tasted a crust for these four days.\n\n    [_The COUNTESS CATHLEEN empties her purse on to the\n    table._\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    Had I more money I would give it you,\n    But we have passed by many cabins to-day;\n    And if you come to-morrow to my house\n    You shall have twice the sum. I am the owner\n    Of a long empty castle in these woods.\n\nMAIRE.\n\n    Then you are Countess Cathleen: you and yours\n    Are ever welcome under my poor thatch.\n    Will you sit down and warm you by the sods?\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    We must find out this castle in the wood\n    Before the chill o\u2019 the night.\n\n    [_The musicians begin to tune their instruments._\n\n                                 Do not blame me,\n    Good woman, for the tympan and the harp:\n    I was bid fly the terror of the times\n    And wrap me round with music and sweet song\n    Or else pine to my grave. I have lost my way;\n    Aleel, the poet, who should know these woods,\n    Because we met him on their border but now\n    Wandering and singing like the foam of the sea,\n    Is so wrapped up in dreams of terrors to come\n    That he can give no help.\n\nMAIRE.\n\n    [_Going to the door with her._]\n\n                             You\u2019re almost there.\n    There is a trodden way among the hazels\n    That brings your servants to their marketing.\n\nALEEL.\n\n    When we are gone draw to the door and the bolt,\n    For, till we lost them half an hour ago,\n    Two gray horned owls hooted above our heads\n    Of terrors to come. Tympan and harp awake!\n    For though the world drift from us like a sigh,\n    Music is master of all under the moon;\n    And play \u2018The Wind that blows by Cummen Strand.\u2019\n\n    [_Music._\n\n[_Sings._]\n\n    _Impetuous heart, be still, be still:\n    Your sorrowful love may never be told;\n    Cover it up with a lonely tune.\n    He who could bend all things to His will\n    Has covered the door of the infinite fold\n    With the pale stars and the wandering moon._\n\n    [_While he is singing the COUNTESS CATHLEEN, OONA, and\n    the musicians go out._\n\nALEEL.\n\n    Shut to the door and shut the woods away,\n    For, till they had vanished in the thick of the leaves,\n    Two gray horned owls hooted above our heads.\n\n    [_He goes out._\n\nMAIRE.\n\n[_Bolting the door._]\n\n    When wealthy and wise folk wander from their peace\n    And fear wood things, poor folk may draw the bolt\n    And pray before the fire.\n\n    [_SHEMUS counts out the money, and rings a piece upon\n    the table._\n\nSHEMUS.\n\n                           The Mother of God,\n    Hushed by the waving of the immortal wings,\n    Has dropped in a doze and cannot hear the poor:\n    I passed by Margaret Nolan\u2019s; for nine days\n    Her mouth was green with dock and dandelion;\n    And now they wake her.\n\nMAIRE.\n\n                            I will go the next;\n    Our parents\u2019 cabins bordered the same field.\n\nSHEMUS.\n\n    God, and the Mother of God, have dropped asleep,\n    For they are weary of the prayers and candles;\n    But Satan pours the famine from his bag,\n    And I am mindful to go pray to him\n    To cover all this table with red gold.\n    Teig, will you dare me to it?\n\nTEIG.\n\n    Not I, father.\n\nMAIRE.\n\n    O Shemus, hush, maybe your mind might pray\n    In spite o\u2019 the mouth.\n\nSHEMUS.\n\n    Two crowns and twenty pennies.\n\nMAIRE.\n\n    Is yonder quicken wood?\n\nSHEMUS.\n\n[_Picking the bough from the table._]\n\n                            He swayed about,\n    And so I tied him to a quicken bough\n    And slung him from my shoulder.\n\nMAIRE.\n\n    [_Taking the bough from him._]\n\n                           Shemus! Shemus!\n    What, would you burn the blessed quicken wood?\n    A spell to ward off demons and ill faeries.\n    You know not what the owls were that peeped in,\n    For evil wonders live in this old wood,\n    And they can show in what shape please them best.\n    And we have had no milk to leave of nights\n    To keep our own good people kind to us.\n    And Aleel, who has talked with the great Sidhe,\n    Is full of terrors to come.\n\n    [_She lays the bough on a chair._\n\nSHEMUS.\n\n                           I would eat my supper\n    With no less mirth if squatting by the hearth\n    Were dulacaun or demon of the pit\n    Clawing its knees, its hoof among the ashes.\n\n    [_He rings another piece of money. A sound of footsteps\n    outside the door._\n\nMAIRE.\n\n    Who knows what evil you have brought to us?\n    I fear the wood things, Shemus.\n\n    [_A knock at the door._\n\n    Do not open.\n\nSHEMUS.\n\n    A crown and twenty pennies are not enough\n    To stop the hole that lets the famine in.\n\n    [_The little shrine falls._\n\nMAIRE.\n\n    Look! look!\n\nSHEMUS.\n\n[_Crushing it underfoot._]\n\n        The Mother of God has dropped asleep,\n    And all her household things have gone to wrack.\n\nMAIRE.\n\n    O Mary, Mother of God, be pitiful!\n\n    [_SHEMUS opens the door. TWO MERCHANTS stand without.\n    They have bands of gold round their foreheads, and each\n    carries a bag upon his shoulder._\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    Have you food here?\n\nSHEMUS.\n\n    For those who can pay well.\n\nSECOND MERCHANT.\n\n    We are rich merchants seeking merchandise.\n\nSHEMUS.\n\n    Come in, your honours.\n\nMAIRE.\n\n                    No, do not come in:\n    We have no food, not even for ourselves.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    There is a wolf on the big hook in the cupboard.\n\n    [_They enter._\n\nSHEMUS.\n\n    Forgive her: she is not used to quality,\n    And is half crazed with being much alone.\n    How did you know I had taken a young wolf?\n    Fine wholesome food, though maybe somewhat strong.\n\n    [_The SECOND MERCHANT sits down by the fire and begins\n    rubbing his hands. The FIRST MERCHANT stands looking at\n    the quicken bough on the chair._\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    I would rest here: the night is somewhat chilly,\n    And my feet footsore going up and down\n    From land to land and nation unto nation:\n    The fire burns dimly; feed it with this bough.\n\n    [_SHEMUS throws the bough into the fire. The FIRST\n    MERCHANT sits down on the chair. The MERCHANTS\u2019 chairs\n    are on each side of the fire. The table is between\n    them. Each lays his bag before him on the table. The\n    night has closed in somewhat, and the main light comes\n    from the fire._\n\nMAIRE.\n\n    What have you in the bags?\n\nSHEMUS.\n\n                          Don\u2019t mind her, sir:\n    Women grow curious and feather-thoughted\n    Through being in each other\u2019s company\n    More than is good for them.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n                              Our bags are full\n    Of golden pieces to buy merchandise.\n\n    [_They pour gold pieces on to the table out of their\n    bags. It is covered with the gold pieces. They shine in\n    the firelight. MAIRE goes to the door of pantry, and\n    watches the MERCHANTS, muttering to herself._\n\nTEIG.\n\n    These are great gentlemen.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n[_Taking a stone bottle out of his bag._]\n\n                          Come to the fire,\n    Here is the headiest wine you ever tasted.\n\nSECOND MERCHANT.\n\n    Wine that can hush asleep the petty war\n    Of good and evil, and awake instead\n    A scented flame flickering above that peace\n    The bird of prey knows well in his deep heart.\n\nSHEMUS.\n\n[_Bringing drinking-cups._]\n\n    I do not understand you, but your wine\n    Sets me athirst: its praise made your eyes lighten.\n    I am thirsting for it.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n                         Ay, come drink and drink,\n    I bless all mortals who drink long and deep.\n    My curse upon the salt-strewn road of monks.\n\n[_TEIG and SHEMUS sit down at the table and drink._]\n\nTEIG.\n\n    You must have seen rare sights and done rare things.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    What think you of the master whom we serve?\n\nSHEMUS.\n\n    I have grown weary of my days in the world\n    Because I do not serve him.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n                              More of this\n    When we have eaten, for we love right well\n    A merry meal, a warm and leaping fire\n    And easy hearts.\n\nSHEMUS.\n\n    Come, Maire, and cook the wolf.\n\nMAIRE.\n\n    I will not cook for you.\n\nSHEMUS.\n\n    Maire is mad.\n\n    [_TEIG and SHEMUS stand up and stagger about._\n\nSHEMUS.\n\n    That wine is the suddenest wine man ever tasted.\n\nMAIRE.\n\n    I will not cook for you: you are not human:\n    Before you came two horned owls looked at us;\n    The dog bayed, and the tongue of Shemus maddened.\n    When you came in the Virgin\u2019s blessed shrine\n    Fell from its nail, and when you sat down here\n    You poured out wine as the wood sidheogs do\n    When they\u2019d entice a soul out of the world.\n    Why did you come to us? Was not death near?\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    We are two merchants.\n\nMAIRE.\n\n                         If you be not demons,\n    Go and give alms among the starving poor,\n    You seem more rich than any under the moon.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    If we knew where to find deserving poor,\n    We would give alms.\n\nMAIRE.\n\n    Then ask of Father John.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    We know the evils of mere charity,\n    And have been planning out a wiser way.\n    Let each man bring one piece of merchandise.\n\nMAIRE.\n\n    And have the starving any merchandise?\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    We do but ask what each man has.\n\nMAIRE.\n\n                                  Merchants,\n    Their swine and cattle, fields and implements,\n    Are sold and gone.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    They have not sold all yet.\n\nMAIRE.\n\n    What have they?\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    They have still their souls.\n\n    [_MAIRE shrieks. He beckons to TEIG and SHEMUS._\n\n                                     Come hither.\n    See you these little golden heaps? Each one\n    Is payment for a soul. From charity\n    We give so great a price for those poor flames.\n    Say to all men we buy men\u2019s souls\u2014away.\n\n    [_They do not stir._\n\n    This pile is for you and this one here for you.\n\nMAIRE.\n\n    Shemus and Teig, Teig\u2014\n\nTEIG.\n\n    Out of the way.\n\n    [_SHEMUS and TEIG take the money._\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    Cry out at cross-roads and at chapel doors\n    And market-places that we buy men\u2019s souls,\n    Giving so great a price that men may live\n    In mirth and ease until the famine ends.\n\n    [_TEIG and SHEMUS go out._\n\nMAIRE [_kneeling_].\n\n    Destroyers of souls, may God destroy you quickly!\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    No curse can overthrow the immortal demons.\n\nMAIRE.\n\n    You shall at last dry like dry leaves, and hang\n    Nailed like dead vermin to the doors of God.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    You shall be ours. This famine shall not cease.\n    You shall eat grass, and dock, and dandelion,\n    And fail till this stone threshold seem a wall,\n    And when your hands can scarcely drag your body\n    We shall be near you.\n\n    [_To SECOND MERCHANT._\n\n    Bring the meal out.\n\n    [_The SECOND MERCHANT brings the bag of meal from the\n    pantry._\n\n                           Burn it.      [_MAIRE faints._\n    Now she has swooned, our faces go unscratched;\n    Bring me the gray hen, too.\n\n    _The SECOND MERCHANT goes out through the door and\n    returns with the hen strangled. He flings it on the\n    floor. While he is away the FIRST MERCHANT makes up\n    the fire. The FIRST MERCHANT then fetches the pan of\n    milk from the pantry, and spills it on the ground. He\n    returns, and brings out the wolf, and throws it down by\n    the hen._\n\n                        These need much burning.\n    This stool and this chair here will make good fuel.\n\n    [_He begins breaking the chair._\n\n    My master will break up the sun and moon\n    And quench the stars in the ancestral night\n    And overturn the thrones of God and the angels.\n\n\n\n\nACT II.\n\n\n    _A great hall in the castle of the COUNTESS CATHLEEN.\n    There is a large window at the farther end, through\n    which the forest is visible. The wall to the right\n    juts out slightly, cutting off an angle of the room. A\n    flight of stone steps leads up to a small arched door\n    in the jutting wall. Through the door can be seen a\n    little oratory. The hall is hung with ancient tapestry,\n    representing the loves and wars and huntings of the\n    Fenian and Red Branch heroes. There are doors to the\n    right and left. On the left side OONA sits, as if\n    asleep, beside a spinning-wheel. The COUNTESS CATHLEEN\n    stands farther back and more to the right, close to\n    a group of the musicians, still in their fantastic\n    dresses, who are playing a merry tune._\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    Be silent, I am tired of tympan and harp,\n    And tired of music that but cries \u2018Sleep, sleep,\u2019\n    Till joy and sorrow and hope and terror are gone.\n\n    [_The COUNTESS CATHLEEN goes over to OONA._\n\n    You were asleep?\n\nOONA.\n\n                  No, child, I was but thinking\n    Why you have grown so sad.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    The famine frets me.\n\nOONA.\n\n    I have lived now near ninety winters, child,\n    And I have known three things no doctor cures\u2014\n    Love, loneliness, and famine; nor found refuge\n    Other than growing old and full of sleep.\n    See you where Oisin and young Niamh ride\n    Wrapped in each other\u2019s arms, and where the Fenians\n    Follow their hounds along the fields of tapestry;\n    How merry they lived once, yet men died then.\n    Sit down by me, and I will chaunt the song\n    About the Danaan nations in their raths\n    That Aleel sang for you by the great door\n    Before we lost him in the shadow of leaves.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    No, sing the song he sang in the dim light,\n    When we first found him in the shadow of leaves,\n    About King Fergus in his brazen car\n    Driving with troops of dancers through the woods.\n\n    [_She crouches down on the floor, and lays her head on\n    OONA\u2019S knees._\n\nOONA.\n\n    Dear heart, make a soft cradle of old tales,\n    And songs, and music: wherefore should you sadden\n    For wrongs you cannot hinder? The great God\n    Smiling condemns the lost: be mirthful: He\n    Bids youth be merry and old age be wise.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    Tympan and harp awaken wandering dreams.\n\nA VOICE [_without_].\n\n    You may not see the Countess.\n\nANOTHER VOICE.\n\n    I must see her.\n\n    [_Sound of a short struggle. A SERVANT enters from door\n    to R._\n\nSERVANT.\n\n    The gardener is resolved to speak with you.\n    I cannot stay him.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    You may come, Maurteen.\n\n    [_The GARDENER, an old man, comes in from the R., and\n    the SERVANT goes out._\n\nGARDENER.\n\n    Forgive my working clothes and the dirt on me.\n    I bring ill words, your ladyship,\u2014too bad\n    To send with any other.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n                          These bad times,\n    Can any news be bad or any good?\n\nGARDENER.\n\n    A crowd of ugly lean-faced rogues last night\u2014\n    And may God curse them!\u2014climbed the garden wall.\n    There is scarce an apple now on twenty trees,\n    And my asparagus and strawberry beds\n    Are trampled into clauber, and the boughs\n    Of peach and plum-trees broken and torn down\n    For some last fruit that hung there. My dog, too,\n    My old blind Simon, him who had no tail,\n    They murdered\u2014God\u2019s red anger seize them!\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    I know how pears and all the tribe of apples\n    Are daily in your love\u2014how this ill chance\n    Is sudden doomsday fallen on your year;\n    So do not say no matter. I but say\n    I blame the famished season, and not you.\n    Then be not troubled.\n\nGARDENER.\n\n    I thank your ladyship.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    What rumours and what portents of the famine?\n\nGARDENER.\n\n    The yellow vapour, in whose folds it came,\n    That creeps along the hedges at nightfall,\n    Rots all the heart out of my cabbages.\n    I pray against it.\n\n    [_He goes towards the door, then pauses._\n\n                   If her ladyship\n    Would give me an old crossbow, I would watch\n    Behind a bush and guard the pears of nights\n    And make a hole in somebody I know of.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    They will give you a long draught of ale below.\n\n    [_The GARDENER goes out._\n\nOONA.\n\n    What did he say?\u2014he stood on my deaf side.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    His apples are all stolen. Pruning time,\n    And the slow ripening of his pears and apples,\n    For him is a long, heart-moving history.\n\nOONA.\n\n    Now lay your head once more upon my knees.\n    I will sing how Fergus drove his brazen cars.\n\n    [_She chaunts with the thin voice of age._\n\n    _Who will go drive with Fergus now,\n    And pierce the deep woods\u2019 woven shade,\n    And dance upon the level shore?\n    Young man, lift up your russet brow,\n    And lift your tender eyelids, maid,\n    And brood on hopes and fears no more._\n    You have dropped down again into your trouble.\n    You do not hear me.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n                        Ah, sing on, old Oona,\n    I hear the horn of Fergus in my heart.\n\nOONA.\n\n    I do not know the meaning of the song.\n    I am too old.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    The horn is calling, calling.\n\nOONA.\n\n    _And no more turn aside and brood\n    Upon Love\u2019s bitter mystery;\n    For Fergus rules the brazen cars,\n    And rules the shadows of the wood,\n    And the white breast of the dim sea\n    And all dishevelled wandering stars._\n\nTHE SERVANT\u2019S VOICE [_without_].\n\n    The Countess Cathleen must not be disturbed.\n\nANOTHER VOICE.\n\n    Man, I must see her.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    Who now wants me, Paudeen?\n\nSERVANT [_from the door_].\n\n    A herdsman and his history.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    He may come.\n\n    [_The HERDSMAN enters from the door to R._\n\nHERDSMAN.\n\n    Forgive this dusty gear: I have come far.\n    My sheep were taken from the fold last night.\n    You will be angry: I am not to blame.\n    But blame these robbing times.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n                           No blame\u2019s with you.\n    I blame the famine.\n\nHERDSMAN.\n\n                     Kneeling, I give thanks.\n    When gazing on your face, the poorest, Lady,\n    Forget their poverty, the rich their care.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    What rumours and what portents of the famine?\n\nHERDSMAN.\n\n    As I came down the lane by Tubber-vanach\n    A boy and man sat cross-legged on two stones,\n    With moving hands and faces famine-thin,\n    Gabbling to crowds of men and wives and boys\n    Of how two merchants at a house in the woods\n    Buy souls for hell, giving so great a price\n    That men may live through all the dearth in plenty.\n    The vales are famine-crazy\u2014I am right glad\n    My home is on the mountain near to God.\n\n    [_He turns to go._\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    They will give you ale and meat before you go.\n    You must have risen at dawn to come so far.\n    Keep your bare mountain\u2014let the world drift by,\n    The burden of its wrongs rests not on you.\n\nHERDSMAN.\n\n    I am content to serve your ladyship.\n\n    [_He goes._\n\nOONA.\n\n    What did he say?\u2014he stood on my deaf side.\n    He seemed to give you word of woful things.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    A story born out of the dreaming eyes\n    And crazy brain and credulous ears of famine.\n    O, I am sadder than an old air, Oona,\n    My heart is longing for a deeper peace\n    Than Fergus found amid his brazen cars:\n    Would that like Edain my first forebear\u2019s daughter,\n    Who followed once a twilight\u2019s piercing tune,\n    I could go down and dwell among the Sidhe\n    In their old ever-busy honeyed land.\n\nOONA.\n\n    You should not say such things\u2014they bring ill-luck.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    The image of young Edain on the arras,\n    Walking along, one finger lifted up;\n    And that wild song of the unending dance\n    Of the dim Danaan nations in their raths,\n    Young Aleel sang for me by the great door,\n    Before we lost him in the shadow of leaves,\n    Have filled me full of all these wicked words.\n\n    [_The SERVANT enters hastily, followed by three men.\n    Two are peasants._\n\nSERVANT.\n\n    The steward of the castle brings two men\n    To talk with you.\n\nSTEWARD.\n\n                   And tell the strangest story\n    The mouth of man has uttered.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n                                More food taken;\n    Yet learned theologians have laid down\n    That he who has no food, offending no way,\n    May take his meat and bread from too-full larders.\n\nFIRST PEASANT.\n\n    We come to make amends for robbery.\n    I stole five hundred apples from your trees,\n    And laid them in a hole; and my friend here\n    Last night stole two large mountain sheep of yours\n    And hung them on a beam under his thatch.\n\nSECOND PEASANT.\n\n    His words are true.\n\nFIRST PEASANT.\n\n               Since then our luck has changed.\n    As I came down the lane by Tubber-vanach\n    I fell on Shemus Rua and his son,\n    And they led me where two great gentlemen\n    Buy souls for money, and they bought my soul.\n    I told my friend here\u2014my friend also trafficked.\n\nSECOND PEASANT.\n\n    His words are true.\n\nFIRST PEASANT.\n\n                       Now people throng to sell,\n    Noisy as seagulls tearing a dead fish.\n    There soon will be no man or woman\u2019s soul\n    Unbargained for in fivescore baronies.\n\nSECOND PEASANT.\n\n    His words are true.\n\nFIRST PEASANT.\n\n                  When we had sold we talked,\n    And having no more comfortable life\n    Than this that makes us warm\u2014our souls being bartered\n    For all this money\u2014\n\nSECOND PEASANT.\n\n    And this money here.\n\n    [_They bring handfuls of money from their pockets.\n    CATHLEEN starts up._\n\nFIRST PEASANT.\n\n    And fearing much to hang for robbery,\n    We come to pay you for the sheep and fruit.\n    How do you price them?\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n                        Gather up your money.\n    Think you that I would touch the demons\u2019 gold?\n    Begone, give twice, thrice, twenty times their money,\n    And buy your souls again. I will pay all.\n\nFIRST PEASANT.\n\n    We will not buy our souls again: a soul\n    But keeps the flesh out of its merriment.\n    We shall be merry and drunk from moon to moon.\n    Keep from our way. Let no one stop our way.\n\n    [_They go._\n\nCATHLEEN [_to servant_].\n\n    Follow and bring them here again\u2014beseech them.\n\n    [_The SERVANT goes._\n\n[_To STEWARD._]\n\n    Steward, you know the secrets of this house.\n    How much have I in gold?\n\nSTEWARD.\n\n    A hundred thousand.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    How much have I in castles?\n\nSTEWARD.\n\n    As much more.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    How much have I in pastures?\n\nSTEWARD.\n\n    As much more.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    How much have I in forests?\n\nSTEWARD.\n\n    As much more.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    Keeping this house alone, sell all I have;\n    Go to some distant country and come again\n    With many herds of cows and ships of grain.\n\nSTEWARD.\n\n    God\u2019s blessing light upon your ladyship;\n    You will have saved the land.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    Make no delay.\n\n    [_He goes._\n\n[_Enter SERVANT._]\n\n    How did you thrive? Say quickly. You are pale.\n\nSERVANT.\n\n    Their eyes burn like the eyes of birds of prey:\n    I did not dare go near.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n                           God pity them!\n    Bring all the old and ailing to this house,\n    For I will have no sorrow of my own\n    From this day onward.\n\n    [_The SERVANT goes out. Some of the musicians follow\n    him, some linger in the doorway. The COUNTESS CATHLEEN\n    kneels beside OONA._\n\n                    Can you tell me, mother,\n    How I may mend the times, how staunch this wound\n    That bleeds in the earth, how overturn the famine,\n    How drive these demons to their darkness again?\n\nOONA.\n\n    The demons hold our hearts between their hands,\n    For the apple is in our blood, and though heart break\n    There is no medicine but Michael\u2019s trump.\n    Till it has ended parting and old age\n    And hail and rain and famine and foolish laughter;\n    The dead are happy, the dust is in their ears.\n\n\n\n\nACT III.\n\n\n    _Hall of the COUNTESS CATHLEEN as before. SERVANT\n    enters and goes towards the oratory door._\n\nSERVANT.\n\n    Here is yet another would see your ladyship.\n\nCATHLEEN [_within_].\n\n    Who calls me?\n\nSERVANT.\n\n          There is a man would speak with you,\n    And by his face he has some pressing news,\n    Some moving tale.\n\nCATHLEEN [_coming to chapel door_].\n\n                     I cannot rest or pray,\n    For all day long the messengers run hither\n    On one another\u2019s heels, and every message\n    More evil than the one that had gone before.\n    Who is the messenger?\n\nSERVANT.\n\n    Aleel, the poet.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    There is no hour he is not welcome to me,\n    Because I know of nothing but a harp-string\n    That can remember happiness.\n\n    [_SERVANT goes out and ALEEL comes in._\n\n                                And now\n    I grow forgetful of evil for awhile.\n\nALEEL.\n\n    I have come to bid you leave this castle, and fly\n    Out of these woods.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n                      What evil is there here,\n    That is not everywhere from this to the sea?\n\nALEEL.\n\n    They who have sent me walk invisible.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    Men say that the wise people of the raths\n    Have given you wisdom.\n\nALEEL.\n\n                          I lay in the dusk\n    Upon the grassy margin of a lake\n    Among the hills, where none of mortal creatures\n    But the swan comes\u2014my sleep became a fire.\n    One walked in the fire with birds about his head.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    Ay, Aengus of the birds.\n\nALEEL.\n\n                            He may be Aengus,\n    But it may be he bears an angelical name.\n    Lady, he bid me call you from these woods;\n    He bids you bring Oona, your foster-mother,\n    And some few serving-men and live in the hills\n    Among the sounds of music and the light\n    Of waters till the evil days are gone.\n\n[_He kneels._]\n\n    For here some terrible death is waiting you;\n    Some unimaginable evil, some great darkness\n    That fable has not dreamt of, nor sun nor moon\n    Scattered.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    And he had birds about his head?\n\nALEEL.\n\n    Yes, yes, white birds. He bids you leave this house\n    With some old trusty serving-man, who will feed\n    All that are starving and shelter all that wander\n    While there is food and house-room.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n                                    He bids me go\n    Where none of mortal creatures but the swan\n    Dabbles, and there you would pluck the harp when the trees\n    Had made a heavy shadow about our door,\n    And talk among the rustling of the reeds\n    When night hunted the foolish sun away,\n    With stillness and pale tapers. No\u2014no\u2014no.\n    I cannot. Although I weep, I do not weep\n    Because that life would be most happy, and here\n    I find no way, no end. Nor do I weep\n    Because I had longed to look upon your face,\n    But that a night of prayer has made me weary.\n\nALEEL.\n\n[_Throwing his arms about her feet._]\n\n    Let Him that made mankind, the angels and devils\n    And death and plenty mend what He has made,\n    For when we labour in vain and eye still sees\n    Heart breaks in vain.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    How would that quiet end?\n\nALEEL.\n\n    How but in healing?\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n                        You have seen my tears.\n    And I can see your hand shake on the floor.\n\nALEEL [_faltering_].\n\n    I thought but of healing. He was angelical.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n[_Turning away from him._]\n\n    No, not angelical, but of the old gods,\n    Who wander about the world to waken the heart\u2014\n    The passionate, proud heart that all the angels\n    Leaving nine heavens empty would rock to sleep.\n\n    [_She goes to the chapel door; ALEEL holds his clasped\n    hands towards her for a moment hesitatingly, and then\n    lets them fall beside him._\n\n    Do not hold out to me beseeching hands.\n    This heart shall never waken on earth. I have sworn\n    By her whose heart the seven sorrows have pierced\n    To pray before this altar until my heart\n    Has grown to Heaven like a tree, and there\n    Rustled its leaves till Heaven has saved my people.\n\nALEEL [_who has risen_].\n\n    When one so great has spoken of love to one\n    So little as I, although to deny him love,\n    What can he but hold out beseeching hands,\n    Then let them fall beside him, knowing how greatly\n    They have overdared?\n\n    [_He goes towards the door of the hall. The COUNTESS\n    CATHLEEN takes a few steps towards him._\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n                        If the old tales are true,\n    Queens have wed shepherds and kings beggar-maids;\n    God\u2019s procreant waters flowing about your mind\n    Have made you more than kings or queens; and not you\n    But I am the empty pitcher.\n\nALEEL.\n\n                                  Being silent,\n    I have said all\u2014farewell, farewell; and yet no,\n    Give me your hand to kiss.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n                              I kiss your brow,\n    But will not say farewell. I am often weary,\n    And I would hear the harp-string.\n\nALEEL.\n\n                                  I cannot stay,\n    For I would hide my sorrow among the hills\u2014\n    Listen, listen, the hills are calling me.\n\n    [_They listen for a moment._\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    I hear the cry of curlew.\n\nALEEL.\n\n                          Then I will out\n    Where I can hear wind cry and water cry\n    And curlew cry: how does the saying go\n    That calls them the three oldest cries in the world?\n    Farewell, farewell, I will go wander among them,\n    Because there is no comfort under a roof-tree.\n\n    [_He goes out._\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n[_Looking through the door after him._]\n\n    I cannot see him. He has come to the great door.\n    I must go pray. Would that my heart and mind\n    Were as little shaken as this candle-light.\n\n    [_She goes into the chapel. The TWO MERCHANTS enter._\n\nSECOND MERCHANT.\n\n    Who was the man that came from the great door\n    While we were still in the shadow?\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    Aleel, her lover.\n\nSECOND MERCHANT.\n\n    It may be that he has turned her thought from us\n    And we can gather our merchandise in peace.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    No, no, for she is kneeling.\n\nSECOND MERCHANT.\n\n                              Shut the door.\n    Are all our drudges here?\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    [_Closing the chapel door._]\n\n                            I bid them follow.\n    Can you not hear them breathing upon the stairs?\n    I have sat this hour under the elder-tree.\n\nSECOND MERCHANT.\n\n    I had bid you rob her treasury, and yet\n    I found you sitting drowsed and motionless,\n    Your chin bowed to your knees, while on all sides,\n    Bat-like from bough and roof and window-ledge,\n    Clung evil souls of men, and in the woods,\n    Like streaming flames, floated upon the winds\n    The elemental creatures.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n                        I have fared ill;\n    She prayed so hard I could not cross the threshold\n    Till this young man had turned her prayer to dreams.\n    You have had a man to kill: how have you fared?\n\nSECOND MERCHANT.\n\n    I lay in the image of a nine-monthed bonyeen,\n    By Tubber-vanach cross-roads: Father John\n    Came, sad and moody, murmuring many prayers;\n    I seemed as though I came from his own sty;\n    He saw the one brown ear; the breviary dropped;\n    He ran; I ran, I ran into the quarry;\n    He fell a score of yards.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n                        Now that he is dead\n    We shall be too much thronged with souls to-morrow.\n    Did his soul escape you?\n\nSECOND MERCHANT.\n\n                          I thrust it in the bag.\n    But the hand that blessed the poor and raised the Host\n    Tore through the leather with sharp piety.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    Well, well, to labour\u2014here is the treasury door.\n\n    [_They go out by the left-hand door, and enter again\n    in a little while, carrying full bags upon their\n    shoulders._\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    Brave thought, brave thought\u2014a shining thought of mine!\n    She now no more may bribe the poor\u2014no more\n    Cheat our great master of his merchandise,\n    While our heels dangle at the house in the woods,\n    And grass grows on the threshold, and snails crawl\n    Along the window-pane and the mud floor.\n    Brother, where wander all these dwarfish folk,\n    Hostile to men, the people of the tides?\n\nSECOND MERCHANT.\n\n[_Going to the door._]\n\n    They are gone. They have already wandered away,\n    Unwilling labourers.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    I will call them hither.\n\n    [_He opens the window._\n\n    Come hither, hither, hither, water-folk:\n    Come, all you elemental populace;\n    Leave lonely the long-hoarding surges: leave\n    The cymbals of the waves to clash alone,\n    And, shaking the sea-tangles from your hair,\n    Gather about us.      [_After a pause._\n                    I can hear a sound\n    As from waves beating upon distant strands;\n    And the sea-creatures, like a surf of light,\n    Pour eddying through the pathways of the oaks;\n    And as they come, the sentient grass and leaves\n    Bow towards them, and the tall, drouth-jaded oaks\n    Fondle the murmur of their flying feet.\n\nSECOND MERCHANT.\n\n    The green things love unknotted hearts and minds;\n    And neither one with angels or with us,\n    Nor risen in arms with evil nor with good,\n    In laughter roves the litter of the waves.\n\n    [_A crowd of faces fill up the darkness outside the\n    window. A figure separates from the others and speaks._\n\nTHE SPIRIT.\n\n    We come unwillingly, for she whose gold\n    We must now carry to the house in the woods\n    Is dear to all our race. On the green plain,\n    Beside the sea, a hundred shepherds live\n    To mind her sheep; and when the nightfall comes\n    They leave a hundred pans of white ewes\u2019 milk\n    Outside their doors, to feed us when the dawn\n    Has driven us out of Finbar\u2019s ancient house,\n    And broken the long dance under the hill.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n[_Making a sign upon the air._]\n\n    Obey! I make a sign upon your hearts.\n\nTHE SPIRIT.\n\n    The sign of evil burns upon our hearts,\n    And we obey.\n\n    [_They crowd through the window, and take out of the\n    bags a small bag each. They are dressed in green robes\n    and have ruddy hair. They are a little less than the\n    size of men and women._\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n            And now begone\u2014begone!      [_They go._\n    I bid them go, for, being garrulous\n    And flighty creatures, they had soon begun\n    To deafen us with their sea-gossip. Now\n    We must go bring more money. Brother, brother,\n    I long to see my master\u2019s face again,\n    For I turn homesick.\n\nSECOND MERCHANT.\n\n    I too tire of toil.\n\n    [_They go out, and return as before, with their bags\n    full._\n\nSECOND MERCHANT.\n\n[_Pointing to the oratory._]\n\n    How may we gain this woman for our lord?\n    This pearl, this turquoise fastened in his crown\n    Would make it shine like His we dare not name.\n    Now that the winds are heavy with our kind,\n    Might we not kill her, and bear off her spirit\n    Before the mob of angels were astir?\n\n    [_A diadem and a heap of jewels fall from the bag._\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    Who tore the bag?\n\nSECOND MERCHANT.\n\n                    The finger of Priest John\n    When he fled through the leather. I had thought\n    Because his was an old and little spirit\n    The tear would hardly matter.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n                              This comes, brother,\n    Of stealing souls that are not rightly ours.\n    If we would win this turquoise for our lord,\n    It must go dropping down of its freewill.\n    She will have heard the noise. She will stifle us\n    With holy names.\n\n    [_He goes to the oratory door and opens it a little,\n    and then closes it._]\n\n    No, she has fallen asleep.\n\nSECOND MERCHANT.\n\n    The noise wakened the household. While you spoke\n    I heard chairs moved, and heard folk\u2019s shuffling feet.\n    And now they are coming hither.\n\nA VOICE [_within_].\n\n    It was here.\n\nANOTHER VOICE.\n\n    No, further away.\n\nANOTHER VOICE.\n\n    It was in the western tower.\n\nANOTHER VOICE.\n\n    Come quickly; we will search the western tower.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    We still have time\u2014they search the distant rooms.\n    Call hither the fading and the unfading fires.\n\nSECOND MERCHANT.\n\n[_Going to the window._]\n\n    There are none here. They tired and strayed from hence\u2014\n    Unwilling labourers.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    I will draw them in.\n\n    [_He cries through the window._\n\n    Come hither, you lost souls of men, who died\n    In drunken sleep, and by each other\u2019s hands\n    When they had bartered you\u2014come hither all\n    Who mourn among the scenery of your sins,\n    Turning to animal and reptile forms,\n    The visages of passions; hither, hither\u2014\n    Leave marshes and the reed-encumbered pools,\n    You shapeless fires, that were the souls of men,\n    And are a fading wretchedness.\n\nSECOND MERCHANT.\n\n    They come not.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    [_Making a sign upon the air._]\n\n    Come hither, hither, hither.\n\nSECOND MERCHANT.\n\n                                I can hear\n    A crying as of storm-distempered reeds.\n    The fading and the unfading fires rise up\n    Like steam out of the earth; the grass and leaves\n    Shiver and shrink away and sway about,\n    Blown by unnatural gusts of ice-cold air.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    They are one with all the beings of decay,\n    Ill longings, madness, lightning, famine, drouth.\n\n    [_The whole stage is gradually filled with vague forms,\n    some animal shapes, some human, some mere lights._\n\n    Come you\u2014and you\u2014and you, and lift these bags.\n\nA SPIRIT.\n\n    We are too violent; mere shapes of storm.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    Come you\u2014and you\u2014and you, and lift these bags.\n\nA SPIRIT.\n\n    We are too feeble, fading out of life.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    Come you, and you, who are the latest dead,\n    And still wear human shape: the shape of power.\n\n    [_The two robbing peasants of the last scene come\n    forward. Their faces have withered from much pain._\n\n    Now, brawlers, lift the bags of gold.\n\nFIRST PEASANT.\n\n                                        Yes, yes!\n    Unwillingly, unwillingly; for she,\n    Whose gold we bear upon our shoulders thus,\n    Has endless pity even for lost souls\n    In her good heart. At moments, now and then,\n    When plunged in horror, brooding each alone,\n    A memory of her face floats in on us.\n    It brings a crowned misery, half repose,\n    And we wail one to other; we obey,\n    For heaven\u2019s many-angled star reversed,\n    Now sign of evil, burns into our hearts.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    When these pale sapphires and these diadems\n    And these small bags of money are in our house,\n    The burning shall give over\u2014now begone.\n\nSECOND MERCHANT.\n\n[_Lifting the diadem to put it upon his head._]\n\n    No\u2014no\u2014no. I will carry the diadem.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    No, brother, not yet.\n    For none can carry her treasures wholly away\n    But spirits that are too light for good and evil,\n    Or, being evil, can remember good.\n    Begone! [_The spirits vanish._] I bade them go, for they are lonely,\n    And when they see aught living love to sigh.\n    [_Pointing to the oratory._] Brother, I heard a sound in there\u2014a sound\n    That troubles me.\n\nSECOND MERCHANT.\n\n[_Going to the door of the oratory and peering through it._]\n\n                            Upon the altar steps\n    The Countess tosses, murmuring in her sleep\n    A broken _Paternoster_.\n\n[_The FIRST MERCHANT goes to the door and stands beside him._]\n\n    She is grown still.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    A great plan floats into my mind\u2014no wonder,\n    For I come from the ninth and mightiest Hell,\n    Where all are kings. I will wake her from her sleep,\n    And mix with all her thoughts a thought to serve.\n\n    [_He calls through the door._\n\n    May we be well remembered in your prayers!\n\n    [_The COUNTESS CATHLEEN wakes, and comes to the door of\n    the oratory. The MERCHANTS descend into the room again.\n    She stands at the top of the stone steps._\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    What would you, sirs?\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n                    We are two merchant men,\n    New come from foreign lands. We bring you news.\n    Forgive our sudden entry: the great door\n    Was open, we came in to seek a face.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    The door stands always open to receive,\n    With kindly welcome, starved and sickly folk,\n    Or any who would fly the woful times.\n    Merchants, you bring me news?\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n                                  We saw a man\n    Heavy with sickness in the Bog of Allan,\n    Whom you had bid buy cattle. Near Fair Head\n    We saw your grain ships lying all becalmed\n    In the dark night, and not less still than they\n    Burned all their mirrored lanthorns in the sea.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    My thanks to God, to Mary, and the angels,\n    I still have bags of money, and can buy\n    Meal from the merchants who have stored it up,\n    To prosper on the hunger of the poor.\n    You have been far, and know the signs of things:\n    When will this yellow vapour no more hang\n    And creep about the fields, and this great heat\n    Vanish away\u2014and grass show its green shoots?\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    There is no sign of change\u2014day copies day,\n    Green things are dead\u2014the cattle too are dead,\n    Or dying\u2014and on all the vapour hangs\n    And fattens with disease and glows with heat.\n    In you is all the hope of all the land.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    And heard you of the demons who buy souls?\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    There are some men who hold they have wolves\u2019 heads,\n    And say their limbs, dried by the infinite flame,\n    Have all the speed of storms; others again\n    Say they are gross and little; while a few\n    Will have it they seem much as mortals are,\n    But tall and brown and travelled, like us, lady.\n    Yet all agree a power is in their looks\n    That makes men bow, and flings a casting-net\n    About their souls, and that all men would go\n    And barter those poor flames\u2014their spirits\u2014only\n    You bribe them with the safety of your gold.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    Praise be to God, to Mary, and the angels,\n    That I am wealthy. Wherefore do they sell?\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    The demons give a hundred crowns and more\n    For a poor soul like his who lies asleep\n    By your great door under the porter\u2019s niche;\n    A little soul not worth a hundred pence.\n    But, for a soul like yours, I heard them say,\n    They would give five hundred thousand crowns and more.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    How can a heap of crowns pay for a soul?\n    Is the green grave so terrible a thing?\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    Some sell because the money gleams, and some\n    Because they are in terror of the grave,\n    And some because their neighbours sold before,\n    And some because there is a kind of joy\n    In casting hope away, in losing joy,\n    In ceasing all resistance, in at last\n    Opening one\u2019s arms to the eternal flames,\n    In casting all sails out upon the wind:\n    To this\u2014full of the gaiety of the lost\u2014\n    Would all folk hurry if your gold were gone.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    There is a something, merchant, in your voice\n    That makes me fear. When you were telling how\n    A man may lose his soul and lose his God,\n    Your eyes lighted, and the strange weariness\n    That hangs about you vanished. When you told\n    How my poor money serves the people\u2014both\u2014\n    Merchants, forgive me\u2014seemed to smile.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n                                      Man\u2019s sins\n    Move us to laughter only, we have seen\n    So many lands and seen so many men.\n    How strange that all these people should be swung\n    As on a lady\u2019s shoe-string\u2014under them\n    The glowing leagues of never-ending flame!\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    There is a something in you that I fear:\n    A something not of us. Were you not born\n    In some most distant corner of the world?\n\n    [_The SECOND MERCHANT, who has been listening at the\n    door to the right, comes forward, and as he comes a\n    sound of voices and feet is heard through the door to\n    his left._\n\nSECOND MERCHANT [_aside to FIRST MERCHANT_].\n\n    Away now\u2014they are in the passage\u2014hurry,\n    For they will know us, and freeze up our hearts\n    With Ave Marys, and burn all our skin\n    With holy water.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n                    Farewell: we must ride\n    Many a mile before the morning come;\n    Our horses beat the ground impatiently.\n\n    [_They go out to R. A number of peasants enter at the\n    same moment by the opposite door._\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    What would you?\n\nA PEASANT.\n\n                      As we nodded by the fire,\n    Telling old histories, we heard a noise\n    Of falling money. We have searched in vain.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    You are too timid. I heard naught at all.\n\nTHE OLD PEASANT.\n\n    Ay, we are timid, for a rich man\u2019s word\n    Can shake our houses, and a moon of drouth\n    Shrivel our seedlings in the barren earth;\n    We are the slaves of wind, and hail, and flood;\n    Fear jogs our elbow in the market-place,\n    And nods beside us on the chimney-seat.\n    Ill-bodings are as native unto our hearts\n    As are their spots unto the woodpeckers.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    You need not shake with bodings in this house.\n\n    [_OONA enters from the door to L._\n\nOONA.\n\n    The treasure-room is broken in\u2014mavrone\u2014mavrone;\n    The door stands open and the gold is gone.\n\n    [_The peasants raise a lamenting cry._\n\n    CATHLEEN.\n\n    Be silent.      [_The cry ceases._\n              Saw you any one?\n\nOONA.\n\n                              Mavrone,\n    That my good mistress should lose all this money.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    You three upon my right hand, ride and ride;\n    I will give a farm to him who finds the thieves.\n\n    [_A man with keys at his girdle has entered while she\n    was speaking._\n\nA PEASANT.\n\n    The porter trembles.\n\nTHE PORTER.\n\n                      It is all no use;\n    Demons were here. I sat beside the door\n    In my stone niche, and two owls passed me by,\n    Whispering with human voices.\n\nTHE OLD PEASANT.\n\n    God forsakes us.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    Old man, old man, He never closed a door\n    Unless one opened. I am desolate,\n    For a most sad resolve wakes in my heart:\n    But always I have faith. Old men and women,\n    Be silent; He does not forsake the world,\n    But stands before it modelling in the clay\n    And moulding there His image. Age by age\n    The clay wars with His fingers and pleads hard\n    For its old, heavy, dull, and shapeless ease;\n    At times it crumbles and a nation falls,\n    Now moves awry and demon hordes are born.\n\n    [_The peasants cross themselves._\n\n    But leave me now, for I am desolate,\n    I hear a whisper from beyond the thunder.\n\n    [_She steps down from the oratory door._\n\n    Yet stay an instant. When we meet again\n    I may have grown forgetful. Oona, take\n    These two\u2014the larder and the dairy keys.\n    [_To THE OLD PEASANT._] But take you this. It opens the small room\n    Of herbs for medicine, of hellebore,\n    Of vervain, monkshood, plantain, and self-heal\n    And all the others; and the book of cures\n    Is on the upper shelf. You understand,\n    Because you doctored goats and cattle once.\n\nTHE OLD PEASANT.\n\n    Why do you do this, lady\u2014did you see\n    Your coffin in a dream?\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n                            Ah, no, not that,\n    A sad resolve wakes in me. I have heard\n    A sound of wailing in unnumbered hovels,\n    And I must go down, down, I know not where.\n    Pray for the poor folk who are crazed with famine;\n    Pray, you good neighbours.\n\n    [_The peasants all kneel. The COUNTESS CATHLEEN ascends\n    the steps to the door of the oratory, and, turning\n    round, stands there motionless for a little, and then\n    cries in a loud voice._]\n\n                          Mary, queen of angels,\n    And all you clouds on clouds of saints, farewell!\n\n\n\n\nACT IV.\n\n\n    _The cabin of SHEMUS RUA. The TWO MERCHANTS are sitting\n    one at each end of the table, with rolls of parchment\n    and many little heaps of gold before them. Through an\n    open door, at the back, one sees into an inner room, in\n    which there is a bed. On the bed is the body of MAIRE\n    with candles about it._\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    The woman may keep robbing us no more,\n    For there are only mice now in her coffers.\n\nSECOND MERCHANT.\n\n    Last night, closed in the image of an owl,\n    I hurried to the cliffs of Donegal,\n    And saw, creeping on the uneasy surge,\n    Those ships that bring the woman grain and meal;\n    They are five days from us.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n                                  I hurried East,\n    A gray owl flitting, flitting in the dew,\n    And saw nine hundred oxen toil through Meath\n    Driven on by goads of iron; they, too, brother,\n    Are full five days from us.\n\nSECOND MERCHANT.\n\n    Five days for traffic.\n\n    [_While they have been speaking the peasants have come\n    in, led by TEIG and SHEMUS, who take their stations,\n    one on each side of the door, and keep them marshalled\n    into rude order and encourage them from time to time\n    with gestures and whispered words._\n\n    Here throng they; since the drouth they go in throngs,\n    Like autumn leaves blown by the dreary winds.\n    Come, deal\u2014come, deal.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    Who will come deal with us?\n\nSHEMUS.\n\n    They are out of spirit, sir, with lack of food,\n    Save four or five. Here, sir, is one of these;\n    The others will gain courage in good time.\n\nA MIDDLE-AGED MAN.\n\n    I come to deal if you give honest price.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n[_Reading in a parchment._]\n\n    John Maher, a man of substance, with dull mind,\n    And quiet senses and unventurous heart.\n    The angels think him safe. Two hundred crowns,\n    All for a soul, a little breath of wind.\n\nTHE MAN.\n\n    I ask three hundred crowns. You have read there,\n    That no mere lapse of days can make me yours.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    There is something more writ here\u2014often at night\n    He is wakeful from a dread of growing poor.\n    There is this crack in you\u2014two hundred crowns.\n\n    [_THE MAN takes them and goes._\n\nSECOND MERCHANT.\n\n    Come, deal\u2014one would half think you had no souls.\n    If only for the credit of your parishes,\n    Come, deal, deal, deal, or will you always starve?\n    Maire, the wife of Shemus, would not deal,\n    She starved\u2014she lies in there with red wallflowers,\n    And candles stuck in bottles round her bed.\n\nA WOMAN.\n\n    What price, now, will you give for mine?\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n                                      Ay, ay,\n    Soft, handsome, and still young\u2014not much, I think.\n\n    [_Reading in the parchment._\n\n    She has love letters in a little jar\n    On the high shelf between the pepper-pot\n    And wood-cased hour-glass.\n\nTHE WOMAN.\n\n    O, the scandalous parchment!\n\nFIRST MERCHANT [_reading_].\n\n    She hides them from her husband, who buys horses,\n    And is not much at home. You are almost safe.\n    I give you fifty crowns.      [_She turns to go._\n                            A hundred, then.\n\n    [_She takes them, and goes into the crowd._\n\n    Come\u2014deal, deal, deal; it is for charity\n    We buy such souls at all; a thousand sins\n    Made them our master\u2019s long before we came.\n    Come, deal\u2014come, deal. You seem resolved to starve\n    Until your bones show through your skin. Come, deal,\n    Or live on nettles, grass, and dandelion.\n    Or do you dream the famine will go by?\n    The famine is hale and hearty; it is mine\n    And my great master\u2019s; it shall no wise cease\n    Until our purpose end: the yellow vapour\n    That brought it bears it over your dried fields\n    And fills with violent phantoms of the lost,\n    And grows more deadly as day copies day.\n    See how it dims the daylight. Is that peace\n    Known to the birds of prey so dread a thing?\n    They, and the souls obedient to our master,\n    And those who live with that great other spirit\n    Have gained an end, a peace, while you but toss\n    And swing upon a moving balance beam.\n\n    [_ALEEL enters; the wires of his harp are broken._\n\nALEEL.\n\n    Here, take my soul, for I am tired of it;\n    I do not ask a price.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT [_reading_].\n\n                        A man of songs:\n    Alone in the hushed passion of romance,\n    His mind ran all on sidheoges and on tales\n    Of Fenian labours and the Red Branch kings,\n    And he cared nothing for the life of man:\n    But now all changes.\n\nALEEL.\n\n                         Ay, because her face,\n    The face of Countess Cathleen, dwells with me:\n    The sadness of the world upon her brow:\n    The crying of these strings grew burdensome,\n    Therefore I tore them; see; now take my soul.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    We cannot take your soul, for it is hers.\n\nALEEL.\n\n    Ah, take it; take it. It nowise can help her,\n    And, therefore, do I tire of it.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n                                   No; no.\n    We may not touch it.\n\nALEEL.\n\n                          Is your power so small,\n    Must I then bear it with me all my days?\n    May scorn close deep about you!\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n                                Lead him hence;\n    He troubles me.\n\n    [_TEIG and SHEMUS lead ALEEL into the crowd._\n\nSECOND MERCHANT.\n\n                 His gaze has filled me, brother,\n    With shaking and a dreadful fear.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n                                  Lean forward\n    And kiss the circlet where my master\u2019s lips\n    Were pressed upon it when he sent us hither:\n    You will have peace once more.\n\n    [_The SECOND MERCHANT kisses the gold circlet that is\n    about the head of the FIRST MERCHANT._\n\nSHEMUS.\n\n                              He is called Aleel,\n    And has been crazy now these many days;\n    But has no harm in him: his fits soon pass,\n    And one can go and lead him like a child.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    Come, deal, deal, deal, deal, deal; you are all dumb?\n\nSHEMUS.\n\n    They say you beat the woman down too low.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    I offer this great price: a thousand crowns\n    For an old woman who was always ugly.\n\n[_An old peasant woman comes forward, and he takes up a parchment and\nreads._]\n\n    There is but little set down here against her;\n    She stole fowl sometimes when the harvest failed,\n    But always went to chapel twice a week,\n    And paid her dues when prosperous. Take your money.\n\nTHE OLD PEASANT WOMAN [_curtseying_].\n\n    God bless you, sir.      [_She screams._\n                  O, sir, a pain went through me.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    That name is like a fire to all damned souls.\n    Begone. [_She goes._] See how the red gold pieces glitter.\n    Deal: do you fear because an old hag screamed?\n    Are you all cowards?\n\nA PEASANT.\n\n                              Nay, I am no coward.\n    I will sell half my soul.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    How half your soul?\n\nTHE PEASANT.\n\n    Half my chance of heaven.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n                                  It is writ here\n    This man in all things takes the moderate course,\n    He sits on midmost of the balance beam,\n    And no man has had good of him or evil.\n    Begone, we will not buy you.\n\nSECOND MERCHANT.\n\n    Deal, come, deal.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    What, will you keep us from our ancient home,\n    And from the eternal revelry? Come, deal,\n    And we will hence to our great master again.\n    Come, deal, deal, deal.\n\nTHE PEASANTS SHOUT.\n\n    The Countess Cathleen comes!\n\nCATHLEEN [_entering_].\n\n    And so you trade once more?\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n                                In spite of you.\n    What brings you here, saint with the sapphire eyes?\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    I come to barter a soul for a great price.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    What matter if the soul be worth the price?\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    The people starve, therefore the people go\n    Thronging to you. I hear a cry come from them,\n    And it is in my ears by night and day;\n    And I would have five hundred thousand crowns,\n    That I may feed them till the dearth go by;\n    And have the wretched spirits you have bought\n    For your gold crowns released and sent to God.\n    The soul that I would barter is my soul.\n\nA PEASANT.\n\n    Do not, do not; the souls of us poor folk\n    Are not precious to God as your soul is.\n    O! what would heaven do without you, lady?\n\nANOTHER PEASANT.\n\n    Look how their claws clutch in their leathern gloves.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    Five hundred thousand crowns; we give the price,\n    The gold is here; the spirits, while you speak,\n    Begin to labour upward, for your face\n    Sheds a great light on them and fills their hearts\n    With those unveilings of the fickle light,\n    Whereby our heavy labours have been marred\n    Since first His spirit moved upon the deeps\n    And stole them from us; even before this day\n    The souls were but half ours, for your bright eyes\n    Had pierced them through and robbed them of content.\n    But you must sign, for we omit no form\n    In buying a soul like yours; sign with this quill;\n    It was a feather growing on the cock\n    That crowed when Peter dared deny his Master,\n    And all who use it have great honour in Hell.\n\n    [_CATHLEEN leans forward to sign._\n\nALEEL.\n\n[_Rushing forward and snatching the parchment from her._]\n\n    Leave all things to the builder of the heavens.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    I have no thoughts: I hear a cry\u2014a cry.\n\nALEEL.\n\n[_Casting the parchment on the ground._]\n\n    I had a vision under a green hedge,\n    A hedge of hips and haws\u2014men yet shall hear\n    The archangels rolling Satan\u2019s empty skull\n    Over the mountain-tops.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    Take him away.\n\n    [_TEIG and SHEMUS drag him roughly away so that he\n    falls upon the floor among the peasants. CATHLEEN picks\n    up the parchment and signs, and then turns towards the\n    peasants._\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    Take up the money; and now come with me.\n    When we are far from this polluted place\n    I will give everybody money enough.\n\n    [_She goes out, the peasants crowding round her and\n    kissing her dress. ALEEL and the TWO MERCHANTS are left\n    alone._\n\nSECOND MERCHANT.\n\n    Now are our days of heavy labour done.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    We have a precious jewel for Satan\u2019s crown.\n\nSECOND MERCHANT.\n\n    We must away, and wait until she dies,\n    Sitting above her tower as two gray owls,\n    Watching as many years as may be, guarding\n    Our precious jewel; waiting to seize her soul.\n\nFIRST MERCHANT.\n\n    We need but hover over her head in the air,\n    For she has only minutes: when she came\n    I saw the dimness of the tomb in her,\n    And marked her walking as with leaden shoes\n    And looking on the ground as though the worms\n    Were calling her, and when she wrote her name\n    Her heart began to break. Hush! hush! I hear\n    The brazen door of Hell move on its hinges,\n    And the eternal revelry float hither\n    To hearten us.\n\nSECOND MERCHANT.\n\n                Leap, feathered, on the air\n    And meet them with her soul caught in your claws.\n\n    [_They rush out. ALEEL crawls into the middle of the\n    room. The twilight has fallen and gradually darkens\n    as the scene goes on. There is a distant muttering of\n    thunder and a sound of rising storm._\n\nALEEL.\n\n    The brazen door stands wide, and Balor comes\n    Borne in his heavy car, and demons have lifted\n    The age-weary eyelids from the eyes that of old\n    Turned gods to stone; Barach the traitor comes;\n    And the lascivious race, Cailitin,\n    That cast a druid weakness and decay\n    Over Sualtam\u2019s and old Dectora\u2019s child;\n    And that great king Hell first took hold upon\n    When he killed Naisi and broke Deirdre\u2019s heart;\n    And all their heads are twisted to one side,\n    For when they lived they warred on beauty and peace\n    With obstinate, crafty, sidelong bitterness.\n\n    [_OONA enters, but remains standing by the door. ALEEL\n    half rises, leaning upon one arm and one knee._]\n\n    Crouch down, old heron, out of the blind storm.\n\nOONA.\n\n    Where is the Countess Cathleen? All this day\n    She has been pale and weakly: when her hand\n    Touched mine over the spindle her hand trembled,\n    And now I do not know where she has gone.\n\nALEEL.\n\n    Cathleen has chosen other friends than us,\n    And they are rising through the hollow world.\n\n    [_He points downwards._\n\n    First, Orchil, her pale beautiful head alive,\n    Her body shadowy as vapour drifting\n    Under the dawn, for she who awoke desire\n    Has but a heart of blood when others die;\n    About her is a vapoury multitude\n    Of women, alluring devils with soft laughter;\n    Behind her a host heat of the blood made sin,\n    But all the little pink-white nails have grown\n    To be great talons.\n\n    [_He seizes OONA and drags her into the middle of the\n    room and points downwards with vehement gestures. The\n    wind roars._]\n\n                          They begin a song\n    And there is still some music on their tongues.\n\nOONA.\n\n    [_Casting herself face downwards on the floor._]\n\n    O maker of all, protect her from the demons,\n    And if a soul must needs be lost, take mine.\n\n    [_ALEEL kneels beside her, but does not seem to hear\n    her words; he is gazing down as if through the earth.\n    The peasants return. They carry the COUNTESS CATHLEEN\n    and lay her upon the ground before OONA and ALEEL. She\n    lies there as if dead._]\n\n    O that so many pitchers of rough clay\n    Should prosper and the porcelain break in two!\n\n    [_She kisses the hands of the COUNTESS CATHLEEN._\n\nA PEASANT.\n\n    We were under the tree where the path turns\n    When she grew pale as death and fainted away,\n    And while we bore her hither, cloudy gusts\n    Blackened the world and shook us on our feet:\n    Draw the great bolt, for no man has beheld\n    So black, bitter, blinding, and sudden a storm.\n\n    [_One who is near the door draws the bolt._\n\nOONA.\n\n    Hush, hush, she has awakened from her swoon.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    O hold me, and hold me tightly, for the storm\n    Is dragging me away!\n\n    [_OONA takes her in her arms. A woman begins to wail._\n\nA PEASANT.\n\n    Hush.\n\nANOTHER PEASANT.\n\n    Hush.\n\nA PEASANT WOMAN.\n\n    Hush.\n\nANOTHER PEASANT WOMAN.\n\n    Hush.\n\nCATHLEEN [_half rising_].\n\n    Lay all the bags of money at my feet.\n\n    [_They lay the bags at her feet._\n\n    And send and bring old Neal when I am dead,\n    And bid him hear each man and judge and give:\n    He doctors you with herbs, and can best say\n    Who has the less and who the greater need.\n\nA PEASANT WOMAN.\n\n[_At the back of the crowd._]\n\n    And will he give enough out of the bags\n    To keep my children till the dearth go by?\n\nANOTHER PEASANT WOMAN.\n\n    O Queen of Heaven and all you blessed Saints,\n    Let us and ours be lost, so she be shriven.\n\nCATHLEEN.\n\n    Bend down your faces, Oona and Aleel:\n    I gaze upon them as the swallow gazes\n    Upon the nest under the eave, before\n    He wander the loud waters: do not weep\n    Too great a while, for there is many a candle\n    On the high altar though one fall. Aleel,\n    Who sang about the people of the raths,\n    That know not the hard burden of the world,\n    Having but breath in their kind bodies, farewell!\n    And farewell, Oona, who spun flax with me\n    Soft as their sleep when every dance is done:\n    The storm is in my hair and I must go.\n\n    [_She dies._\n\nOONA.\n\n    Bring me the looking-glass.\n\n[_A woman brings it to her out of the inner room. OONA holds the glass\nover the lips of the COUNTESS CATHLEEN. All is silent for a moment; and\nthen she speaks in a half scream._]\n\n    O, she is dead!\n\nA PEASANT WOMAN.\n\n    She was the great white lily of the world.\n\nANOTHER PEASANT WOMAN.\n\n    She was more beautiful than the pale stars.\n\nAN OLD PEASANT WOMAN.\n\n    The little plant I loved is broken in two.\n\n    [_ALEEL takes the looking-glass from OONA and flings it\n    upon the floor so that it is broken in many pieces._\n\nALEEL.\n\n    I shatter you in fragments, for the face\n    That brimmed you up with beauty is no more:\n    And die, dull heart, for she whose mournful words\n    Made you a living spirit has passed away\n    And left you but a ball of passionate dust;\n    And you, proud earth and plumy sea, fade out,\n    For you may hear no more her faltering feet,\n    But are left lonely amid the clamorous war\n    Of angels upon devils.\n\n[_He stands up; almost everyone is kneeling, but it has grown so dark\nthat only confused forms can be seen._]\n\n                          And I who weep\n    Call curses on you, Time and Fate and Change,\n    And have no excellent hope but the great hour\n    When you shall plunge headlong through bottomless space.\n\n    [_A flash of lightning followed immediately by thunder._\n\nA PEASANT WOMAN.\n\n    Pull him upon his knees before his curses\n    Have plucked thunder and lightning on our heads.\n\nALEEL.\n\n    Angels and devils clash in the middle air,\n    And brazen swords clang upon brazen helms:\n\n[_A flash of lightning followed immediately by thunder._]\n\n    Yonder a bright spear, cast out of a sling,\n    Has torn through Balor\u2019s eye, and the dark clans\n    Fly screaming as they fled Moytura of old.\n\n    [_Everything is lost in darkness._\n\nAN OLD MAN.\n\n    The Almighty, wrath at our great weakness and sin,\n    Has blotted out the world and we must die.\n\n    [_The darkness is broken by a visionary light. The\n    peasants seem to be kneeling upon the rocky slope of a\n    mountain, and vapour full of storm and ever-changing\n    light is sweeping above them and behind them. Half in\n    the light, half in the shadow, stand armed Angels.\n    Their armour is old and worn, and their drawn swords\n    dim and dinted. They stand as if upon the air in\n    formation of battle and look downward with stern faces.\n    The peasants cast themselves on the ground._\n\nALEEL.\n\n    Look no more on the half-closed gates of Hell,\n    But speak to me, whose mind is smitten of God,\n    That it may be no more with mortal things;\n    And tell of her who lies here.\n    [_He seizes one of the Angels._] Till you speak\n    You shall not drift into eternity.\n\nTHE ANGEL.\n\n    The light beats down: the gates of pearl are wide,\n    And she is passing to the floor of peace,\n    And Mary of the seven times wounded heart\n    Has kissed her lips, and the long blessed hair\n    Has fallen on her face; the Light of Lights\n    Looks always on the motive, not the deed,\n    The Shadow of Shadows on the deed alone.\n\n    [_ALEEL releases the Angel and kneels._\n\nOONA.\n\n    Tell them who walk upon the floor of peace\n    That I would die and go to her I love;\n    The years like great black oxen tread the world,\n    And God the herdsman goads them on behind,\n    And I am broken by their passing feet.\n\n    [_A sound of far-off horns seems to come from the heart\n    of the light. The vision melts away, and the forms of\n    the kneeling peasants appear faintly in the darkness._]\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAND OF HEART\u2019S DESIRE\n\n\n\n\n    \u2018O Rose, thou art sick.\u2019\u2014_William Blake._\n\n\n\n\nTO FLORENCE FARR\n\n\n\n\n_PERSONS IN THE PLAY_\n\n\n    MAURTEEN BRUIN\n    SHAWN BRUIN\n    FATHER HART\n    BRIDGET BRUIN\n    MAIRE BRUIN\n    A FAERY CHILD\n\n_The scene is laid in the Barony of Kilmacowen, in the County of Sligo,\nand the characters are supposed to speak in Gaelic. They wear the\ncostume of a century ago._\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAND OF HEART\u2019S DESIRE\n\n\n    _The kitchen of MAURTEEN BRUIN\u2019S house. An open grate\n    with a turf fire is at the left side of the room, with\n    a table in front of it. There is a door leading to the\n    open air at the back, and another door a little to its\n    left, leading into an inner room. There is a window, a\n    settle, and a large dresser on the right side of the\n    room, and a great bowl of primroses on the sill of\n    the window. MAURTEEN BRUIN, FATHER HART, and BRIDGET\n    BRUIN are sitting at the table. SHAWN BRUIN is setting\n    the table for supper. MAIRE BRUIN sits on the settle\n    reading a yellow manuscript._\n\nBRIDGET BRUIN.\n\n    Because I bade her go and feed the calves,\n    She took that old book down out of the thatch\n    And has been doubled over it all day.\n    We would be deafened by her groans and moans\n    Had she to work as some do, Father Hart,\n    Get up at dawn like me, and mend and scour;\n    Or ride abroad in the boisterous night like you,\n    The pyx and blessed bread under your arm.\n\nSHAWN BRUIN.\n\n    You are too cross.\n\nBRIDGET BRUIN.\n\n    The young side with the young.\n\nMAURTEEN BRUIN.\n\n    She quarrels with my wife a bit at times,\n    And is too deep just now in the old book,\n    But do not blame her greatly; she will grow\n    As quiet as a puff-ball in a tree\n    When but the moons of marriage dawn and die\n    For half a score of times.\n\nFATHER HART.\n\n                              Their hearts are wild\n    As be the hearts of birds, till children come.\n\nBRIDGET BRUIN.\n\n    She would not mind the griddle, milk the cow,\n    Or even lay the knives and spread the cloth.\n\nFATHER HART.\n\n    I never saw her read a book before;\n    What may it be?\n\nMAURTEEN BRUIN.\n\n                    I do not rightly know;\n    It has been in the thatch for fifty years.\n    My father told me my grandfather wrote it,\n    Killed a red heifer and bound it with the hide.\n    But draw your chair this way\u2014supper is spread.\n    And little good he got out of the book,\n    Because it filled his house with roaming bards,\n    And roaming ballad-makers and the like,\n    And wasted all his goods.\u2014Here is the wine:\n    The griddle bread\u2019s beside you, Father Hart.\n    Colleen, what have you got there in the book\n    That you must leave the bread to cool? Had I,\n    Or had my father, read or written books\n    There were no stocking full of silver and gold\n    To come, when I am dead, to Shawn and you.\n\nFATHER HART.\n\n    You should not fill your head with foolish dreams.\n    What are you reading?\n\nMAIRE BRUIN.\n\n                        How a Princess Edain,\n    A daughter of a King of Ireland, heard\n    A voice singing on a May Eve like this,\n    And followed, half awake and half asleep,\n    Until she came into the land of faery,\n    Where nobody gets old and godly and grave,\n    Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise,\n    Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue;\n    And she is still there, busied with a dance,\n    Deep in the dewy shadow of a wood,\n    Or where stars walk upon a mountain-top.\n\nMAURTEEN BRUIN.\n\n    Persuade the colleen to put by the book:\n    My grandfather would mutter just such things,\n    And he was no judge of a dog or horse,\n    And any idle boy could blarney him:\n    Just speak your mind.\n\nFATHER HART.\n\n                      Put it away, my colleen.\n    God spreads the heavens above us like great wings,\n    And gives a little round of deeds and days,\n    And then come the wrecked angels and set snares,\n    And bait them with light hopes and heavy dreams,\n    Until the heart is puffed with pride and goes,\n    Half shuddering and half joyous, from God\u2019s peace:\n    And it was some wrecked angel, blind from tears,\n    Who flattered Edain\u2019s heart with merry words.\n    My colleen, I have seen some other girls\n    Restless and ill at ease, but years went by\n    And they grew like their neighbours and were glad\n    In minding children, working at the churn,\n    And gossiping of weddings and of wakes;\n    For life moves out of a red flare of dreams\n    Into a common light of common hours,\n    Until old age bring the red flare again.\n\nSHAWN BRUIN.\n\n    Yet do not blame her greatly, Father Hart,\n    For she is dull while I am in the fields,\n    And mother\u2019s tongue were harder still to bear,\n    But for her fancies: this is May Eve too,\n    When the good people post about the world,\n    And surely one may think of them to-night.\n    Maire, have you the primroses to fling\n    Before the door to make a golden path\n    For them to bring good luck into the house?\n    Remember, they may steal new-married brides\n    After the fall of twilight on May Eve.\n\n    [_MAIRE BRUIN goes over to the window and takes flowers\n    from the bowl and strews them outside the door._\n\nFATHER HART.\n\n    You do well, daughter, because God permits\n    Great power to the good people on May Eve.\n\nSHAWN BRUIN.\n\n    They can work all their will with primroses;\n    Change them to golden money, or little flames\n    To burn up those who do them any wrong.\n\nMAIRE BRUIN [_in a dreamy voice_].\n\n    I had no sooner flung them by the door\n    Than the wind cried and hurried them away;\n    And then a child came running in the wind\n    And caught them in her hands and fondled them:\n    Her dress was green: her hair was of red gold;\n    Her face was pale as water before dawn.\n\nFATHER HART.\n\n    Whose child can this be?\n\nMAURTEEN BRUIN.\n\n                          No one\u2019s child at all.\n    She often dreams that someone has gone by\n    When there was nothing but a puff of wind.\n\nMAIRE BRUIN.\n\n    They will not bring good luck into the house,\n    For they have blown the primroses away;\n    Yet I am glad that I was courteous to them,\n    For are not they, likewise, children of God?\n\nFATHER HART.\n\n    Colleen, they are the children of the Fiend,\n    And they have power until the end of Time,\n    When God shall fight with them a great pitched battle\n    And hack them into pieces.\n\nMAIRE BRUIN.\n\n                              He will smile,\n    Father, perhaps, and open His great door,\n    And call the pretty and kind into His house.\n\nFATHER HART.\n\n    Did but the lawless angels see that door,\n    They would fall, slain by everlasting peace;\n    And when such angels knock upon our doors\n    Who goes with them must drive through the same storm.\n\n    [_A knock at the door. MAIRE BRUIN opens it and then\n    goes to the dresser and fills a porringer with milk and\n    hands it through the door and takes it back empty and\n    closes the door._\n\nMAIRE BRUIN.\n\n    A little queer old woman cloaked in green,\n    Who came to beg a porringer of milk.\n\nBRIDGET BRUIN.\n\n    The good people go asking milk and fire\n    Upon May Eve.\u2014Woe on the house that gives,\n    For they have power upon it for a year.\n    I knew you would bring evil on the house.\n\nMAURTEEN BRUIN.\n\n    Who was she?\n\nMAIRE BRUIN.\n\n    Both the tongue and face were strange.\n\nMAURTEEN BRUIN.\n\n    Some strangers came last week to Clover Hill;\n    She must be one of them.\n\nBRIDGET BRUIN.\n\n    I am afraid.\n\nMAURTEEN BRUIN.\n\n    The priest will keep all harm out of the house.\n\nFATHER HART.\n\n    The cross will keep all harm out of the house\n    While it hangs there.\n\nMAURTEEN BRUIN.\n\n                  Come, sit beside me, colleen,\n    And put away your dreams of discontent,\n    For I would have you light up my last days\n    Like a bright torch of pine, and when I die\n    I will make you the wealthiest hereabout:\n    For hid away where nobody can find\n    I have a stocking full of silver and gold.\n\nBRIDGET BRUIN.\n\n    You are the fool of every pretty face,\n    And I must pinch and pare that my son\u2019s wife\n    May have all kinds of ribbons for her head.\n\nMAURTEEN BRUIN.\n\n    Do not be cross; she is a right good girl!\n    The butter is by your elbow, Father Hart.\n    My colleen, have not Fate and Time and Change\n    Done well for me and for old Bridget there?\n    We have a hundred acres of good land,\n    And sit beside each other at the fire,\n    The wise priest of our parish to our right,\n    And you and our dear son to left of us.\n    To sit beside the board and drink good wine\n    And watch the turf smoke coiling from the fire\n    And feel content and wisdom in your heart,\n    This is the best of life; when we are young\n    We long to tread a way none trod before,\n    But find the excellent old way through love\n    And through the care of children to the hour\n    For bidding Fate and Time and Change good-bye.\n\n    [_A knock at the door. MAIRE BRUIN opens it and then\n    takes a sod of turf out of the hearth in the tongs and\n    passes it through the door and closes the door and\n    remains standing by it._\n\nMAIRE BRUIN.\n\n    A little queer old man in a green coat,\n    Who asked a burning sod to light his pipe.\n\nBRIDGET BRUIN.\n\n    You have now given milk and fire, and brought,\n    For all you know, evil upon the house.\n    Before you married you were idle and fine,\n    And went about with ribbons on your head;\n    And now you are a good-for-nothing wife.\n\nSHAWN BRUIN.\n\n    Be quiet, mother!\n\nMAURTEEN BRUIN.\n\n    You are much too cross!\n\nMAIRE BRUIN.\n\n    What do I care if I have given this house,\n    Where I must hear all day a bitter tongue,\n    Into the power of faeries!\n\nBRIDGET BRUIN.\n\n                            You know well\n    How calling the good people by that name\n    Or talking of them over-much at all\n    May bring all kinds of evil on the house.\n\nMAIRE BRUIN.\n\n    Come, faeries, take me out of this dull house!\n    Let me have all the freedom I have lost;\n    Work when I will and idle when I will!\n    Faeries, come, take me out of this dull world,\n    For I would ride with you upon the wind,\n    Run on the top of the dishevelled tide,\n    And dance upon the mountains like a flame!\n\nFATHER HART.\n\n    You cannot know the meaning of your words.\n\nMAIRE BRUIN.\n\n    Father, I am right weary of four tongues:\n    A tongue that is too crafty and too wise,\n    A tongue that is too godly and too grave,\n    A tongue that is more bitter than the tide,\n    And a kind tongue too full of drowsy love,\n    Of drowsy love and my captivity.\n\n    [_SHAWN BRUIN comes over to her and leads her to the\n    settle._\n\nSHAWN BRUIN.\n\n    Do not blame me; I often lie awake\n    Thinking that all things trouble your bright head\u2014\n    How beautiful it is\u2014such broad pale brows\n    Under a cloudy blossoming of hair!\n    Sit down beside me here\u2014these are too old,\n    And have forgotten they were ever young.\n\nMAIRE BRUIN.\n\n    O, you are the great door-post of this house,\n    And I, the red nasturtium, climbing up.\n\n    [_She takes SHAWN\u2019S hand, but looks shyly at the priest\n    and lets it go._\n\nFATHER HART.\n\n    Good daughter, take his hand\u2014by love alone\n    God binds us to Himself and to the hearth\n    And shuts us from the waste beyond His peace,\n    From maddening freedom and bewildering light.\n\nSHAWN BRUIN.\n\n    Would that the world were mine to give it you\n    With every quiet hearth and barren waste,\n    The maddening freedom of its woods and tides,\n    And the bewildering light upon its hills.\n\nMAIRE BRUIN.\n\n    Then I would take and break it in my hands\n    To see you smile watching it crumble away.\n\nSHAWN BRUIN.\n\n    Then I would mould a world of fire and dew\n    With no one bitter, grave, or over-wise,\n    And nothing marred or old to do you wrong;\n    And crowd the enraptured quiet of the sky\n    With candles burning to your lonely face.\n\nMAIRE BRUIN.\n\n    Your looks are all the candles that I need.\n\nSHAWN BRUIN.\n\n    Once a fly dancing in a beam of the sun,\n    Or the light wind blowing out of the dawn,\n    Could fill your heart with dreams none other knew,\n    But now the indissoluble sacrament\n    Has mixed your heart that was most proud and cold\n    With my warm heart for ever; and sun and moon\n    Must fade and heaven be rolled up like a scroll;\n    But your white spirit still walk by my spirit.\n\n    [_A VOICE sings in the distance._\n\nMAIRE BRUIN.\n\n    Did you hear something call? O, guard me close,\n    Because I have said wicked things to-night;\n    And seen a pale-faced child with red-gold hair,\n    And longed to dance upon the winds with her.\n\nA VOICE [_close to the door_].\n\n    _The wind blows out of the gates of the day,\n    The wind blows over the lonely of heart,\n    And the lonely of heart is withered away,\n    While the faeries dance in a place apart,\n    Shaking their milk-white feet in a ring,\n    Tossing their milk-white arms in the air;\n    For they hear the wind laugh, and murmur and sing\n    Of a land where even the old are fair,\n    And even the wise are merry of tongue;\n    But I heard a reed of Coolaney say,\n    \u2018When the wind has laughed and murmured and sung,\n    The lonely of heart is withered away!\u2019_\n\nMAURTEEN BRUIN.\n\n    I am right happy, and would make all else\n    Be happy too. I hear a child outside,\n    And will go bring her in out of the cold.\n\n    [_He opens the door. A CHILD dressed in pale green and\n    with red-gold hair comes into the house._\n\nTHE CHILD.\n\n    I tire of winds and waters and pale lights!\n\nMAURTEEN BRUIN.\n\n    You are most welcome. It is cold out there;\n    Who\u2019d think to face such cold on a May Eve?\n\nTHE CHILD.\n\n    And when I tire of this warm little house\n    There is one here who must away, away,\n    To where the woods, the stars, and the white streams\n    Are holding a continual festival.\n\nMAURTEEN BRUIN.\n\n    O listen to her dreamy and strange talk.\n    Come to the fire.\n\nTHE CHILD.\n\n                    I will sit upon your knee,\n    For I have run from where the winds are born,\n    And long to rest my feet a little while.\n\n    [_She sits upon his knee._\n\nBRIDGET BRUIN.\n\n    How pretty you are!\n\nMAURTEEN BRUIN.\n\n    Your hair is wet with dew!\n\nBRIDGET BRUIN.\n\n    I will warm your chilly feet.\n\n    [_She takes THE CHILD\u2019S feet in her hands._\n\nMAURTEEN BRUIN.\n\n                             You must have come\n    A long, long way, for I have never seen\n    Your pretty face, and must be tired and hungry;\n    Here is some bread and wine.\n\nTHE CHILD.\n\n                     The wine is bitter.\n    Old mother, have you no sweet food for me?\n\nBRIDGET BRUIN.\n\n    I have some honey!\n\n    [_She goes into the next room._\n\nMAURTEEN BRUIN.\n\n                     You are a dear child;\n    The mother was quite cross before you came.\n\n    [_BRIDGET returns with the honey, and goes to the\n    dresser and fills a porringer with milk._\n\nBRIDGET BRUIN.\n\n    She is the child of gentle people; look\n    At her white hands and at her pretty dress.\n    I have brought you some new milk, but wait awhile,\n    And I will put it by the fire to warm,\n    For things well fitted for poor folk like us\n    Would never please a high-born child like you.\n\nTHE CHILD.\n\n    Old mother, my old mother, the green dawn\n    Brightens above while you blow up the fire;\n    And evening finds you spreading the white cloth.\n    The young may lie in bed and dream and hope,\n    But you work on because your heart is old.\n\nBRIDGET BRUIN.\n\n    The young are idle.\n\nTHE CHILD.\n\n                       Old father, you are wise,\n    And all the years have gathered in your heart\n    To whisper of the wonders that are gone.\n    The young must sigh through many a dream and hope,\n    But you are wise because your heart is old.\n\nMAURTEEN BRUIN.\n\n    O, who would think to find so young a child\n    Loving old age and wisdom?\n\n    [_BRIDGET gives her more bread and honey._\n\nTHE CHILD.\n\n    No more, mother.\n\nMAURTEEN BRUIN.\n\n    What a small bite! The milk is ready now;\n    What a small sip!\n\nTHE CHILD.\n\n                    Put on my shoes, old mother,\n    For I would like to dance now I have eaten.\n    The reeds are dancing by Coolaney lake,\n    And I would like to dance until the reeds\n    And the white waves have danced themselves to sleep.\n\n    [_BRIDGET having put on her shoes, she gets off the old\n    man\u2019s knees and is about to dance, but suddenly sees\n    the crucifix and shrieks and covers her eyes._]\n\n    What is that ugly thing on the black cross?\n\nFATHER HART.\n\n    You cannot know how naughty your words are!\n    That is our Blessed Lord!\n\nTHE CHILD.\n\n    Hide it away!\n\nBRIDGET BRUIN.\n\n    I have begun to be afraid, again!\n\nTHE CHILD.\n\n    Hide it away!\n\nMAURTEEN BRUIN.\n\n    That would be wickedness!\n\nBRIDGET BRUIN.\n\n    That would be sacrilege!\n\nTHE CHILD.\n\n                            The tortured thing!\n    Hide it away!\n\nMAURTEEN BRUIN.\n\n    Her parents are to blame.\n\nFATHER HART.\n\n    That is the image of the Son of God.\n\n    [_THE CHILD puts her arm round his neck and kisses him._\n\nTHE CHILD.\n\n    Hide it away! Hide it away!\n\nMAURTEEN BRUIN.\n\n    No! no!\n\nFATHER HART.\n\n    Because you are so young and little a child\n    I will go take it down.\n\nTHE CHILD.\n\n                          Hide it away,\n    And cover it out of sight and out of mind.\n\n    [_FATHER HART takes it down and carries it towards the\n    inner room._\n\nFATHER HART.\n\n    Since you have come into this barony,\n    I will instruct you in our blessed faith:\n    Being a clever child, you will soon learn.\n    [_To the others._] We must be tender with all budding things.\n    Our Maker let no thought of Calvary\n    Trouble the morning stars in their first song.\n\n    [_Puts the crucifix in the inner room._\n\nTHE CHILD.\n\n    Here is level ground for dancing. I will dance.\n    The wind is blowing on the waving reeds,\n    The wind is blowing on the heart of man.\n\n    [_She dances, swaying about like the reeds._\n\nMAIRE [_to SHAWN BRUIN_].\n\n    Just now when she came near I thought I heard\n    Other small steps beating upon the floor,\n    And a faint music blowing in the wind,\n    Invisible pipes giving her feet the time.\n\nSHAWN BRUIN.\n\n    I heard no step but hers.\n\nMAIRE BRUIN.\n\n                           Look to the bolt!\n    Because the unholy powers are abroad.\n\nMAURTEEN BRUIN [_to THE CHILD_].\n\n    Come over here, and if you promise me\n    Not to talk wickedly of holy things\n    I will give you something.\n\nTHE CHILD.\n\n    Bring it me, old father!\n\n    [_MAURTEEN BRUIN goes into the next room._\n\nFATHER HART.\n\n    I will have queen cakes when you come to me!\n\n    [_MAURTEEN BRUIN returns and lays a piece of money on\n    the table. THE CHILD makes a gesture of refusal._\n\nMAURTEEN BRUIN.\n\n    It will buy lots of toys; see how it glitters!\n\nTHE CHILD.\n\n    Come, tell me, do you love me?\n\nMAURTEEN BRUIN.\n\n    I love you!\n\nTHE CHILD.\n\n    Ah, but you love this fireside!\n\nFATHER HART.\n\n    I love you.\n\nTHE CHILD.\n\n    But you love Him above.\n\nBRIDGET BRUIN.\n\n    She is blaspheming.\n\nTHE CHILD [_to MAIRE_].\n\n    And do you love me?\n\nMAIRE BRUIN.\n\n    I\u2014I do not know.\n\nTHE CHILD.\n\n    You love that great tall fellow over there:\n    Yet I could make you ride upon the winds,\n    Run on the top of the dishevelled tide,\n    And dance upon the mountains like a flame!\n\nMAIRE BRUIN.\n\n    Queen of the Angels and kind Saints, defend us!\n    Some dreadful fate has fallen: a while ago\n    The wind cried out and took the primroses,\n    And she ran by me laughing in the wind,\n    And I gave milk and fire, and she came in\n    And made you hide the blessed crucifix.\n\nFATHER HART.\n\n    You fear because of her wild, pretty prattle;\n    She knows no better.\n    [_To THE CHILD_] Child, how old are you?\n\nTHE CHILD.\n\n    When winter sleep is abroad my hair grows thin,\n    My feet unsteady. When the leaves awaken\n    My mother carries me in her golden arms.\n    I\u2019ll soon put on my womanhood and marry\n    The spirits of wood and water, but who can tell\n    When I was born for the first time? I think\n    I am much older than the eagle cock\n    That blinks and blinks on Ballygawley Hill,\n    And he is the oldest thing under the moon.\n\nFATHER HART.\n\n    She is of the faery people.\n\nTHE CHILD.\n\n                             I am Brig\u2019s daughter.\n    I sent my messengers for milk and fire,\n    And then I heard one call to me and came.\n\n    [_They all except MAIRE BRUIN gather about the priest\n    for protection. MAIRE BRUIN stays on the settle in a\n    stupor of terror. THE CHILD takes primroses from the\n    great bowl and begins to strew them between herself and\n    the priest and about MAIRE BRUIN. During the following\n    dialogue SHAWN BRUIN goes more than once to the brink\n    of the primroses, but shrinks back to the others\n    timidly._\n\nFATHER HART.\n\n    I will confront this mighty spirit alone.\n\n    [_They cling to him and hold him back._\n\nTHE CHILD [_while she strews the primroses_].\n\n    No one whose heart is heavy with human tears\n    Can cross these little cressets of the wood.\n\nFATHER HART.\n\n    Be not afraid, the Father is with us,\n    And all the nine angelic hierarchies,\n    The Holy Martyrs and the Innocents,\n    The adoring Magi in their coats of mail,\n    And He who died and rose on the third day,\n    And Mary with her seven times wounded heart.\n\n    [_THE CHILD ceases strewing the primroses, and kneels\n    upon the settle beside MAIRE and puts her arms about\n    her neck._]\n\n    Cry, daughter, to the Angels and the Saints.\n\nTHE CHILD.\n\n    You shall go with me, newly-married bride,\n    And gaze upon a merrier multitude;\n    White-armed Nuala and Aengus of the birds,\n    And Feacra of the hurtling foam, and him\n    Who is the ruler of the western host,\n    Finvarra, and their Land of Heart\u2019s Desire,\n    Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood,\n    But joy is wisdom, Time an endless song.\n    I kiss you and the world begins to fade.\n\nFATHER HART.\n\n    Daughter, I call you unto home and love!\n\nTHE CHILD.\n\n    Stay, and come with me, newly-married bride,\n    For, if you hear him, you grow like the rest:\n    Bear children, cook, be mindful of the churn,\n    And wrangle over butter, fowl, and eggs,\n    And sit at last there, old and bitter of tongue,\n    Watching the white stars war upon your hopes.\n\nFATHER HART.\n\n    Daughter, I point you out the way to heaven.\n\nTHE CHILD.\n\n    But I can lead you, newly-married bride,\n    Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise,\n    Where nobody gets old and godly and grave,\n    Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue,\n    And where kind tongues bring no captivity,\n    For we are only true to the far lights\n    We follow singing, over valley and hill.\n\nFATHER HART.\n\n    By the dear name of the One crucified,\n    I bid you, Maire Bruin, come to me.\n\nTHE CHILD.\n\n    I keep you in the name of your own heart!\n\n    [_She leaves the settle, and stooping takes up a mass\n    of primroses and kisses them._]\n\n    We have great power to-night, dear golden folk,\n    For he took down and hid the crucifix.\n    And my invisible brethren fill the house;\n    I hear their footsteps going up and down.\n    O, they shall soon rule all the hearts of men\n    And own all lands; last night they merrily danced\n    About his chapel belfry! [_To MAIRE_] Come away,\n    I hear my brethren bidding us away!\n\nFATHER HART.\n\n    I will go fetch the crucifix again.\n\n    [_They hang about him in terror and prevent him from\n    moving._\n\nBRIDGET BRUIN.\n\n    The enchanted flowers will kill us if you go.\n\nMAURTEEN BRUIN.\n\n    They turn the flowers to little twisted flames.\n\nSHAWN BRUIN.\n\n    The little twisted flames burn up the heart.\n\nTHE CHILD.\n\n    I hear them crying, \u2018Newly-married bride,\n    Come to the woods and waters and pale lights.\u2019\n\nMAIRE BRUIN.\n\n    I will go with you.\n\nFATHER HART.\n\n    She is lost, alas!\n\nTHE CHILD [_standing by the door_].\n\n    Then, follow: but the heavy body of clay\n    And clinging mortal hope must fall from you,\n    For we who ride the winds, run on the waves,\n    And dance upon the mountains, are more light\n    Than dewdrops on the banners of the dawn.\n\nMAIRE BRUIN.\n\n    Then take my soul.      [_SHAWN BRUIN goes over to her._\n\nSHAWN BRUIN.\n\n                    Beloved, do not leave me!\n    Remember when I met you by the well\n    And took your hand in mine and spoke of love.\n\nMAIRE BRUIN.\n\n    Dear face! Dear voice!\n\nTHE CHILD.\n\n    Come, newly-married bride!\n\nMAIRE BRUIN.\n\n    I always loved her world\u2014and yet\u2014and yet\u2014\n\n    [_Sinks into his arms._\n\nTHE CHILD [_from the door_].\n\n    White bird, white bird, come with me, little bird.\n\nMAIRE BRUIN.\n\n    She calls my soul!\n\nTHE CHILD.\n\n    Come with me, little bird!\n\nMAIRE BRUIN.\n\n    I can hear songs and dancing!\n\nSHAWN BRUIN.\n\n    Stay with me!\n\nMAIRE BRUIN.\n\n    I think that I would stay\u2014and yet\u2014and yet\u2014\n\nTHE CHILD.\n\n    Come, little bird with crest of gold!\n\nMAIRE BRUIN [_very softly_].\n\n    And yet\u2014\n\nTHE CHILD.\n\n    Come, little bird with silver feet!\n\n    [_MAIRE dies, and THE CHILD goes._\n\nSHAWN BRUIN.\n\n    She is dead!\n\nBRIDGET BRUIN.\n\n    Come from that image there: she is far away:\n    You have thrown your arms about a drift of leaves\n    Or bole of an ash-tree changed into her image.\n\nFATHER HART.\n\n    Thus do the spirits of evil snatch their prey\n    Almost out of the very hand of God;\n    And day by day their power is more and more,\n    And men and women leave old paths, for pride\n    Comes knocking with thin knuckles on the heart.\n\nA VOICE [_singing outside_].\n\n    _The wind blows out of the gates of the day,\n    The wind blows over the lonely of heart,\n    And the lonely of heart is withered away\n    While the faeries dance in a place apart,\n    Shaking their milk-white feet in a ring,\n    Tossing their milk-white arms in the air;\n    For they hear the wind laugh, and murmur and sing\n    Of a land where even the old are fair,\n    And even the wise are merry of tongue;\n    But I heard a reed of Coolaney say,\n    \u2018When the wind has laughed and murmured and sung,\n    The lonely of heart is withered away.\u2019_\n\n    [_The song is taken up by many voices, who sing loudly,\n    as if in triumph. Some of the voices seem to come from\n    within the house._]\n\n\n\n\nTHE UNICORN FROM THE STARS\n\n\n\n\n_PERSONS IN THE PLAY_\n\n\n    FATHER JOHN\n    THOMAS HEARNE, _a coachbuilder_\n    ANDREW HEARNE, _his brother_\n    MARTIN HEARNE, _his nephew_\n    JOHNNY BACACH }\n    PAUDEEN       } _beggars_\n    BIDDY LALLY   }\n    NANNY         }\n\n\n\n\nTHE UNICORN FROM THE STARS\n\n\n\n\nACT I.\n\n\n    _Interior of a coachbuilder\u2019s workshop. Parts of a\n    gilded coach, among them an ornament representing a\n    lion and unicorn. THOMAS working at a wheel. FATHER\n    JOHN coming from door of inner room._\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nI have prayed over Martin. I have prayed a long time, but there is no\nmove in him yet.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nYou are giving yourself too much trouble, Father. It\u2019s as good for you\nto leave him alone till the doctor\u2019s bottle will come. If there is any\ncure at all for what is on him, it is likely the doctor will have it.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nI think it is not doctor\u2019s medicine will help him in this case.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nIt will, it will. The doctor has his business learned well. If Andrew\nhad gone to him the time I bade him and had not turned again to bring\nyourself to the house, it is likely Martin would be walking at this\ntime. I am loth to trouble you, Father, when the business is not of\nyour own sort. Any doctor at all should be able and well able to cure\nthe falling sickness.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nIt is not any common sickness that is on him now.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nI thought at the first it was gone to sleep he was. But when shaking\nhim and roaring at him failed to rouse him, I knew well it was the\nfalling sickness. Believe me, the doctor will reach it with his drugs.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nNothing but prayer can reach a soul that is so far beyond the world as\nhis soul is at this moment.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nYou are not saying that the life is gone out of him!\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nNo, no, his life is in no danger. But where he himself, the spirit, the\nsoul, is gone, I cannot say. It has gone beyond our imaginings. He is\nfallen into a trance.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nHe used to be queer as a child, going asleep in the fields, and coming\nback with talk of white horses he saw, and bright people like angels or\nwhatever they were. But I mended that. I taught him to recognise stones\nbeyond angels with a few strokes of a rod. I would never give in to\nvisions or to trances.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nWe who hold the faith have no right to speak against trance or vision.\nSaint Elizabeth had them, Saint Benedict, Saint Anthony, Saint\nColumcille. Saint Catherine of Siena often lay a long time as if dead.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nThat might be so in the olden time, but those things are gone out\nof the world now. Those that do their work fair and honest have no\noccasion to let the mind go rambling. What would send my nephew, Martin\nHearne, into a trance, supposing trances to be in it, and he rubbing\nthe gold on the lion and unicorn that he had taken in hand to make a\ngood job of for the top of the coach?\n\nFATHER JOHN [_taking up ornament_].\n\nIt is likely it was that sent him off. The flashing of light upon\nit would be enough to throw one that had a disposition to it into a\ntrance. There was a very saintly man, though he was not of our church;\nhe wrote a great book called _Mysterium Magnum_ was seven days in\na trance. Truth, or whatever truth he found, fell upon him like a\nbursting shower, and he a poor tradesman at his work. It was a ray of\nsunlight on a pewter vessel that was the beginning of all. [_Goes to\nthe door and looks in._] There is no stir in him yet. It is either the\nbest thing or the worst thing can happen to anyone, that is happening\nto him now.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nAnd what in the living world can happen to a man that is asleep on his\nbed?\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nThere are some would answer you that it is to those who are awake that\nnothing happens, and it is they that know nothing. He is gone where all\nhave gone for supreme truth.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\n    [_Sitting down again and taking up tools._]\n\nWell, maybe so. But work must go on and coachbuilding must go on,\nand they will not go on the time there is too much attention given\nto dreams. A dream is a sort of a shadow, no profit in it to anyone\nat all. A coach, now, is a real thing and a thing that will last for\ngenerations and be made use of to the last, and maybe turn to be a\nhen-roost at its latter end.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nI think Andrew told me it was a dream of Martin\u2019s that led to the\nmaking of that coach.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nWell, I believe he saw gold in some dream, and it led him to want to\nmake some golden thing, and coaches being the handiest, nothing would\ndo him till he put the most of his fortune into the making of this\ngolden coach. It turned out better than I thought, for some of the\nlawyers came looking at it at Assize time, and through them it was\nheard of at Dublin Castle ... and who now has it ordered but the Lord\nLieutenant! [_FATHER JOHN nods._] Ready it must be and sent off it must\nbe by the end of the month. It is likely King George will be visiting\nDublin, and it is he himself will be sitting in it yet.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nMartin has been working hard at it, I know.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nYou never saw a man work the way he did, day and night, near ever since\nthe time six months ago he first came home from France.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nI never thought he would be so good at a trade. I thought his mind was\nonly set on books.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nHe should be thankful to myself for that. Any person I will take in\nhand, I make a clean job of them the same as I would make of any other\nthing in my yard\u2014coach, half-coach, hackney-coach, ass-car, common-car,\npost-chaise, calash, chariot on two wheels, on four wheels. Each one\nhas the shape Thomas Hearne put on it, and it in his hands; and what I\ncan do with wood and iron, why would I not be able to do it with flesh\nand blood, and it in a way my own?\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nIndeed, I know you did your best for Martin.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nEvery best. Checked him, taught him the trade, sent him to the\nmonastery in France for to learn the language and to see the wide\nworld; but who should know that if you did not know it, Father John,\nand I doing it according to your own advice?\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nI thought his nature needed spiritual guidance and teaching, the best\nthat could be found.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nI thought myself it was best for him to be away for a while. There are\ntoo many wild lads about this place. He to have stopped here, he might\nhave taken some fancies, and got into some trouble, going against the\nGovernment maybe the same as Johnny Gibbons that is at this time an\noutlaw, having a price upon his head.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nThat is so. That imagination of his might have taken fire here at home.\nIt was better putting him with the Brothers, to turn it to imaginings\nof heaven.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nWell, I will soon have a good hardy tradesman made of him now that will\nlive quiet and rear a family, and be maybe appointed coachbuilder to\nthe Royal Family at the last.\n\nFATHER JOHN [_at window_].\n\nI see your brother Andrew coming back from the doctor; he is stopping\nto talk with a troop of beggars that are sitting by the side of the\nroad.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nThere, now, is another that I have shaped. Andrew used to be a bit wild\nin his talk and in his ways, wanting to go rambling, not content to\nsettle in the place where he was reared. But I kept a guard over him;\nI watched the time poverty gave him a nip, and then I settled him into\nthe business. He never was so good a worker as Martin, he is too fond\nof wasting his time talking vanities. But he is middling handy, and\nhe is always steady and civil to customers. I have no complaint worth\nwhile to be making this last twenty years against Andrew.\n\n[_ANDREW comes in._]\n\nANDREW.\n\nBeggars there outside going the road to the Kinvara fair. They were\nsaying there is news that Johnny Gibbons is coming back from France on\nthe quiet; the king\u2019s soldiers are watching the ports for him.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nLet you keep now, Andrew, to the business you have in hand. Will the\ndoctor be coming himself or did he send a bottle that will cure Martin?\n\nANDREW.\n\nThe doctor can\u2019t come, for he\u2019s down with the lumbago in the back. He\nquestioned me as to what ailed Martin, and he got a book to go looking\nfor a cure, and he began telling me things out of it, but I said I\ncould not be carrying things of that sort in my head. He gave me the\nbook then, and he has marks put in it for the places where the cures\nare ... wait now.... [_Reads_] \u2018Compound medicines are usually taken\ninwardly, or outwardly applied; inwardly taken, they should be either\nliquid or solid; outwardly, they should be fomentations or sponges wet\nin some decoctions.\u2019\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nHe had a right to have written it out himself upon a paper. Where is\nthe use of all that?\n\nANDREW.\n\nI think I moved the mark maybe ... here, now, is the part he was\nreading to me himself.... \u2018The remedies for diseases belonging to the\nskins next the brain, headache, vertigo, cramp, convulsions, palsy,\nincubus, apoplexy, falling sickness.\u2019\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nIt is what I bid you to tell him that it was the falling sickness.\n\nANDREW [_dropping book_].\n\nO, my dear, look at all the marks gone out of it! Wait, now, I partly\nremember what he said ... a blister he spoke of ... or to be smelling\nhartshorn ... or the sneezing powder ... or if all fails, to try\nletting the blood.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nAll this has nothing to do with the real case. It is all waste of time.\n\nANDREW.\n\nThat is what I was thinking myself, Father. Sure it was I was the first\nto call out to you when I saw you coming down from the hill-side, and\nto bring you in to see what could you do. I would have more trust in\nyour means than in any doctor\u2019s learning. And in case you might fail\nto cure him, I have a cure myself I heard from my grandmother\u2014God rest\nher soul!\u2014and she told me she never knew it to fail. A person to have\nthe falling sickness, to cut the top of his nails and a small share of\nthe hair of his head, and to put it down on the floor, and to take a\nharry-pin and drive it down with that into the floor and to leave it\nthere. \u2018That is the cure will never fail,\u2019 she said, \u2018to rise up any\nperson at all having the falling sickness.\u2019\n\nFATHER JOHN [_hand on ear_].\n\nI will go back to the hill-side, I will go back to the hill-side; but\nno, no, I must do what I can. I will go again, I will wrestle, I will\nstrive my best to call him back with prayer.\n\n    [_Goes in and shuts door._\n\nANDREW.\n\nIt is queer Father John is sometimes, and very queer. There are times\nwhen you would say that he believes in nothing at all.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nIf you wanted a priest, why did you not get our own parish priest that\nis a sensible man, and a man that you would know what his thoughts are?\nYou know well the bishop should have something against Father John to\nhave left him through the years in that poor mountainy place, minding\nthe few unfortunate people that were left out of the last famine. A man\nof his learning to be going in rags the way he is, there must be some\ngood cause for that.\n\nANDREW.\n\nI had all that in mind and I bringing him. But I thought he would have\ndone more for Martin than what he is doing. To read a Mass over him\nI thought he would, and to be convulsed in the reading it, and some\nstrange thing to have gone out with a great noise through the doorway.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nIt would give no good name to the place such a thing to be happening in\nit. It is well enough for labouring-men and for half-acre men. It would\nbe no credit at all such a thing to be heard of in this house, that is\nfor coachbuilding the capital of the county.\n\nANDREW.\n\nIf it is from the devil this sickness comes, it would be best to put it\nout whatever way it would be put out. But there might no bad thing be\non the lad at all. It is likely he was with wild companions abroad, and\nthat knocking about might have shaken his health. I was that way myself\none time.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nFather John said that it was some sort of a vision or a trance, but I\nwould give no heed to what he would say. It is his trade to see more\nthan other people would see, the same as I myself might be seeing a\nsplit in a leather car hood that no other person would find out at all.\n\nANDREW.\n\nIf it is the falling sickness is on him, I have no objection to\nthat\u2014a plain, straight sickness that was cast as a punishment on the\nunbelieving Jews. It is a thing that might attack one of a family, and\none of another family, and not to come upon their kindred at all. A\nperson to have it, all you have to do is not to go between him and the\nwind, or fire, or water. But I am in dread trance is a thing might run\nthrough the house the same as the cholera morbus.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nIn my belief there is no such thing as a trance. Letting on people do\nbe to make the world wonder the time they think well to rise up. To\nkeep them to their work is best, and not to pay much attention to them\nat all.\n\nANDREW.\n\nI would not like trances to be coming on myself. I leave it in my will\nif I die without cause, a holly-stake to be run through my heart the\nway I will lie easy after burial, and not turn my face downwards in my\ncoffin. I tell you I leave it on you in my will.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nLeave thinking of your own comforts, Andrew, and give your mind to the\nbusiness. Did the smith put the irons yet on to the shafts of this\ncoach?\n\nANDREW.\n\nI will go see did he.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nDo so, and see did he make a good job of it. Let the shafts be sound\nand solid if they are to be studded with gold.\n\nANDREW.\n\nThey are, and the steps along with them\u2014glass sides for the people to\nbe looking in at the grandeur of the satin within\u2014the lion and the\nunicorn crowning all. It was a great thought Martin had the time he\nthought of making this coach!\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nIt is best for me to go see the smith myself and leave it to no other\none. You can be attending to that ass-car out in the yard wants a new\ntyre in the wheel\u2014out in the rear of the yard it is. [_They go to\ndoor._] To pay attention to every small thing, and to fill up every\nminute of time shaping whatever you have to do, that is the way to\nbuild up a business.\n\n    [_They go out._\n\nFATHER JOHN [_bringing in MARTIN_].\n\nThey are gone out now\u2014the air is fresher here in the workshop\u2014you can\nsit here for a while. You are now fully awake, you have been in some\nsort of a trance or a sleep.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nWho was it that pulled at me? Who brought me back?\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nIt is I, Father John, did it. I prayed a long time over you and brought\nyou back.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nYou, Father John, to be so unkind! O leave me, leave me alone!\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nYou are in your dream still.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nIt was no dream, it was real. Do you not smell the broken fruit\u2014the\ngrapes? the room is full of the smell.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nTell me what you have seen, where you have been?\n\nMARTIN.\n\nThere were horses\u2014white horses rushing by, with white shining\nriders\u2014there was a horse without a rider, and someone caught me up and\nput me upon him and we rode away, with the wind, like the wind\u2014\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nThat is a common imagining. I know many poor persons have seen that.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nWe went on, on, on. We came to a sweet-smelling garden with a gate\nto it, and there were wheatfields in full ear around, and there were\nvineyards like I saw in France, and the grapes in bunches. I thought\nit to be one of the townlands of heaven. Then I saw the horses we were\non had changed to unicorns, and they began trampling the grapes and\nbreaking them. I tried to stop them but I could not.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nThat is strange, that is strange. What is it that brings to mind? I\nheard it in some place, _monoceros de astris_, the unicorn from the\nstars.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nThey tore down the wheat and trampled it on stones, and then they tore\ndown what were left of grapes and crushed and bruised and trampled\nthem. I smelt the wine, it was flowing on every side\u2014then everything\ngrew vague. I cannot remember clearly, everything was silent; the\ntrampling now stopped, we were all waiting for some command. Oh! was it\ngiven! I was trying to hear it; there was someone dragging, dragging me\naway from that. I am sure there was a command given, and there was a\ngreat burst of laughter. What was it? What was the command? Everything\nseemed to tremble round me.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nDid you awake then?\n\nMARTIN.\n\nI do not think I did, it all changed\u2014it was terrible, wonderful! I saw\nthe unicorns trampling, trampling, but not in the wine troughs. Oh, I\nforget! Why did you waken me?\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nI did not touch you. Who knows what hands pulled you away? I prayed,\nthat was all I did. I prayed very hard that you might awake. If I had\nnot, you might have died. I wonder what it all meant? The unicorns\u2014what\ndid the French monk tell me?\u2014strength they meant, virginal strength, a\nrushing, lasting, tireless strength.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nThey were strong. Oh, they made a great noise with their trampling.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nAnd the grapes, what did they mean? It puts me in mind of the psalm,\n_Et calix meus inebrians quam pr\u00e6clarus est_. It was a strange vision,\na very strange vision, a very strange vision.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nHow can I get back to that place?\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nYou must not go back, you must not think of doing that. That life of\nvision, of contemplation, is a terrible life, for it has far more of\ntemptation in it than the common life. Perhaps it would have been best\nfor you to stay under rules in the monastery.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nI could not see anything so clearly there. It is back here in my own\nplace the visions come, in the place where shining people used to laugh\naround me, and I a little lad in a bib.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nYou cannot know but it was from the Prince of this world the vision\ncame. How can one ever know unless one follows the discipline of the\nChurch? Some spiritual director, some wise learned man, that is what\nyou want. I do not know enough. What am I but a poor banished priest,\nwith my learning forgotten, my books never handled and spotted with the\ndamp!\n\nMARTIN.\n\nI will go out into the fields where you cannot come to me to awake me.\nI will see that townland again; I will hear that command. I cannot\nwait, I must know what happened, I must bring that command to mind\nagain.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\n    [_Putting himself between MARTIN and the door._]\n\nYou must have patience as the saints had it. You are taking your own\nway. If there is a command from God for you, you must wait His good\ntime to receive it.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nMust I live here forty years, fifty years ... to grow as old as my\nuncles, seeing nothing but common things, doing work ... some foolish\nwork?\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nHere they are coming; it is time for me to go. I must think and I must\npray. My mind is troubled about you. [_To THOMAS as he and ANDREW come\nin._] Here he is; be very kind to him for he has still the weakness of\na little child. [_Goes out._\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nAre you well of the fit, lad?\n\nMARTIN.\n\nIt was no fit. I was away\u2014for awhile\u2014no, you will not believe me if I\ntell you.\n\nANDREW.\n\nI would believe it, Martin. I used to have very long sleeps myself and\nvery queer dreams.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nYou had, till I cured you, taking you in hand and binding you to the\nhours of the clock. The cure that will cure yourself, Martin, and will\nwaken you, is to put the whole of your mind on to your golden coach; to\ntake it in hand and to finish it out of face.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nNot just now. I want to think\u2014to try and remember what I saw, something\nthat I heard, that I was told to do.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nNo, but put it out of your mind. There is no man doing business that\ncan keep two things in his head. A Sunday or a holy-day, now, you might\ngo see a good hurling or a thing of the kind, but to be spreading out\nyour mind on anything outside of the workshop on common days, all\ncoachbuilding would come to an end.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nI don\u2019t think it is building I want to do. I don\u2019t think that is what\nwas in the command.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nIt is too late to be saying that, the time you have put the most of\nyour fortune in the business. Set yourself now to finish your job, and\nwhen it is ended maybe I won\u2019t begrudge you going with the coach as far\nas Dublin.\n\nANDREW.\n\nThat is it, that will satisfy him. I had a great desire myself, and\nI young, to go travelling the roads as far as Dublin. The roads are\nthe great things, they never come to an end. They are the same as the\nserpent having his tail swallowed in his own mouth.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nIt was not wandering I was called to. What was it? what was it?\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nWhat you are called to, and what everyone having no great estate is\ncalled to, is to work. Sure the world itself could not go on without\nwork.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nI wonder if that is the great thing, to make the world go on? No, I\ndon\u2019t think that is the great thing\u2014what does the Munster poet call\nit?\u2014\u2018this crowded slippery coach-loving world.\u2019 I don\u2019t think I was\ntold to work for that.\n\nANDREW.\n\nI often thought that myself. It is a pity the stock of the Hearnes to\nbe asked to do any work at all.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nRouse yourself, Martin, and don\u2019t be talking the way a fool talks. You\nstarted making that golden coach, and you were set upon it, and you had\nme tormented about it. You have yourself wore out working at it, and\nplanning it, and thinking of it, and at the end of the race, when you\nhave the winning-post in sight, and horses hired for to bring it to\nDublin Castle, you go falling into sleeps and blathering about dreams,\nand we run to a great danger of letting the profit and the sale go by.\nSit down on the bench now, and lay your hands to the work.\n\nMARTIN [_sitting down_].\n\nI will try. I wonder why I ever wanted to make it; it was no good dream\nset me doing that. [_He takes up wheel._] What is there in a wooden\nwheel to take pleasure in it? Gilding it outside makes it no different.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nThat is right, now. You had some good plan for making the axle run\nsmooth.\n\nMARTIN.\n\n    [_Letting wheel fall and putting his hands to his\n    head._]\n\nIt is no use. [_Angrily._] Why did you send the priest to awake me? My\nsoul is my own and my mind is my own. I will send them to where I like.\nYou have no authority over my thoughts.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nThat is no way to be speaking to me. I am head of this business.\nNephew, or no nephew, I will have no one come cold or unwilling to the\nwork.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nI had better go; I am of no use to you. I am going\u2014I must be alone\u2014I\nwill forget if I am not alone. Give me what is left of my money and I\nwill go out of this.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\n    [_Opening a press and taking out a bag and throwing it\n    to him._]\n\nThere is what is left of your money! The rest of it you have spent on\nthe coach. If you want to go, go, and I will not have to be annoyed\nwith you from this out.\n\nANDREW.\n\nCome now with me, Thomas. The boy is foolish, but it will soon pass\nover. He has not my sense to be giving attention to what you will say.\nCome along now, leave him for awhile; leave him to me I say, it is I\nwill get inside his mind.\n\n    [_He leads THOMAS out. MARTIN bangs door angrily after\n    them and sits down, taking up lion and unicorn._\n\nMARTIN.\n\nI think it was some shining thing I saw. What was it?\n\nANDREW.\n\n    [_Opening door and putting in his head._]\n\nListen to me, Martin.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nGo away, no more talking; leave me alone.\n\nANDREW.\n\nO, but wait. I understand you. Thomas doesn\u2019t understand your thoughts,\nbut I understand them. Wasn\u2019t I telling you I was just like you once?\n\nMARTIN.\n\nLike me? Did you ever see the other things, the things beyond?\n\nANDREW.\n\nI did. It is not the four walls of the house keep me content. Thomas\ndoesn\u2019t know. Oh, no, he doesn\u2019t know.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nNo, he has no vision.\n\nANDREW.\n\nHe has not, nor any sort of a heart for a frolic.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nHe has never heard the laughter and the music beyond.\n\nANDREW.\n\nHe has not, nor the music of my own little flute. I have it hidden in\nthe thatch outside.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nDoes the body slip from you as it does from me? They have not shut your\nwindow into eternity?\n\nANDREW.\n\nThomas never shut a window I could not get through. I knew you were one\nof my own sort. When I am sluggish in the morning, Thomas says, \u2018Poor\nAndrew is getting old.\u2019 That is all he knows. The way to keep young is\nto do the things youngsters do. Twenty years I have been slipping away,\nand he never found me out yet!\n\nMARTIN.\n\nThat is what they call ecstasy, but there is no word that can tell out\nvery plain what it means. That freeing of the mind from its thoughts,\nthose wonders we know when we put them into words; the words seem as\nlittle like them as blackberries are like the moon and sun.\n\nANDREW.\n\nI found that myself the time they knew me to be wild, and used to be\nasking me to say what pleasure did I find in cards, and women, and\ndrink.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nYou might help me to remember that vision I had this morning, to\nunderstand it. The memory of it has slipped from me. Wait, it is coming\nback, little by little. I know that I saw the unicorns trampling, and\nthen a figure, a many-changing figure, holding some bright thing.\nI knew something was going to happen or to be said, something that\nwould make my whole life strong and beautiful like the rushing of the\nunicorns, and then, and then\u2014\n\nJOHNNY BACACH\u2019S _voice at window_.\n\nA poor person I am, without food, without a way, without portion,\nwithout costs, without a person or a stranger, without means, without\nhope, without health, without warmth\u2014\n\nANDREW [_looking towards window_].\n\nIt is that troop of beggars. Bringing their tricks and their thieveries\nthey are to the Kinvara Fair.\n\nMARTIN [_impatiently_].\n\nThere is no quiet\u2014come to the other room. I am trying to remember.\n\n    [_They go to door of inner room, but ANDREW stops him._\n\nANDREW.\n\nThey are a bad-looking fleet. I have a mind to drive them away, giving\nthem a charity.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nDrive them away or come away from their voices.\n\nANOTHER VOICE.\n\nI put under the power of my prayer\n\n    All that will give me help.\n    Rafael keep him Wednesday,\n    Sachiel feed him Thursday,\n    Hamiel provide him Friday,\n    Cassiel increase him Saturday.\n\nSure giving to us is giving to the Lord and laying up a store in the\ntreasury of heaven.\n\nANDREW.\n\nWhisht! He is entering by the window!\n\n    [_JOHNNY climbs up._\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nThat I may never sin, but the place is empty.\n\nPAUDEEN.\n\nGo in and see what can you make a grab at.\n\nJOHNNY [_getting in_].\n\nThat every blessing I gave may be turned to a curse on them that left\nthe place so bare! [_He turns things over._] I might chance something\nin this chest if it was open.\n\n    [_ANDREW begins creeping towards him._\n\nNANNY [_outside_].\n\nHurry on, now, you limping crabfish you! We can\u2019t be stopping here\nwhile you\u2019ll boil stirabout!\n\nJOHNNY.\n\n    [_Seizing bag of money and holding it up high in both\n    hands._]\n\nLook at this, now, look!\n\n    [_ANDREW comes behind, seizes his arm._\n\nJOHNNY [_letting bag fall with a crash_].\n\nDestruction on us all!\n\nMARTIN.\n\n    [_Running forward, seizes him. Heads disappear._]\n\nThat is it! O, I remember. That is what happened. That is the command.\nWho was it sent you here with that command?\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nIt was misery sent me in, and starvation, and the hard ways of the\nworld.\n\nNANNY [_outside_].\n\nIt was that, my poor child, and my one son only. Show mercy to him now\nand he after leaving gaol this morning.\n\nMARTIN [_to ANDREW_].\n\nI was trying to remember it\u2014when he spoke that word it all came back to\nme. I saw a bright many-changing figure; it was holding up a shining\nvessel [_holds up arms_]; then the vessel fell and was broken with a\ngreat crash; then I saw the unicorns trampling it. They were breaking\nthe world to pieces\u2014when I saw the cracks coming I shouted for joy! And\nI heard the command \u2018Destroy, destroy, destruction is the life-giver!\ndestroy!\u2019\n\nANDREW.\n\nWhat will we do with him? He was thinking to rob you of your gold.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nHow could I forget it or mistake it? It has all come upon me now; the\nreasons of it all, like a flood, like a flooded river.\n\nJOHNNY [_weeping_].\n\nIt was the hunger brought me in and the drouth.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nWere you given any other message? Did you see the unicorns?\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nI saw nothing and heard nothing; near dead I am with the fright I got\nand with the hardship of the gaol.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nTo destroy, to overthrow all that comes between us and God, between\nus and that shining country. To break the wall, Andrew, to break the\nthing\u2014whatever it is that comes between, but where to begin\u2014\n\nANDREW.\n\nWhat is it you are talking about?\n\nMARTIN.\n\nIt may be that this man is the beginning. He has been sent\u2014the poor,\nthey have nothing, and so they can see heaven as we cannot. He and his\ncomrades will understand me. But how to give all men high hearts that\nthey may all understand?\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nIt\u2019s the juice of the grey barley will do that.\n\nANDREW.\n\nTo rise everybody\u2019s heart, is it? Is it that was your meaning all the\ntime? If you will take the blame of it all, I\u2019ll do what you want. Give\nme the bag of money then. [_He takes it up._] O, I\u2019ve a heart like your\nown. I\u2019ll lift the world, too. The people will be running from all\nparts. O, it will be a great day in this district.\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nWill I go with you?\n\nMARTIN.\n\nNo, you must stay here; we have things to do and to plan.\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nDestroyed we all are with the hunger and the drouth.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nGo, then, get food and drink, whatever is wanted to give you strength\nand courage. Gather your people together here, bring them all in. We\nhave a great thing to do. I have to begin\u2014I want to tell it to the\nwhole world. Bring them in, bring them in, I will make the house ready.\n\n    [_He stands looking up as if in ecstasy; ANDREW and\n    JOHNNY BACACH go out._\n\n\n\n\nACT II\n\n\n    _The same workshop. MARTIN seen arranging mugs and\n    bread, etc., on a table. FATHER JOHN comes in, knocking\n    at open door as he comes; his mind intensely absorbed._\n\nMARTIN.\n\nCome in, come in, I have got the house ready. Here is bread and\nmeat\u2014everybody is welcome.\n\n    [_Hearing no answer, turns round._\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nMartin, I have come back. There is something I want to say to you.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nYou are welcome, there are others coming. They are not of your sort,\nbut all are welcome.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nI have remembered suddenly something that I read when I was in the\nseminary.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nYou seem very tired.\n\nFATHER JOHN [_sitting down_].\n\nI had almost got back to my own place when I thought of it. I have run\npart of the way. It is very important; it is about the trance that you\nhave been in. When one is inspired from above, either in trance or in\ncontemplation, one remembers afterwards all that one has seen and read.\nI think there must be something about it in St. Thomas. I know that\nI have read a long passage about it years ago. But, Martin, there is\nanother kind of inspiration, or rather an obsession or possession. A\ndiabolical power comes into one\u2019s body, or overshadows it. Those whose\nbodies are taken hold of in this way, jugglers, and witches, and the\nlike, can often tell what is happening in distant places, or what is\ngoing to happen, but when they come out of that state they remember\nnothing. I think you said\u2014\n\nMARTIN.\n\nThat I could not remember.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nYou remembered something, but not all. Nature is a great sleep; there\nare dangerous and evil spirits in her dreams, but God is above Nature.\nShe is a darkness, but He makes everything clear; He is light.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nAll is clear now. I remember all, or all that matters to me. A poor man\nbrought me a word, and I know what I have to do.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nAh, I understand, words were put into his mouth. I have read of such\nthings. God sometimes uses some common man as his messenger.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nYou may have passed the man who brought it on the road. He left me but\nnow.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nVery likely, very likely, that is the way it happened. Some plain,\nunnoticed man has sometimes been sent with a command.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nI saw the unicorns trampling in my dream. They were breaking the world.\nI am to destroy, destruction was the word the messenger spoke.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nTo destroy?\n\nMARTIN.\n\nTo bring again the old disturbed exalted life, the old splendour.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nYou are not the first that dream has come to. [_Gets up, and walks up\nand down._] It has been wandering here and there, calling now to this\nman, now to that other. It is a terrible dream.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nFather John, you have had the same thought.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nMen were holy then, there were saints everywhere. There was reverence;\nbut now it is all work, business, how to live a long time. Ah, if one\ncould change it all in a minute, even by war and violence! There is\na cell where Saint Ciaran used to pray; if one could bring that time\nagain!\n\nMARTIN.\n\nDo not deceive me. You have had the command.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nWhy are you questioning me? You are asking me things that I have told\nto no one but my confessor.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nWe must gather the crowds together, you and I.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nI have dreamed your dream, it was long ago. I had your vision.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nAnd what happened?\n\nFATHER JOHN [_harshly_].\n\nIt was stopped; that was an end. I was sent to the lonely parish where\nI am, where there was no one I could lead astray. They have left me\nthere. We must have patience; the world was destroyed by water, it has\nyet to be consumed by fire.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nWhy should we be patient? To live seventy years, and others to come\nafter us and live seventy years it may be; and so from age to age, and\nall the while the old splendour dying more and more.\n\n    [_A noise of shouting. ANDREW, who has been standing at\n    the door, comes in._\n\nANDREW.\n\nMartin says truth, and he says it well. Planing the side of a cart or\na shaft, is that life? It is not. Sitting at a desk writing letters to\nthe man that wants a coach, or to the man that won\u2019t pay for the one he\nhas got, is that life, I ask you? Thomas arguing at you and putting\nyou down\u2014\u2018Andrew, dear Andrew, did you put the tyre on that wheel yet?\u2019\nIs that life? Not, it is not. I ask you all, what do you remember\nwhen you are dead? It\u2019s the sweet cup in the corner of the widow\u2019s\ndrinking-house that you remember. Ha, ha, listen to that shouting! That\nis what the lads in the village will remember to the last day they live.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nWhy are they shouting? What have you told them?\n\nANDREW.\n\nNever you mind; you left that to me. You bade me to lift their hearts\nand I did lift them. There is not one among them but will have his head\nlike a blazing tar-barrel before morning. What did your friend the\nbeggar say? The juice of the grey barley, he said.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nYou accursed villain! You have made them drunk!\n\nANDREW.\n\nNot at all, but lifting them to the stars. That is what Martin bade me\nto do, and there is no one can say I did not do it.\n\n    [_A shout at door, and beggars push in a barrel. They\n    cry, \u2018Hi! for the noble master!\u2019 and point at ANDREW._\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nIt\u2019s not him, it\u2019s that one! [_Points at MARTIN._\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nAre you bringing this devil\u2019s work in at the very door? Go out of this,\nI say! get out! Take these others with you!\n\nMARTIN.\n\nNo, no; I asked them in, they must not be turned out. They are my\nguests.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nDrive them out of your uncle\u2019s house!\n\nMARTIN.\n\nCome, Father, it is better for you to go. Go back to your own place. I\nhave taken the command. It is better perhaps for you that you did not\ntake it.\n\n[_FATHER JOHN and MARTIN go out._\n\nBIDDY.\n\nIt is well for that old lad he didn\u2019t come between ourselves and our\nluck. Himself to be after his meal, and ourselves staggering with the\nhunger! It would be right to have flayed him and to have made bags of\nhis skin.\n\nNANNY.\n\nWhat a hurry you are in to get your enough! Look at the grease on your\nfrock yet, with the dint of the dabs you put in your pocket! Doing\ncures and foretellings is it? You starved pot-picker, you!\n\nBIDDY.\n\nThat you may be put up to-morrow to take the place of that decent son\nof yours that had the yard of the gaol wore with walking it till this\nmorning!\n\nNANNY.\n\nIf he had, he had a mother to come to, and he would know her when he\ndid see her; and that is what no son of your own could do and he to\nmeet you at the foot of the gallows.\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nIf I did know you, I knew too much of you since the first beginning of\nmy life! What reward did I ever get travelling with you? What store did\nyou give me of cattle or of goods? What provision did I get from you by\nday or by night but your own bad character to be joined on to my own,\nand I following at your heels, and your bags tied round about me!\n\nNANNY.\n\nDisgrace and torment on you! Whatever you got from me, it was more\nthan any reward or any bit I ever got from the father you had, or any\nhonourable thing at all, but only the hurt and the harm of the world\nand its shame!\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nWhat would he give you, and you going with him without leave! Crooked\nand foolish you were always, and you begging by the side of the ditch.\n\nNANNY.\n\nBegging or sharing, the curse of my heart upon you! It\u2019s better off I\nwas before ever I met with you to my cost! What was on me at all that I\ndid not cut a scourge in the wood to put manners and decency on you the\ntime you were not hardened as you are!\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nLeave talking to me of your rods and your scourges! All you taught me\nwas robbery, and it is on yourself and not on myself the scourges will\nbe laid at the day of the recognition of tricks.\n\nPAUDEEN.\n\n\u2019Faith, the pair of you together is better than Hector fighting before\nTroy!\n\nNANNY.\n\nAh, let you be quiet. It is not fighting we are craving, but the easing\nof the hunger that is on us and of the passion of sleep. Lend me a\ngraineen of tobacco now till I\u2019ll kindle my pipe\u2014a blast of it will\ntake the weight of the road off my heart.\n\n    [_ANDREW gives her some, NANNY grabs at it._\n\nBIDDY.\n\nNo, but it\u2019s to myself you should give it. I that never smoked a pipe\nthis forty year without saying the tobacco prayer. Let that one say did\never she do that much.\n\nNANNY.\n\nThat the pain of your front tooth may be in your back tooth, you to be\ngrabbing my share!\n\n    [_They snap at tobacco._\n\nANDREW.\n\nPup, pup, pup! Don\u2019t be snapping and quarrelling now, and you so well\ntreated in this house. It is strollers like yourselves should be for\nfrolic and for fun. Have you ne\u2019er a good song to sing, a song that\nwill rise all our hearts?\n\nPAUDEEN.\n\nJohnny Bacach is a good singer, it is what he used to be doing in the\nfairs, if the oakum of the gaol did not give him a hoarseness within\nthe throat.\n\nANDREW.\n\nGive it out so, a good song, a song will put courage and spirit into\nany man at all.\n\nJOHNNY [_singing_].\n\n    Come, all ye airy bachelors,\n      A warning take by me,\n    A sergeant caught me fowling,\n      And fired his gun so free.\n\n    His comrades came to his relief,\n      And I was soon trepanned,\n    And bound up like a woodcock\n      Had fallen into their hands.\n\n    The judge said transportation,\n      The ship was on the strand;\n    They have yoked me to the traces\n      For to plough Van Dieman\u2019s Land!\n\nANDREW.\n\nThat\u2019s no good of a song but a melancholy sort of a song. I\u2019d as lief\nbe listening to a saw going through timber. Wait, now, till you will\nhear myself giving out a tune on the flute.\n\n    [_Goes out for it._\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nIt is what I am thinking there must be a great dearth and a great\nscarcity of good comrades in this place, a man like that youngster,\nhaving means in his hand, to be bringing ourselves and our rags into\nthe house.\n\nPAUDEEN.\n\nYou think yourself very wise, Johnny Bacach. Can you tell me, now, who\nthat man is?\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nSome decent lad, I suppose, with a good way of living and a mind to\nsend up his name upon the roads.\n\nPAUDEEN.\n\nYou that have been gaoled this eight months know little of this\ncountryside. It isn\u2019t a limping stroller like yourself the Boys would\nlet come among them. But I know. I went to the drill a few nights and\nI skinning kids for the mountainy men. In a quarry beyond the drill\nis\u2014they have their plans made\u2014it\u2019s the square house of the Brownes is\nto be made an attack on and plundered. Do you know, now, who is the\nleader they are waiting for?\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nHow would I know that?\n\nPAUDEEN [_singing_].\n\n    Oh, Johnny Gibbons, my five hundred healths to you.\n    It is long you are away from us over the sea!\n\nJOHNNY [_standing up excitedly_].\n\nSure that man could not be Johnny Gibbons that is outlawed!\n\nPAUDEEN.\n\nI asked news of him from the old lad, and I bringing in the drink along\nwith him. \u2018Don\u2019t be asking questions,\u2019 says he; \u2018take the treat he\ngives you,\u2019 says he. \u2018If a lad that has a high heart has a mind to\nrouse the neighbours,\u2019 says he, \u2018and to stretch out his hand to all\nthat pass the road, it is in France he learned it,\u2019 says he, \u2018the place\nhe is but lately come from, and where the wine does be standing open in\ntubs. Take your treat when you get it,\u2019 says he, \u2018and make no delay or\nall might be discovered and put an end to.\u2019\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nHe came over the sea from France! It is Johnny Gibbons, surely, but it\nseems to me they were calling him by some other name.\n\nPAUDEEN.\n\nA man on his keeping might go by a hundred names. Would he be telling\nit out to us that he never saw before, and we with that clutch of\nchattering women along with us? Here he is coming now. Wait till you\nsee is he the lad I think him to be.\n\nMARTIN [_coming in_].\n\nI will make my banner, I will paint the unicorn on it. Give me that\nbit of canvas, there is paint over here. We will get no help from\nthe settled men\u2014we will call to the lawbreakers, the tinkers, the\nsievemakers, the sheepstealers.\n\n    [_He begins to make banner._\n\nBIDDY.\n\nThat sounds to be a queer name of an army. Ribbons I can understand,\nWhiteboys, Rightboys, Threshers, and Peep o\u2019 Day, but Unicorns I never\nheard of before.\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nIt is not a queer name but a very good name. [_Takes up lion and\nunicorn._] It is often you saw that before you in the dock. There is\nthe unicorn with the one horn, and what it is he is going against? The\nlion of course. When he has the lion destroyed, the crown must fall\nand be shivered. Can\u2019t you see it is the League of the Unicorns is the\nleague that will fight and destroy the power of England and King George?\n\nPAUDEEN.\n\nIt is with that banner we will march and the lads in the quarry with\nus, it is they will have the welcome before him! It won\u2019t be long till\nwe\u2019ll be attacking the Square House! Arms there are in it, riches that\nwould smother the world, rooms full of guineas we will put wax on our\nshoes walking them; the horses themselves shod with no less than silver!\n\nMARTIN [_holding up banner_].\n\nThere it is ready! We are very few now, but the army of the Unicorns\nwill be a great army! [_To JOHNNY._] Why have you brought me the\nmessage? Can you remember any more? Has anything more come to you? You\nhave been drinking, the clouds upon your mind have been destroyed....\nCan you see anything or hear anything that is beyond the world?\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nI can not. I don\u2019t know what do you want me to tell you at all?\n\nMARTIN.\n\nI want to begin the destruction, but I don\u2019t know where to begin ...\nyou do not hear any other voice?\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nI do not. I have nothing at all to do with Freemasons or witchcraft.\n\nPAUDEEN.\n\nIt is Biddy Lally has to do with witchcraft. It is often she threw the\ncups and gave out prophecies the same as Columcille.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nYou are one of the knowledgeable women. You can tell me where it is\nbest to begin, and what will happen in the end.\n\nBIDDY.\n\nI will foretell nothing at all. I rose out of it this good while, with\nthe stiffness and the swelling it brought upon my joints.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nIf you have foreknowledge you have no right to keep silent. If you\ndo not help me I may go to work in the wrong way. I know I have to\ndestroy, but when I ask myself what I am to begin with, I am full of\nuncertainty.\n\nPAUDEEN.\n\nHere now are the cups handy and the leavings in them.\n\nBIDDY.\n\n    [_Taking cups and pouring one from another._]\n\nThrow a bit of white money into the four corners of the house.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nThere! [_Throwing it._]\n\nBIDDY.\n\nThere can be nothing told without silver. It is not myself will have\nthe profit of it. Along with that I will be forced to throw out gold.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nThere is a guinea for you. Tell me what comes before your eyes.\n\nBIDDY.\n\nWhat is it you are wanting to have news of?\n\nMARTIN.\n\nOf what I have to go out against at the beginning ... there is so much\n... the whole world it may be.\n\nBIDDY.\n\n    [_Throwing from one cup to another and looking._]\n\nYou have no care for yourself. You have been across the sea, you are\nnot long back. You are coming within the best day of your life.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nWhat is it? What is it I have to do?\n\nBIDDY.\n\nI see a great smoke, I see burning ... there is a great smoke overhead.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nThat means we have to burn away a great deal that men have piled up\nupon the earth. We must bring men once more to the wildness of the\nclean green earth.\n\nBIDDY.\n\nHerbs for my healing, the big herb and the little herb, it is true\nenough they get their great strength out of the earth.\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nWho was it the green sod of Ireland belonged to in the olden times?\nWasn\u2019t it to the ancient race it belonged? And who has possession of it\nnow but the race that came robbing over the sea? The meaning of that\nis to destroy the big houses and the towns, and the fields to be given\nback to the ancient race.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nThat is it. You don\u2019t put it as I do, but what matter? Battle is all.\n\nPAUDEEN.\n\nColumcille said, the four corners to be burned, and then the middle of\nthe field to be burned. I tell you it was Columcille\u2019s prophecy said\nthat.\n\nBIDDY.\n\nIron handcuffs I see and a rope and a gallows, and it maybe is not for\nyourself I see it, but for some I have acquaintance with a good way\nback.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nThat means the law. We must destroy the law. That was the first sin,\nthe first mouthful of the apple.\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nSo it was, so it was. The law is the worst loss. The ancient law was\nfor the benefit of all. It is the law of the English is the only sin.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nWhen there were no laws men warred on one another and man to man, not\nwith machines made in towns as they do now, and they grew hard and\nstrong in body. They were altogether alive like him that made them in\nhis image, like people in that unfallen country. But presently they\nthought it better to be safe, as if safety mattered or anything but the\nexaltation of the heart, and to have eyes that danger had made grave\nand piercing. We must overthrow the laws and banish them.\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nIt is what I say, to put out the laws is to put out the whole nation of\nthe English. Laws for themselves they made for their own profit, and\nleft us nothing at all, no more than a dog or a sow.\n\nBIDDY.\n\nAn old priest I see, and I would not say is he the one was here or\nanother. Vexed and troubled he is, kneeling fretting and ever-fretting\nin some lonesome ruined place.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nI thought it would come to that. Yes, the Church too\u2014that is to be\ndestroyed. Once men fought with their desires and their fears, with all\nthat they call their sins, unhelped, and their souls became hard and\nstrong. When we have brought back the clean earth and destroyed the\nlaw and the Church all life will become like a flame of fire, like a\nburning eye ... Oh, how to find words for it all ... all that is not\nlife will pass away.\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nIt is Luther\u2019s Church he means, and the humpbacked discourse of Seaghan\nCalvin\u2019s Bible. So we will break it, and make an end of it.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nWe will go out against the world and break it and unmake it.\n[_Rising._] We are the army of the Unicorn from the Stars! We will\ntrample it to pieces.\u2014We will consume the world, we will burn it\naway\u2014Father John said the world has yet to be consumed by fire. Bring\nme fire.\n\nANDREW [_to _Beggars_].\n\nHere is Thomas. Hide\u2014let you hide.\n\n    [_All except MARTIN hurry into next room. THOMAS comes\n    in._\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nCome with me, Martin. There is terrible work going on in the town!\nThere is mischief gone abroad. Very strange things are happening!\n\nMARTIN.\n\nWhat are you talking of? What has happened?\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nCome along, I say, it must be put a stop to. We must call to every\ndecent man. It is as if the devil himself had gone through the town on\na blast and set every drinking-house open!\n\nMARTIN.\n\nI wonder how that has happened. Can it have anything to do with\nAndrew\u2019s plan?\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nAre you giving no heed to what I\u2019m saying? There is not a man, I tell\nyou, in the parish and beyond the parish but has left the work he was\ndoing whether in the field or in the mill.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nThen all work has come to an end? Perhaps that was a good thought of\nAndrew\u2019s.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nThere is not a man has come to sensible years that is not drunk or\ndrinking! My own labourers and my own serving-men are sitting on\ncounters and on barrels! I give you my word, the smell of the spirits\nand the porter and the shouting and the cheering within, made the hair\nto rise up on my scalp.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nAnd yet there is not one of them that does not feel that he could\nbridle the four winds.\n\nTHOMAS [_sitting down in despair_].\n\nYou are drunk too. I never thought you had a fancy for it.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nIt is hard for you to understand. You have worked all your life. You\nhave said to yourself every morning, \u2018What is to be done to-day?\u2019 and\nwhen you are tired out you have thought of the next day\u2019s work. If you\ngave yourself an hour\u2019s idleness, it was but that you might work the\nbetter. Yet it is only when one has put work away that one begins to\nlive.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nIt is those French wines that did it.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nI have been beyond the earth. In Paradise, in that happy townland,\nI have seen the shining people. They were all doing one thing or\nanother, but not one of them was at work. All that they did was but the\noverflowing of their idleness, and their days were a dance bred of the\nsecret frenzy of their hearts, or a battle where the sword made a sound\nthat was like laughter.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nYou went away sober from out of my hands; they had a right to have\nminded you better.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nNo man can be alive, and what is paradise but fulness of life, if\nwhatever he sets his hand to in the daylight cannot carry him from\nexaltation to exaltation, and if he does not rise into the frenzy of\ncontemplation in the night silence. Events that are not begotten in joy\nare misbegotten and darken the world, and nothing is begotten in joy if\nthe joy of a thousand years has not been crushed into a moment.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nAnd I offered to let you go to Dublin in the coach!\n\nMARTIN [_giving banner to PAUDEEN_].\n\nGive me the lamp. The lamp has not yet been lighted and the world is to\nbe consumed!\n\n    [_Goes into inner room._\n\nTHOMAS [_seeing ANDREW_].\n\nIs it here you are, Andrew? What are these beggars doing? Was this\ndoor thrown open too? Why did you not keep order? I will go for the\nconstables to help us!\n\nANDREW.\n\nYou will not find them to help you. They were scattering themselves\nthrough the drinking-houses of the town, and why wouldn\u2019t they?\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nAre you drunk too? You are worse than Martin. You are a disgrace!\n\nANDREW.\n\nDisgrace yourself! Coming here to be making an attack on me and\nbadgering me and disparaging me! And what about yourself that turned me\nto be a hypocrite?\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nWhat are you saying?\n\nANDREW.\n\nYou did, I tell you! Weren\u2019t you always at me to be regular and to be\nworking and to be going through the day and the night without company\nand to be thinking of nothing but the trade? What did I want with a\ntrade? I got a sight of the fairy gold one time in the mountains.\nI would have found it again and brought riches from it but for you\nkeeping me so close to the work.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nOh, of all the ungrateful creatures! You know well that I cherished\nyou, leading you to live a decent, respectable life.\n\nANDREW.\n\nYou never had respect for the ancient ways. It is after the mother you\ntake it, that was too soft and too lumpish, having too much of the\nEnglish in her blood. Martin is a Hearne like myself. It is he has the\ngenerous heart! It is not Martin would make a hypocrite of me and force\nme to do night-walking secretly, watching to be back by the setting of\nthe seven stars!\n\n    [_He begins to play his flute._\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nI will turn you out of this, yourself and this filthy troop! I will\nhave them lodged in gaol.\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nFilthy troop, is it? Mind yourself! The change is coming. The pikes\nwill be up and the traders will go down!\n\n    _All_ seize THOMAS and sing._\n\n    When the Lion will lose his strength,\n      And the braket-thistle begin to pine,\n    The harp shall sound sweet, sweet at length,\n      Between the eight and the nine!\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nLet me out of this, you villains!\n\nNANNY.\n\nWe\u2019ll make a sieve of holes of you, you old bag of treachery!\n\nBIDDY.\n\nHow well you threatened us with gaol, you skim of a weasel\u2019s milk!\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nYou heap of sicknesses! You blinking hangman! That you may never die\ntill you\u2019ll get a blue hag for a wife!\n\n    [_MARTIN comes back with lighted lamp._\n\nMARTIN.\n\nLet him go. [_They let THOMAS go, and fall back._] Spread out the\nbanner. The moment has come to begin the war.\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nUp with the Unicorn and destroy the Lion! Success to Johnny Gibbons and\nall good men!\n\nMARTIN.\n\nHeap all those things together there. Heap those pieces of the coach\none upon another. Put that straw under them. It is with this flame I\nwill begin the work of destruction. All nature destroys and laughs.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nDestroy your own golden coach!\n\nMARTIN [_kneeling before THOMAS_].\n\nI am sorry to go a way that you do not like and to do a thing that\nwill vex you. I have been a great trouble to you since I was a child\nin the house, and I am a great trouble to you yet. It is not my fault.\nI have been chosen for what I have to do. [_Stands up._] I have to\nfree myself first and those that are near me. The love of God is a\nvery terrible thing! [_THOMAS tries to stop him, but is prevented by\n_Beggars_. MARTIN takes a wisp of straw and lights it._] We will\ndestroy all that can perish! It is only the soul that can suffer no\ninjury. The soul of man is of the imperishable substance of the stars!\n\n    [_He throws wisp into heap\u2014it blazes up._\n\n\n\n\nACT III\n\n\n    _Before dawn. A wild rocky place, NANNY and BIDDY LALLY\n    squatting by a fire. Rich stuffs, etc., strewn about.\n    PAUDEEN watching by MARTIN, who is lying as if dead, a\n    sack over him._\n\nNANNY [_to PAUDEEN_].\n\nWell, you are great heroes and great warriors and great lads\naltogether, to have put down the Brownes the way you did, yourselves\nand the Whiteboys of the quarry. To have ransacked the house and have\nplundered it! Look at the silks and the satins and the grandeurs I\nbrought away! Look at that now! [_Holds up a velvet cloak._] It\u2019s a\ngood little jacket for myself will come out of it. It\u2019s the singers\nwill be stopping their songs and the jobbers turning from their cattle\nin the fairs to be taking a view of the laces of it and the buttons!\nIt\u2019s my far-off cousins will be drawing from far and near!\n\nBIDDY.\n\nThere was not so much gold in it all as what they were saying there\nwas. Or maybe that fleet of Whiteboys had the place ransacked before\nwe ourselves came in. Bad cess to them that put it in my mind to go\ngather up the full of my bag of horseshoes out of the forge. Silver\nthey were saying they were, pure white silver; and what are they in\nthe end but only hardened iron! A bad end to them! [_Flings away\nhorseshoes._] The time I will go robbing big houses again it will\nnot be in the light of the full moon I will go doing it, that does\nbe causing every common thing to shine out as if for a deceit and a\nmockery. It\u2019s not shining at all they are at this time, but duck yellow\nand dark.\n\nNANNY.\n\nTo leave the big house blazing after us, it was that crowned all!\nTwo houses to be burned to ashes in the one night. It is likely the\nservant-girls were rising from the feathers and the cocks crowing\nfrom the rafters for seven miles around, taking the flames to be the\nwhitening of the dawn.\n\nBIDDY.\n\nIt is the lad is stretched beyond you have to be thankful to for that.\nThere was never seen a leader was his equal for spirit and for daring.\nMaking a great scatter of the guards the way he did. Running up roofs\nand ladders, the fire in his hand, till you\u2019d think he would be apt to\nstrike his head against the stars.\n\nNANNY.\n\nI partly guessed death was near him, and the queer shining look he\nhad in his two eyes, and he throwing sparks east and west through the\nbeams. I wonder now was it some inward wound he got, or did some hardy\nlad of the Brownes give him a tip on the skull unknownst in the fight?\nIt was I myself found him, and the troop of the Whiteboys gone, and he\nlying by the side of a wall as weak as if he had knocked a mountain. I\nfailed to waken him trying him with the sharpness of my nails, and his\nhead fell back when I moved it, and I knew him to be spent and gone.\n\nBIDDY.\n\nIt\u2019s a pity you not to have left him where he was lying and said no\nword at all to Paudeen or to that son you have, that kept us back from\nfollowing on, bringing him here to this shelter on sacks and upon poles.\n\nNANNY.\n\nWhat way could I help letting a screech out of myself, and the life but\njust gone out of him in the darkness, and not a living Christian by his\nside but myself and the great God?\n\nBIDDY.\n\nIt\u2019s on ourselves the vengeance of the red soldiers will fall, they to\nfind us sitting here the same as hares in a tuft. It would be best for\nus follow after the rest of the army of the Whiteboys.\n\nNANNY.\n\nWhisht! I tell you. The lads are cracked about him. To get but the wind\nof the word of leaving him, it\u2019s little but they\u2019d knock the head off\nthe two of us. Whisht!\n\n    _Enter JOHNNY BACACH with candles._\n\nJOHNNY [_standing over MARTIN_].\n\nWouldn\u2019t you say now there was some malice or some venom in the air,\nthat is striking down one after another the whole of the heroes of the\nGael?\n\nPAUDEEN.\n\nIt makes a person be thinking of the four last ends, death and\njudgment, heaven and hell. Indeed and indeed my heart lies with him. It\nis well I knew what man he was under his by-name and his disguise.\n\n    [_Sings._] Oh, Johnny Gibbons, it\u2019s you were the prop to us.\n                    You to have left us, we are put astray!\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nIt is lost we are now and broken to the end of our days. There is no\nsatisfaction at all but to be destroying the English, and where now\nwill we get so good a leader again? Lay him out fair and straight upon\na stone, till I will let loose the secret of my heart keening him!\n\n    [_Sets out candles on a rock, propping them up with\n    stones._\n\nNANNY.\n\nIs it mould candles you have brought to set around him, Johnny Bacach?\nIt is great riches you should have in your pocket to be going to those\nlengths and not to be content with dips.\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nIt is lengths I will not be going to the time the life will be gone out\nof your own body. It is not your corpse I will be wishful to hold in\nhonour the way I hold this corpse in honour.\n\nNANNY.\n\nThat\u2019s the way always, there will be grief and quietness in the house\nif it is a young person has died, but funning and springing and\ntricking one another if it is an old person\u2019s corpse is in it. There is\nno compassion at all for the old.\n\nPAUDEEN.\n\nIt is he would have got leave for the Gael to be as high as the Gall.\nBelieve me, he was in the prophecies. Let you not be comparing yourself\nwith the like of him.\n\nNANNY.\n\nWhy wouldn\u2019t I be comparing myself? Look at all that was against me in\nthe world. Would you be matching me against a man of his sort, that had\nthe people shouting him and that had nothing to do but to die and to go\nto heaven?\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nThe day you go to heaven that you may never come back alive out of it!\nBut it is not yourself will ever hear the saints hammering at their\nmusics! It is you will be moving through the ages, chains upon you,\nand you in the form of a dog or a monster. I tell you that one will go\nthrough Purgatory as quick as lightning through a thorn-bush.\n\nNANNY.\n\nThat\u2019s the way, that the way.\n\n    [_Croons._] Three that are watching my time to run,\n                     The worm, the devil, and my son,\n                     To see a loop around their neck\n                     It\u2019s that would make my heart to lep!\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nFive white candles. I wouldn\u2019t begrudge them to him indeed. If he had\nheld out and held up it is my belief he would have freed Ireland!\n\nPAUDEEN.\n\nWait till the full light of the day and you\u2019ll see the burying he\u2019ll\nhave. It is not in this place we will be waking him. I\u2019ll make a call\nto the two hundred Ribbons he was to lead on to the attack on the\nbarracks at Aughanish. They will bring him marching to his grave upon\nthe hill. He had surely some gift from the other world, I wouldn\u2019t say\nbut he had power from the other side.\n\nANDREW [_coming in very shaky_].\n\nWell, it was a great night he gave to the village, and it is long\ntill it will be forgotten. I tell you the whole of the neighbours are\nup against him. There is no one at all this morning to set the mills\ngoing. There was no bread baked in the night-time, the horses are not\nfed in the stalls, the cows are not milked in the sheds. I met no man\nable to make a curse this night but he put it on my head and on the\nhead of the boy that is lying there before us ... Is there no sign of\nlife in him at all?\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nWhat way would there be a sign of life and the life gone out of him\nthis three hours or more?\n\nANDREW.\n\nHe was lying in his sleep for a while yesterday, and he wakened again\nafter another while.\n\nNANNY.\n\nHe will not waken, I tell you. I held his hand in my own and it getting\ncold as if you were pouring on it the coldest cold water, and no\nrunning in his blood. He is gone sure enough and the life is gone out\nof him.\n\nANDREW.\n\nMaybe so, maybe so. It seems to me yesterday his cheeks were bloomy all\nthe while, and now he is as pale as wood ashes. Sure we all must come\nto it at the last. Well, my white-headed darling, it is you were the\nbush among us all, and you to be cut down in your prime. Gentle and\nsimple, everyone liked you. It is no narrow heart you had, it is you\nwere for spending and not for getting. It is you made a good wake for\nyourself, scattering your estate in one night only in beer and in wine\nfor the whole province; and that you may be sitting in the middle of\nParadise and in the chair of the Graces!\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nAmen to that. It\u2019s pity I didn\u2019t think the time I sent for yourself to\nsend the little lad of a messenger looking for a priest to overtake\nhim. It might be in the end the Almighty is the best man for us all!\n\nANDREW.\n\nSure I sent him on myself to bid the priest to come. Living or dead I\nwould wish to do all that is rightful for the last and the best of my\nown race and generation.\n\nBIDDY [_jumping up_].\n\nIs it the priest you are bringing in among us? Where is the sense\nin that? Aren\u2019t we robbed enough up to this with the expense of the\ncandles and the like?\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nIf it is that poor starved priest he called to that came talking in\nsecret signs to the man that is gone, it is likely he will ask nothing\nfor what he has to do. There is many a priest is a Whiteboy in his\nheart.\n\nNANNY.\n\nI tell you, if you brought him tied in a bag he would not say an Our\nFather for you, without you having a half-crown at the top of your\nfingers.\n\nBIDDY.\n\nThere is no priest is any good at all but a spoiled priest. A one that\nwould take a drop of drink, it is he would have courage to face the\nhosts of trouble. Rout them out he would, the same as a shoal of fish\nfrom out the weeds. It\u2019s best not to vex a priest, or to run against\nthem at all.\n\nNANNY.\n\nIt\u2019s yourself humbled yourself well to one the time you were sick in\nthe gaol and had like to die, and he bade you to give over the throwing\nof the cups.\n\nBIDDY.\n\nAh, plaster of Paris I gave him. I took to it again and I free upon the\nroads.\n\nNANNY.\n\nMuch good you are doing with it to yourself or any other one. Aren\u2019t\nyou after telling that corpse no later than yesterday that he was\ncoming within the best day of his life?\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nWhisht, let ye. Here is the priest coming.\n\n    _FATHER JOHN comes in._\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nIt is surely not true that he is dead?\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nThe spirit went from him about the middle hour of the night. We brought\nhim here to this sheltered place. We were loth to leave him without\nfriends.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nWhere is he?\n\nJOHNNY [_taking up sacks_].\n\nLying there stiff and stark. He has a very quiet look as if there was\nno sin at all or no great trouble upon his mind.\n\nFATHER JOHN [_kneels and touches him_].\n\nHe is not dead.\n\nBIDDY [_pointing to NANNY_].\n\nHe is dead. If it was letting on he was, he would not have let that one\nrob him and search him the way she did.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nIt has the appearance of death, but it is not death. He is in a trance.\n\nPAUDEEN.\n\nIs it Heaven and Hell he is walking at this time to be bringing back\nnewses of the sinners in pain?\n\nBIDDY.\n\nI was thinking myself it might away he was, riding on white horses with\nthe riders of the forths.\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nHe will have great wonders to tell out the time he will rise up from\nthe ground. It is a pity he not to waken at this time and to lead us on\nto overcome the troop of the English. Sure those that are in a trance\nget strength, that they can walk on water.\n\nANDREW.\n\nIt was Father John wakened him yesterday the time he was lying in the\nsame way. Wasn\u2019t I telling you it was for that I called to him?\n\nBIDDY.\n\nWaken him now till they\u2019ll see did I tell any lie in my foretelling. I\nknew well by the signs, he was coming within the best day of his life.\n\nPAUDEEN.\n\nAnd not dead at all! We\u2019ll be marching to attack Dublin itself within a\nweek. The horn will blow for him, and all good men will gather to him.\nHurry on, Father, and waken him.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nI will not waken him. I will not bring him back from where he is.\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nAnd how long will it be before he will waken of himself?\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nMaybe to-day, maybe to-morrow, it is hard to be certain.\n\nBIDDY.\n\nIf it is _away_ he is he might be away seven years. To be lying like\na stump of a tree and using no food and the world not able to knock a\nword out of him, I know the signs of it well.\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nWe cannot be waiting and watching through seven years. If the business\nhe has started is to be done we have to go on here and now. The\ntime there is any delay, that is the time the Government will get\ninformation. Waken him now, Father, and you\u2019ll get the blessing of the\ngenerations.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nI will not bring him back. God will bring him back in his own good\ntime. For all I know he may be seeing the hidden things of God.\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nHe might slip away in his dream. It is best to raise him up now.\n\nANDREW.\n\nWaken him, Father John. I thought he was surely dead this time,\nand what way could I go face Thomas through all that is left of my\nlifetime, after me standing up to face him the way I did? And if I do\ntake a little drop of an odd night, sure I\u2019d be very lonesome if I did\nnot take it. All the world knows it\u2019s not for love of what I drink, but\nfor love of the people that do be with me! Waken him, Father, or maybe\nI would waken him myself. [_Shakes him._]\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nLift your hand from touching him. Leave him to himself and to the power\nof God.\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nIf you will not bring him back why wouldn\u2019t we ourselves do it? Go on\nnow, it is best for you to do it yourself.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nI woke him yesterday. He was angry with me, he could not get to the\nheart of the command.\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nIf he did not, he got a command from myself that satisfied him, and a\nmessage.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nHe did\u2014he took it from you\u2014and how do I know what devil\u2019s message it\nmay have been that brought him into that devil\u2019s work, destruction and\ndrunkenness and burnings! That was not a message from heaven! It was\nI awoke him, it was I kept him from hearing what was maybe a divine\nmessage, a voice of truth, and he heard you speak and he believed the\nmessage was brought by you. You have made use of your deceit and his\nmistaking\u2014you have left him without house or means to support him, you\nare striving to destroy and to drag him to entire ruin. I will not help\nyou, I would rather see him die in his trance and go into God\u2019s hands\nthan awake him and see him go into hell\u2019s mouth with vagabonds and\noutcasts like you!\n\nJOHNNY [_turning to BIDDY_].\n\nYou should have knowledge, Biddy Lally, of the means to bring back a\nman that is away.\n\nBIDDY.\n\nThe power of the earth will do it through its herbs, and the power of\nthe air will do it kindling fire into flame.\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nRise up and make no delay. Stretch out and gather a handful of an herb\nthat will bring him back from whatever place he is in.\n\nBIDDY.\n\nWhere is the use of herbs, and his teeth clenched the way he could not\nuse them?\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nTake fire so in the devil\u2019s name, and put it to the soles of his feet.\n\n    [_Takes a lighted sod from fire._\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nLet him alone, I say! [_Dashes away the sod._\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nI will not leave him alone! I will not give in to leave him swooning\nthere and the country waiting for him to awake!\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nI tell you I awoke him! I sent him into thieves\u2019 company! I will not\nhave him wakened again and evil things it maybe waiting to take hold of\nhim! Back from him, back, I say! Will you dare to lay a hand on me! You\ncannot do it! You cannot touch him against my will!\n\nBIDDY.\n\nMind yourself, do not be bringing us under the curse of the Church.\n\n    [_JOHNNY steps back. MARTIN moves._\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nIt is God has him in His care. It is He is awaking him. [_MARTIN has\nrisen to his elbow._] Do not touch him, do not speak to him, he may be\nhearing great secrets.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nThat music, I must go nearer\u2014sweet marvellous music\u2014louder than the\ntrampling of the unicorns; far louder, though the mountain is shaking\nwith their feet\u2014high joyous music.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nHush, he is listening to the music of Heaven!\n\nMARTIN.\n\nTake me to you, musicians, wherever you are! I will go nearer to you;\nI hear you better now, more and more joyful; that is strange, it is\nstrange.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nHe is getting some secret.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nIt is the music of Paradise, that is certain, somebody said that. It is\ncertainly the music of Paradise. Ah, now I hear, now I understand. It\nis made of the continual clashing of swords!\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nThat is the best music. We will clash them sure enough. We will clash\nour swords and our pikes on the bayonets of the red soldiers. It is\nwell you rose up from the dead to lead us! Come on, now, come on!\n\nMARTIN.\n\nWho are you? Ah, I remember\u2014where are you asking me to come to?\n\nPAUDEEN.\n\nTo come on, to be sure, to the attack on the barracks at Aughanish. To\ncarry on the work you took in hand last night.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nWhat work did I take in hand last night? Oh, yes, I remember\u2014some big\nhouse\u2014we burned it down\u2014but I had not understood the vision when I did\nthat. I had not heard the command right. That was not the work I was\nsent to do.\n\nPAUDEEN.\n\nRise up now and bid us what to do. Your great name itself will clear\nthe road before you. It is you yourself will have freed all Ireland\nbefore the stooks will be in stacks!\n\nMARTIN.\n\nListen, I will explain\u2014I have misled you. It is only now I have the\nwhole vision plain. As I lay there I saw through everything, I know\nall. It was but a frenzy that going out to burn and to destroy. What\nhave I to do with the foreign army? What I have to pierce is the wild\nheart of time. My business is not reformation but revelation.\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nIf you are going to turn back now from leading us, you are no better\nthan any other traitor that ever gave up the work he took in hand. Let\nyou come and face now the two hundred men you brought out daring the\npower of the law last night, and give them your reason for failing them.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nI was mistaken when I set out to destroy Church and Law. The battle we\nhave to fight is fought out in our own mind. There is a fiery moment,\nperhaps once in a lifetime, and in that moment we see the only thing\nthat matters. It is in that moment the great battles are lost and won,\nfor in that moment we are a part of the host of heaven.\n\nPAUDEEN.\n\nHave you betrayed us to the naked hangman with your promises and with\nyour drink? If you brought us out here to fail us and to ridicule us,\nit is the last day you will live!\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nThe curse of my heart on you! It would be right to send you to your own\nplace on the flagstone of the traitors in hell. When once I have made\nan end of you I will be as well satisfied to be going to my death for\nit as if I was going home!\n\nMARTIN.\n\nFather John, Father John, can you not hear? Can you not see? Are you\nblind? Are you deaf?\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nWhat is it? What is it?\n\nMARTIN.\n\nThere on the mountain, a thousand white unicorns trampling; a thousand\nriders with their swords drawn\u2014the swords clashing! Oh, the sound of\nthe swords, the sound of the clashing of the swords!\n\n    [_He goes slowly off stage. JOHNNY takes up a stone to\n    throw at him._\n\nFATHER JOHN [_seizing his arm_].\n\nStop\u2014do you not see he is beyond the world?\n\nBIDDY.\n\nKeep your hand off him, Johnny Bacach. If he is gone wild and cracked,\nthat\u2019s natural. Those that have been wakened from a trance on a sudden\nare apt to go bad and light in the head.\n\nPAUDEEN.\n\nIf it is madness is on him, it is not he himself should pay the penalty.\n\nBIDDY.\n\nTo prey on the mind it does, and rises into the head. There are some\nwould go over any height and would have great power in their madness.\nIt is maybe to some secret cleft he is going, to get knowledge of the\ngreat cure for all things, or of the Plough that was hidden in the old\ntimes, the Golden Plough.\n\nPAUDEEN.\n\nIt seemed as if he was talking through honey. He had the look of one\nthat had seen great wonders. It is maybe among the old heroes of\nIreland he went raising armies for our help.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nGod take him in his care and keep him from lying spirits and from all\ndelusions!\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nWe have got candles here, Father. We had them to put around his body.\nMaybe they would keep away the evil things of the air.\n\nPAUDEEN.\n\nLight them so, and he will say out a Mass for him the same as in a\nlime-washed church.\n\n    [_They light the candles._\n\n_THOMAS comes in._\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nWhere is he? I am come to warn him. The destruction he did in the\nnight-time has been heard of. The soldiers are out after him and the\nconstables\u2014there are two of the constables not far off\u2014there are others\non every side\u2014they heard he was here in the mountain\u2014where is he?\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nHe has gone up the path.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nHurry after him! Tell him to hide himself\u2014this attack he had a hand in\nis a hanging crime. Tell him to hide himself, to come to me when all is\nquiet\u2014bad as his doings are, he is my own brother\u2019s son; I will get him\non to a ship that will be going to France.\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nThat will be best, send him back to the Brothers and to the wise\nBishops. They can unravel this tangle, I cannot. I cannot be sure of\nthe truth.\n\nTHOMAS.\n\nHere are the constables, he will see them and get away. Say no word.\nThe Lord be praised that he is out of sight.\n\n    _Constables_ come in._\n\nCONSTABLE.\n\nThe man we are looking for, where is he? He was seen coming here along\nwith you. You have to give him up into the power of the law.\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nWe will not give him up. Go back out of this or you will be sorry.\n\nPAUDEEN.\n\nWe are not in dread of you or the like of you.\n\nBIDDY.\n\nThrow them down over the rocks!\n\nNANNY.\n\nGive them to the picking of the crows!\n\nALL.\n\nDown with the law!\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nHush! He is coming back. [_To _Constables._] Stop, stop\u2014leave him\nto himself. He is not trying to escape, he is coming towards you.\n\nPAUDEEN.\n\nThere is a sort of a brightness about him. I misjudged him calling him\na traitor. It is not to this world he belongs at all. He is over on the\nother side.\n\nMARTIN.\n\n    [_Standing beside the rock where the lighted candles\n    are._]\n\n    _Et calix meus inebrians quam pr\u00e6clarus est!_\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nI must know what he has to say. It is not from himself he is speaking.\n\nMARTIN.\n\nFather John, Heaven is not what we have believed it to be. It is not\nquiet, it is not singing and making music, and all strife at an end.\nI have seen it, I have been there. The lover still loves but with a\ngreater passion, and the rider still rides but the horse goes like the\nwind and leaps the ridges, and the battle goes on always, always. That\nis the joy of Heaven, continual battle. I thought the battle was here,\nand that the joy was to be found here on earth, that all one had to do\nwas to bring again the old wild earth of the stories\u2014but no, it is not\nhere; we shall not come to that joy, that battle, till we have put out\nthe senses, everything that can be seen and handled, as I put out this\ncandle. [_He puts out candle._] We must put out the whole world as I\nput out this candle [_puts out another candle_]. We must put out the\nlight of the stars and the light of the sun and the light of the moon\n[_puts out the rest of the candles_], till we have brought everything\nto nothing once again. I saw in a broken vision, but now all is clear\nto me. Where there is nothing, where there is nothing\u2014there is God!\n\nCONSTABLE.\n\nNow we will take him!\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nWe will never give him up to the law!\n\nPAUDEEN.\n\nMake your escape! We will not let you be followed.\n\n    [_They struggle with _Constables_; the women help\n    them; all disappear struggling. There is a shot. MARTIN\n    stumbles and falls. _Beggars_ come back with a\n    shout._\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nWe have done for them, they will not meddle with you again.\n\nPAUDEEN.\n\nOh, he is down!\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nHe is shot through the breast. Oh, who has dared meddle with a soul\nthat was in the tumults on the threshold of sanctity?\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nIt was that gun went off and I striking it from the constable\u2019s hand.\n\nMARTIN.\n\n    [_Looking at his hand, on which there is blood._]\n\nAh, that is blood! I fell among the rocks. It is a hard climb. It is\na long climb to the vineyards of Eden. Help me up. I must go on. The\nMountain of Abiegnos is very high\u2014but the vineyards\u2014the vineyards!\n\n    [_He falls back dead. The men uncover their heads._\n\nPAUDEEN [_to BIDDY_].\n\nIt was you misled him with your foretelling that he was coming within\nthe best day of his life.\n\nJOHNNY.\n\nMadness on him or no madness, I will not leave that body to the law to\nbe buried with a dog\u2019s burial or brought away and maybe hanged upon a\ntree. Lift him on the sacks, bring him away to the quarry; it is there\non the hillside the boys will give him a great burying, coming on\nhorses and bearing white rods in their hands.\n\n    [_NANNY lays the velvet cloak over him._\n\n_They lift him and carry the body away singing:_\n\n    Our hope and our darling, our heart dies with you,\n    You to have failed us, we are foals astray!\n\nFATHER JOHN.\n\nHe is gone and we can never know where that vision came from. I cannot\nknow\u2014the wise Bishops would have known.\n\nTHOMAS [_taking up banner_].\n\nTo be shaping a lad through his lifetime, and he to go his own way\nat the last, and a queer way. It is very queer the world itself is,\nwhatever shape was put upon it at the first.\n\nANDREW.\n\nTo be too headstrong and too open, that is the beginning of trouble. To\nkeep to yourself the thing that you know, and to do in quiet the thing\nyou want to do. There would be no disturbance at all in the world, all\npeople to bear that in mind!\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX.\n\n\n\n\n_THE COUNTESS CATHLEEN._\n\nPREFACE TO THE FOURTH EDITION.\n\n\nTHE present version of _The Countess Cathleen_ is not quite the version\nadopted by the Irish Literary Theatre a couple of years ago, for our\nstage and scenery were capable of little; and it may differ still more\nfrom any stage version I make in future, for it seems that my people\nof the waters and my unhappy dead, in the third act, cannot keep their\nsupernatural essence, but must put on too much of our mortality, in\nany ordinary theatre. I am told that I must abandon a meaning or two\nand make my merchants carry away the treasure themselves. The act was\nwritten long ago, when I had seen so few plays that I took pleasure\nin stage effects. Indeed, I am not yet certain that a wealthy theatre\ncould not shape it to an impressive pageantry, or that a theatre\nwithout any wealth could not lift it out of pageantry into the mind,\nwith a dim curtain, and some dimly robed actors, and the beautiful\nvoices that should be as important in poetical as in musical drama. The\nElizabethan stage was so little imprisoned in material circumstance\nthat the Elizabethan imagination was not strained by god or spirit, nor\neven by Echo herself\u2014no, not even when she answered, as in _The Duchess\nof Malfi_, in clear, loud words which were not the words that had been\nspoken to her. We have made a prison-house of paint and canvas, where\nwe have as little freedom as under our own roofs, for there is no\nfreedom in a house that has been made with hands. All art moves in the\ncave of the Chim\u00e6ra, or in the garden of the Hesperides, or in the more\nsilent house of the gods, and neither cave, nor garden, nor house can\nshow itself clearly but to the mind\u2019s eye.\n\nBesides re-writing a lyric or two, I have much enlarged the note on\n_The Countess Cathleen_, as there has been some discussion in Ireland\nabout the origin of the story, but the other notes[A] are as they have\nalways been. They are short enough, but I do not think that anybody who\nknows modern poetry will find obscurities in this book. In any case, I\nmust leave my myths and symbols to explain themselves as the years go\nby and one poem lights up another, and the stories that friends, and\none friend in particular, have gathered for me, or that I have gathered\nmyself in many cottages, find their way into the light. I would, if I\ncould, add to that great and complicated inheritance of images which\nwritten literature has substituted for the greater and more complex\ninheritance of spoken tradition, to that majestic heraldry of the poets\nsome new heraldic images gathered from the lips of the common people.\nChristianity and the old nature faith have lain down side by side in\nthe cottages, and I would proclaim that peace as loudly as I can among\nthe kingdoms of poetry, where there is no peace that is not joyous,\nno battle that does not give life instead of death; I may even try to\npersuade others, in more sober prose, that there can be no language\nmore worthy of poetry and of the meditation of the soul than that which\nhas been made, or can be made, out of a subtlety of desire, an emotion\nof sacrifice, a delight in order, that are perhaps Christian, and myths\nand images that mirror the energies of woods and streams, and of their\nwild creatures. Has any part of that majestic heraldry of the poets\nhad a very different fountain? Is it not the ritual of the marriage of\nheaven and earth?\n\nThese details may seem to many unnecessary; but after all one writes\npoetry for a few careful readers and for a few friends, who will not\nconsider such details very unnecessary. When Cimabue had the cry it\nwas, it seems, worth thinking of those that run; but to-day, when they\ncan write as well as read, one can sit with one\u2019s companions under the\nhedgerow contentedly. If one writes well and has the patience, somebody\nwill come from among the runners and read what one has written quickly,\nand go away quickly, and write out as much as he can remember in the\nlanguage of the highway.\n\n                                                   W. B. YEATS.\n\n    _January, 1901._\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[A] I have left them out of this edition as Lady Gregory\u2019s _Cuchulain\nof Muirthemne_ and _Gods and Fighting Men_ have made them unnecessary.\nWhen I began to write, the names of the Irish heroes were almost\nunknown even in Ireland.\n\n\n\n\nNOTES\n\n\n_The Countess Cathleen._\u2014I found the story of the Countess Cathleen\nin what professed to be a collection of Irish folklore in an Irish\nnewspaper some years ago. I wrote to the compiler, asking about its\nsource, but got no answer, but have since heard that it was translated\nfrom _Les Matin\u00e9es de Timoth\u00e9 Trimm_ a good many years ago, and has\nbeen drifting about the Irish press ever since. L\u00e9o Lesp\u00e8s gives it\nas an Irish story, and though the editor of _Folklore_ has kindly\nadvertised for information, the only Christian variant I know of is\na Donegal tale, given by Mr. Larminie in his _West Irish Folk Tales\nand Romances_, of a woman who goes to hell for ten years to save her\nhusband and stays there another ten, having been granted permission\nto carry away as many souls as could cling to her skirt. L\u00e9o Lesp\u00e8s\nmay have added a few details, but I have no doubt of the essential\nantiquity of what seems to me the most impressive form of one of the\nsupreme parables of the world. The parable came to the Greeks in the\nsacrifice of Alcestis, but her sacrifice was less overwhelming, less\napparently irremediable. L\u00e9o Lesp\u00e8s tells the story as follows:\u2014\n\n\u2018Ce que je vais vous dire est un r\u00e9cit du car\u00eame Irlandais. Le boiteux,\nl\u2019aveugle, le paralytique des rues de Dublin ou de Limerick, vous le\ndiraient mieux que moi, cher lecteur, si vous alliez le leur demander,\nun sixpence d\u2019argent \u00e0 la main.\u2014Il n\u2019est pas une jeune fille catholique\n\u00e0 laquelle on ne l\u2019ait appris, pendant les jours de pr\u00e9paration \u00e0 la\ncommunion sainte, pas un berger des bords de la Blackwater qui ne le\npuisse redire \u00e0 la veill\u00e9e.\n\n\u2018Il y a bien longtemps qu\u2019il apparut tout-\u00e0-coup dans la vieille\nIrlande deux marchands inconnus dont personne n\u2019avait ou\u00ef parler, et\nqui parlaient n\u00e9anmoins avec la plus grande perfection la langue du\npays. Leurs cheveux \u00e9taient noirs et ferr\u00e9s avec de l\u2019or et leurs robes\nd\u2019une grande magnificence.\n\nTous deux semblaient avoir le m\u00eame \u00e2ge: ils paraissaient \u00eatre des\nhommes de cinquante ans, car leur barbe grisonnait un peu.\n\nOr, \u00e0 cette \u00e9poque, comme aujourd\u2019hui, l\u2019Irlande \u00e9tait pauvre, car le\nsoleil avait \u00e9t\u00e9 rare, et des r\u00e9coltes presque nulles. Les indigents ne\nsavaient \u00e0 quel saint se vouer, et la mis\u00e8re devenait de plus en plus\nterrible.\n\nDans l\u2019h\u00f4tellerie o\u00f9 descendirent les marchands fastueux on chercha\n\u00e0 p\u00e9n\u00e9trer leurs desseins: mais ce fut en vain, ils demeur\u00e8rent\nsilencieux et discrets.\n\nEt pendant qu\u2019ils demeur\u00e8rent dans l\u2019h\u00f4tellerie, ils ne cess\u00e8rent de\ncompter et de recompter des sacs de pi\u00e8ces d\u2019or, dont la vive clart\u00e9\ns\u2019apercevait \u00e0 travers les vitres du logis.\n\nGentlemen, leur dit l\u2019h\u00f4tesse un jour, d\u2019o\u00f9 vient que vous \u00eates si\nopulents, et que, venus pour secourir la mis\u00e8re publique, vous ne\nfassiez pas de bonnes \u0153uvres?\n\n\u2014Belle h\u00f4tesse, r\u00e9pondit l\u2019un d\u2019eux, nous n\u2019avons pas voulu aller\nau-devant d\u2019infortunes honorables, dans la crainte d\u2019\u00eatre tromp\u00e9s par\ndes mis\u00e8res fictives: que la douleur frappe \u00e0 la porte, nous ouvrirons.\n\nLe lendemain, quand on sut qu\u2019il existait deux opulents \u00e9trangers\npr\u00eats \u00e0 prodiguer l\u2019or, la foule assi\u00e9gea leur logis; mais les figures\ndes gens qui en sortaient \u00e9taient bien diverses. Les uns avaient la\nfiert\u00e9 dans le regard, les autres portaient la honte au front. Les deux\ntrafiquants achetaient des \u00e2mes pour le d\u00e9mon. L\u2019\u00e2me d\u2019un vieillard\nvalait vingt pi\u00e8ces d\u2019or, pas un penny de plus; car Satan avait eu le\ntemps d\u2019y former hypoth\u00e8que. L\u2019\u00e2me d\u2019une \u00e9pouse en valait cinquante\nquand elle \u00e9tait jolie, ou cent quand elle \u00e9tait laide. L\u2019\u00e2me d\u2019une\njeune fille se payait des prix fous: les fleurs les plus belles et les\nplus pures sont les plus ch\u00e8res.\n\nPendant ce temps, il existait dans la ville un ange de beaut\u00e9, la\ncomtesse Ketty O\u2019Donnor. Elle \u00e9tait l\u2019idole du peuple, et la providence\ndes indigents. D\u00e8s qu\u2019elle eut appris que des m\u00e9cr\u00e9ants profitaient de\nla mis\u00e8re publique pour d\u00e9rober des c\u0153urs \u00e0 Dieu, elle fit appeler son\nmajordome.\n\n\u2014Master Patrick, lui dit elle, combien ai-je de pi\u00e8ces d\u2019or dans mon\ncoffre?\n\n\u2014Cent mille.\n\n\u2014Combien de bijoux?\n\n\u2014Pour autant d\u2019argent.\n\n\u2014Combien de ch\u00e2teaux, de bois et de terres?\n\n\u2014Pour le double de ces sommes.\n\n\u2014Eh bien! Patrick, vendez tout ce qui n\u2019est pas or et apportez-m\u2019en\nle montant. Je ne veux garder \u00e0 moi que ce castel et le champ qui\nl\u2019entoure.\n\nDeux jours apr\u00e8s, les ordres de la pieuse Ketty \u00e9taient ex\u00e9cut\u00e9s et le\ntr\u00e9sor \u00e9tait distribu\u00e9 aux pauvres au fur et \u00e0 mesure de leurs besoins.\n\nCeci ne faisait pas le compte, dit la tradition, des commis-voyageurs\ndu malin esprit, qui ne trouvaient plus d\u2019\u00e2mes \u00e0 acheter.\n\nAid\u00e9s par un valet inf\u00e2me, ils p\u00e9n\u00e9tr\u00e8rent dans la retraite de la noble\ndame et lui d\u00e9rob\u00e8rent le reste de son tr\u00e9sor .. en vain lutta-t-elle\nde toutes ses forces pour sauver le contenu de son coffre, les larrons\ndiaboliques furent les plus forts. Si Ketty avait eu les moyens de\nfaire un signe de croix, ajoute la l\u00e9gende Irlandaise, elle les e\u00fbt mis\nen fuite, mais ses mains \u00e9taient captives\u2014Le larcin fut effectu\u00e9. Alors\nles pauvres sollicit\u00e8rent en vain pr\u00e8s de Ketty d\u00e9pouill\u00e9e, elle ne\npouvait plus secourir leur mis\u00e8re;\u2014elle les abandonnait \u00e0 la tentation.\nPourtant il n\u2019y avait plus que huit jours \u00e0 passer pour que les grains\net les fourrages arrivassent en abondance des pays d\u2019Orient. Mais, huit\njours, c\u2019\u00e9tait un si\u00e8cle: huit jours n\u00e9cessitaient une somme immense\npour subvenir aux exigences de la disette, et les pauvres allaient ou\nexpirer dans les angoisses de la faim, ou, reniant les saintes maximes\nde l\u2019Evangile, vendre \u00e0 vil prix leur \u00e2me, le plus beau pr\u00e9sent de la\nmunificence du Seigneur tout-puissant.\n\nEt Ketty n\u2019avait plus une obole, car elle avait abandonn\u00e9 son ch\u00e2teau\naux malheureux.\n\nElle passa douze heures dans les larmes et le deuil, arrachant ses\ncheveux couleur de soleil et meurtrissant son sein couleur du lis: puis\nelle se leva r\u00e9solue, anim\u00e9e par un vif sentiment de d\u00e9sespoir.\n\nElle se rendit chez les marchands d\u2019\u00e2mes.\n\n\u2014Que voulez-vous? dirent ils.\n\n\u2014Vous achetez des \u00e2mes?\n\n\u2014Oui, un peu malgr\u00e9 vous, n\u2019est ce pas, sainte aux yeux de saphir?\n\n\u2014Aujourd\u2019hui je viens vous proposer un march\u00e9, reprit elle.\n\n\u2014Lequel?\n\n\u2014J\u2019ai une \u00e2me a vendre; mais elle est ch\u00e8re.\n\n\u2014Qu\u2019importe si elle est pr\u00e9cieuse? l\u2019\u00e2me, comme le diamant, s\u2019appr\u00e9cie\n\u00e0 sa blancheur.\n\n\u2014C\u2019est la mienne, dit Ketty.\n\nLes deux envoy\u00e9s de Satan tressaillirent. Leurs griffes s\u2019allong\u00e8rent\nsous leurs gants de cuir; leurs yeux gris \u00e9tincel\u00e8rent:\u2014l\u2019\u00e2me, pure,\nimmacul\u00e9e, virginale de Ketty!... c\u2019\u00e9tait une acquisition inappr\u00e9ciable.\n\n\u2014Gentille dame, combien voulez-vous?\n\n\u2014Cent cinquante mille \u00e9cus d\u2019or.\n\n\u2014C\u2019est fait, dirent les marchands; et ils tendirent \u00e0 Ketty un\nparchemin cachet\u00e9 de noir, qu\u2019elle signa en frissonnant.\n\nLa somme lui fut compt\u00e9e.\n\nD\u00e8s qu\u2019elle fut rentr\u00e9e, elle dit au majordome:\n\n\u2014Tenez, distribuez ceci. Avec la somme que je vous donne les pauvres\nattendront la huitaine n\u00e9cessaire et pas une de leurs \u00e2mes ne sera\nlivr\u00e9e au d\u00e9mon.\n\nPuis elle s\u2019enferma et recommanda qu\u2019on ne vint pas la d\u00e9ranger.\n\nTrois jours se pass\u00e8rent; elle n\u2019appela pas; elle ne sortit pas.\n\nQuand on ouvrit sa porte, on la trouva raide et froide: elle \u00e9tait\nmorte de douleur.\n\nMais la vente de cette \u00e2me si adorable dans sa charit\u00e9 fut d\u00e9clar\u00e9e\nnulle par le Seigneur: car elle avait sauv\u00e9 ses concitoyens de la mort\n\u00e9ternelle.\n\nApr\u00e8s la huitaine, des vaisseaux nombreux amen\u00e8rent \u00e0 l\u2019Irlande affam\u00e9e\nd\u2019immenses provisions de grains.\n\nLa famine n\u2019\u00e9tait plus possible. Quant aux marchands, ils disparurent\nde leur h\u00f4tellerie, sans qu\u2019on s\u00fbt jamais ce qu\u2019ils \u00e9taient devenus.\n\nToutefois, les p\u00eacheurs de la Blackwater pr\u00e9tendent qu\u2019ils sont\nencha\u00een\u00e9s dans une prison souterraine par ordre de Lucifer jusqu\u2019au\nmoment o\u00f9 ils pourront livrer l\u2019\u00e2me de Ketty qui leur a \u00e9chapp\u00e9. Je\nvous dis la l\u00e9gende telle que je la sais.\n\n\u2014Mais les pauvres l\u2019ont racont\u00e9 d\u2019\u00e2ge en \u00e2ge et les enfants de Cork et\nde Dublin chantent encore la ballade dont voici les derniers couplets:\u2014\n\n    Pour sauver les pauvres qu\u2019elle aime\n                Ketty donna\n    Son esprit, sa croyance m\u00eame;\n                Satan paya\n    Cette \u00e2me au d\u00e9vo\u00fbment sublime,\n                En \u00e9cus d\u2019or,\n    Disons pour racheter son crime\n                _Confiteor_.\n\n    Mais l\u2019ange qui se fit coupable\n                Par charit\u00e9\n    Au s\u00e9jour d\u2019amour ineffable\n                Est remont\u00e9.\n    Satan vaincu n\u2019eut pas de prise\n                Sur ce c\u0153ur d\u2019or;\n    Chantons sous la nef de l\u2019\u00e9glise,\n                _Confiteor_.\n\nN\u2019est ce pas que ce r\u00e9cit, n\u00e9 de l\u2019imagination des po\u00e8tes catholiques\nde la verte Erin, est une v\u00e9ritable r\u00e9cit de car\u00eame?\n\n_The Countess Cathleen_ was acted in Dublin in 1899 with Mr. Marcus St.\nJohn and Mr. Trevor Lowe as the First and Second Demon, Mr. Valentine\nGrace as Shemus Rua, Master Charles Sefton as Teig, Madame San Carola\nas Maire, Miss Florence Farr as Aleel, Miss Anna Mather as Oona, Mr.\nCharles Holmes as the Herdsman, Mr. Jack Wilcox as the Gardener, Mr.\nWalford as a Peasant, Miss Dorothy Paget as a Spirit, Miss M. Kelly as\na Peasant Woman, Mr. T. E. Wilkenson as a Servant, and Miss May Whitty\nas the Countess Cathleen. They had to face a very vehement opposition\nstirred up by a politician and a newspaper, the one accusing me in\na pamphlet, the other in long articles day after day, of blasphemy\nbecause of the language of the demons in the first act, and because I\nmade a woman sell her soul and yet escape damnation, and of a lack of\npatriotism because I made Irish men and women, who it seems never did\nsuch a thing, sell theirs. The politician or the newspaper persuaded\nsome forty Catholic students to sign a protest against the play, and a\nCardinal, who avowed that he had not read it, to make another, and both\npolitician and newspaper made such obvious appeals to the audience to\nbreak the peace, that some score of police[B] were sent to the theatre\nto see that they did not. I have, however, no reason to regret the\nresult, for the stalls, containing almost all that was distinguished\nin Dublin, and a gallery of artisans, alike insisted on the freedom of\nliterature, and I myself have the pleasure of recording strange events.\n\nThe play has since been revived in New York by Miss Wycherley, but I\ndid not see her performance.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_The Land of Heart\u2019s Desire._\u2014This little play was produced at the\nAvenue Theatre in the spring of 1894, with the following cast:\u2014Maurteen\nBruin, Mr. James Welch; Shawn Bruin, Mr. A. E. W. Mason; Father Hart,\nMr. G. R. Foss; Bridget Bruin, Miss Charlotte Morland; Maire Bruin,\nMiss Winifred Fraser; A Faery Child, Miss Dorothy Paget. It ran for a\nlittle over six weeks. It was revived in America in 1901, when it was\ntaken on tour by Mrs. Lemoyne. It was again played, under the auspices\nof the Irish Literary Society of New York, in 1903, and has lately been\nplayed in San Francisco.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_The Unicorn from the Stars._\u2014Some years ago I wrote in a fortnight\nwith the help of Lady Gregory and another friend a five act tragedy\ncalled _Where there is Nothing_. I wrote at such speed that I might\nsave from a plagiarist a subject that seemed worth the keeping till\ngreater knowledge of the stage made an adequate treatment possible.\nI knew that my first version was hurried and oratorical, with events\ncast into the plot because they seemed lively or amusing in themselves,\nand not because they grew out of the characters and the plot; and I\ncame to dislike a central character so arid and so dominating. We\ncannot sympathise with a man who sets his anger at once lightly and\nconfidently to overthrow the order of the world; but our hearts can go\nout to him, as I think, if he speak with some humility, so far as his\ndaily self carries him, out of a cloudy light of vision. Whether he\nunderstand or know, it may be that the voices of Angels and Archangels\nhave spoken in the cloud and whatever wildness come upon his life,\nfeet of theirs may well have trod the clusters. I began with this new\nthought to dictate the play to Lady Gregory, but since I had last\nworked with her, her knowledge of the stage and her mastery of dialogue\nhad so increased that my imagination could not go neck to neck with\nhers. I found myself, too, with an old difficulty, that my words flow\nfreely alone when my people speak in verse, or in words that are like\nthose we put into verse; and so after an attempt to work alone I gave\nmy scheme to her. The result is a play almost wholly hers in handiwork,\nwhich I can yet read, as I have just done after the stories of _The\nSecret Rose_, and recognize thoughts, a point of view, an artistic aim\nwhich seem a part of my world. Her greatest difficulty was that I had\ngiven her for chief character a man so plunged in trance that he could\nnot be otherwise than all but still and silent, though perhaps with the\nstillness and the silence of a lamp; and the movement of the play as\na whole, if we were to listen to hear him, had to be without hurry or\nviolence. The strange characters, her handiwork, on whom he sheds his\nlight, delight me. She has enabled me to carry out an old thought for\nwhich my own knowledge is insufficient and to commingle the ancient\nphantasies of poetry with the rough, vivid, ever-contemporaneous\ntumult of the road-side; to create for a moment a form that otherwise\nI could but dream of, though I do that always, an art that prophesies\nthough with worn and failing voice of the day when Quixote and Sancho\nPanza long estranged may once again go out gaily into the bleak air.\nEver since I began to write I have awaited with impatience a linking,\nall Europe over, of the hereditary knowledge of the country-side, now\nbecoming known to us through the work of wanderers and men of learning,\nwith our old lyricism so full of ancient frenzies and hereditary\nwisdom, a yoking of antiquities, a Marriage of Heaven and Hell.\n\n_The Unicorn from the Stars_ was first played at the Abbey Theatre\non November 23rd, 1907, with the following cast:\u2014Father John, Ernest\nVaughan; Thomas Hearne, a coachbuilder, Arthur Sinclair; Andrew Hearne,\nbrother of Thomas, J. A. O\u2019Rourke; Martin Hearne, nephew of Thomas, F.\nJ. Fay; Johnny Bacach, a beggar, W. G. Fay; Paudeen, J. M. Kerrigan;\nBiddy Lally, Maire O\u2019Neill; Nanny, Brigit O\u2019Dempsey.\n\n                                                    W. B. YEATS.\n\n    _March, 1908._\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[B] Mr. Synge has outdone me with his _Play Boy of the Western World_,\nwhich towards the end of the week had more than three times the number\nin the pit alone. Counting the police inside and outside the theatre,\nthere were, according to some evening papers, five hundred.\u2014_March,\n1908._\n\n\n\n\nTHE MUSIC FOR USE IN THE PERFORMANCE OF THESE PLAYS.\n\n\nAll the music that is printed here, with the exception of Mr. Arthur\nDarley\u2019s, is of that kind which I have described in _Samhain_ and in\n_Ideas of Good and Evil_. Some of it is old Irish music made when all\nsongs were but heightened speech, and some of it composed by modern\nmusicians is none the less to be associated with words that must\nnever lose the intonation of passionate speech. No vowel must ever be\nprolonged unnaturally, no word of mine must ever change into a mere\nmusical note, no singer of my words must ever cease to be a man and\nbecome an instrument.\n\nThe degree of approach to ordinary singing depends on the context, for\none desires a greater or lesser amount of contrast between the lyrics\nand the dialogue according to situation and emotion and the qualities\nof players. The words of Cathleen ni Houlihan about the \u2018white-scarfed\nriders\u2019 must be little more than regulated declamation; the little song\nof Leagerie when he seizes the \u2018Golden Helmet\u2019 should in its opening\nwords be indistinguishable from the dialogue itself. Upon the other\nhand, Cathleen\u2019s verses by the fire, and those of the pupils in the\n_Hour-Glass_, and those of the beggars in the _Unicorn_, are sung as\nthe country people understand song. Modern singing would spoil them for\ndramatic purposes by taking the keenness and the salt out of the words.\nThe songs in _Deirdre_, in Miss Farr\u2019s and in Miss Allgood\u2019s setting,\nneed fine speakers of verse more than good singers; and in these,\nand still more in the song of the Three Women in _Baile\u2019s Strand_,\nthe singers must remember the natural speed of words. If the lyric\nin _Baile\u2019s Strand_ is sung slowly it is like church-singing, but if\nsung quickly and with the right expression it becomes an incantation\nso old that nobody can quite understand it. That it may give this\nsense of something half-forgotten, it must be sung with a certain lack\nof minute feeling for the meaning of the words, which, however, must\nalways remain words. The songs in _Deirdre_, especially the last dirge,\nwhich is supposed to be the creation of the moment, must, upon the\nother hand, at any rate when Miss Farr\u2019s or Miss Allgood\u2019s music is\nused, be sung or spoken with minute passionate understanding. I have\nrehearsed the part of the Angel in the _Hour-Glass_ with recorded notes\nthroughout, and believe this is the right way; but in practice, owing\nto the difficulty of finding a player who did not sing too much the\nmoment the notes were written down, have left it to the player\u2019s own\nunrecorded inspiration, except at the \u2018exit,\u2019 where it is well for the\nplayer to go nearer to ordinary song.\n\nI have not yet put Miss Farr\u2019s _Deirdre_ music to the test of\nperformances, but, as she and I have worked out all this art of spoken\nsong together, I have little doubt but I shall find it all I would have\nit. Mr. Darley\u2019s music was used at the first production of the play and\nat its revival last spring, and was dramatically effective. I could\nhear the words perfectly, and I think they must have been audible to\nanyone hearing the play for the first or second time. They had not,\nhowever, the full animation of speech, as one heard it in the dirge\nat the end of the play set by Miss Allgood herself, who played the\nprincipal musician. It is very difficult for a musician who is not a\nspeaker to do exactly what I want. Mr. Darley has written for singers\nnot for speakers. His music is, perhaps, too elaborate, simple though\nit is. I have not had sufficient opportunity to experiment with the\nplay to find out the exact distance from ordinary speech necessary in\nthe first two lyrics, which must prolong the mood of the dialogue while\nbeing a rest from its passions. Miss Farr\u2019s music will be used at the\nnext revival of the play.\n\nMr. Darley\u2019s music for _Shadowy Waters_ was supposed to be played\nupon Forgael\u2019s magic harp, and it accompanied words of Dectora\u2019s and\nAibric\u2019s. It was played in reality upon a violin, always pizzicato,\nand gave the effect of harp playing, at any rate of a magic harp. The\n\u2018cues\u2019 are all given and the words are printed under the music. The\nviolinist followed the voice, except in the case of the \u2018O\u2019, where it\nwas the actress that had to follow.\n\n                                                    W. B. YEATS.\n\n    _March, 1908._\n\n\n\n\nTHE KING\u2019S THRESHOLD.\n\n\n_THE FOUR RIVERS._\n\nFLORENCE FARR.\n\n\n    The four rivers that run there,\n    Through well-mown level ground\n    Have come out of a blessed well\n    That is all bound and wound\n    By the great roots of an apple,\n    And all fowls of the air\n    Have gathered in the wide branches\n    And Keep singing there.\n\n\n\n\nON BAILE\u2019S STRAND.\n\n\n_THE FOOL\u2019S SONG._\n\nFLORENCE FARR.\n\n\n    Cuchulain has killed kings,\n    Kings and sons of kings,\n    Dragons out of the water and witches out of the air,\n    Banachas and Bonachas and people of the woods.\n    Witches that steal the milk,\n    Fomor that steal the children,\n    Hags that have heads like hares,\n    Hares that have claws like witches,\n    All riding a-cock-horse,\n    Out of the very bottom of the bitter black north.\n\n\n\n\nON BAILE\u2019S STRAND.\n\n\n_SONG OF THE WOMEN._\n\nFLORENCE FARR.\n\n\n    May this fire have driven out\n    The shape-changers that can put\n    Ruin on a great king\u2019s house,\n    Until all be ruinous.\n    Names whereby a man has known\n    The threshold and the hearthstone,\n    Gather on the wind and drive\n    Women none can kiss and thrive,\n    For they are but whirling wind,\n    Out of memory and mind.\n    They would make a prince decay\n    With light images of clay\n    Planted in the running wave;\n    Or for many shapes they have,\n    They would change them into hounds\n    Until he had died of his wounds\n    Though the change were but a whim;\n    Or they\u2019d hurl a spell at him,\n    That he follow with desire\n    Bodies that can never tire\n    Or grow kind, for they anoint\n    All their bodies joint by joint\n    With a miracle-working juice\n    That is made out of the grease\n    Of the ungoverned unicorn;\n    But the man is thrice forlorn\n    Emptied, ruined, wracked, and lost,\n    That they follow, for at most\n    They will give him kiss for kiss\n    While they murmur \u201cAfter this\n    Hatred may be sweet to the taste;\u201d\n    Those wild hands that have embraced\n    All his body can but shove\n    At the burning wheel of love\n    Till the side of hate comes up.\n    Therefore in this ancient cup\n    May the sword-blades drink their fill\n    Of the home-brew there, until\n    They will have for master none\n    But the threshold and hearthstone.\n\n\n_THE FOOL\u2019S SONG._\u2014II.\n\nFLORENCE FARR.\n\n\n    When you were an acorn on the tree top,\n    Then was I an eagle-cock;\n    Now that you are a withered old block,\n    Still am I an eagle-cock.\n\n\n\n\nDEIRDRE.\n\n\n_MUSICIANS\u2019 SONG._\u2014I.\n\nFLORENCE FARR.\n\n\nFirst Musician.\n\n    \u201cWhy is it,\u201d Queen Edain said,\n    \u201cIf I do but climb the stair\n    To the tower overhead\n    When the winds are calling there,\n    Or the gannets calling out,\n    In waste places of the sky,\n    There is so much to think about,\n    That I cry, that I cry?\u201d\n\n\nSecond Musician.\n\n    But her goodman answered her:\n    \u201cLove would be a thing of naught\n    Had not all his limbs a stir\n    Born out of immoderate thought.\n    Were he any thing by half,\n    Were his measure running dry,\n    Lovers, if they may not laugh,\n    Have to cry, have to cry.\u201d\n\n\nThe Three Musicians together.\n\n    But is Edain worth a song\n    Now the hunt begins anew?\n    Praise the beautiful and strong;\n    Praise the redness of the yew;\n    Praise the blossoming apple-stem.\n    But our silence had been wise.\n    What is all our praise to them\n    That have one another\u2019s eyes?\n\n\n\n\nDEIRDRE.\n\n\n_MUSICIANS\u2019 SONG._\u2014II.\n\nFLORENCE FARR.\n\n    Love is an immoderate thing\n    And can never be content\n    Till it dip an ageing wing,\n    Where some laughing element\n    Leaps and Time\u2019s old lanthorn dims.\n    What\u2019s the merit in love-play,\n    In the tumult of the limbs\n    That dies out before \u2019tis day,\n    Heart on heart or mouth on mouth\n    All that mingling of our breath,\n    When love-longing is but drouth\n    For the things that follow death?\n\n\n_MUSICIANS\u2019 SONG._\u2014III.\n\nFLORENCE FARR.\n\n\nFirst Musician.\n\n    They are gone, they are gone\n    The proud may lie by the proud.\n\n\nSecond Musician.\n\n    Though we were bidden to sing, cry nothing Loud.\n\n\nFirst Musician.\n\n    They are gone, they are gone.\n\n\nSecond Musician.\n\n    Whispering were enough.\n\n\nFirst Musician.\n\n    Into the secret wilderness of their love.\n\n\nSecond Musician.\n\n    A high grey cairn.\n    What more to be said?\n\n\nFirst Musician.\n\n    Eagles have gone into their cloudy bed.\n\n\n\n\nDEIRDRE.\n\n\n_MUSICIANS\u2019 SONG._\u2014III.\n\nSARAH ALLGOOD.\n\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN\n\n    They are gone:\n    They are gone; the proud may lie by the proud.\n\n\nSECOND MUSICIAN\n\n    Though we are bidden to sing, cry nothing loud.\n\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN\n\n    They are gone, they are gone.\n\n\nSECOND MUSICIAN\n\n    Whispering were enough.\n\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\n\n    Into the secret wilderness of their love.\n\n\nSECOND MUSICIAN\n\n    A high grey cairn.\n    What more is to be said?\n\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN\n\n    Eagles have gone into their cloudy bed.\n\n\n\n\nSHADOWY WATERS.\n\nARTHUR DARLEY.\n\n\n    Sailors. And I! And I! And I!\n\n\n    Dectora. Protect me now, gods, that my people swear by.\n\n\n    Dectora. I will end all your magic on the instant.[C]\n\n    This sword is to lie beside him in the grave.\n    It was in all his battles.\n    I will spread my hair, and wring my hands, and wail him bitterly,\n    For I have heard that he was proud and laughing, blue-eyed, and\n          a quick runner on bare feet,\n    And that he died a thousand years ago.\n\n    O! O! O!\n\n    But no, that is not it.\n    I knew him well, and while I heard him laughing they killed him at\n          my feet.\n\n    O! O! O! O!\n\n    For golden-armed Iollan that I loved.\n\n\n    Forgael. Have buried nothing by my golden arms.\n\n\n    Forgael. And knitted mesh to mesh we grow immortal.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[C] The Violinist should time the music so as to finish when Aibric\nsays \u201cFor everything is gone\u201d.\n\n\n\n\nTHE UNICORN FROM THE STARS.\n\n_IRISH TRADITIONAL AIRS._\n\n\n\u201cThe Airy Bachelor.\u201d\n\n    Oh come all ye airy bachelors,\n    come listen unto me.\n    A sergeant caught mefowling,\n    and he fired his gun so free ...\n    His comrades came to his relief,\n    And I was soon trapanned...\n    And bound up like a wood-cock\n    That had fallen into their hands.\n\n\n\n\n\u201cJohnnie Gibbons.\u201d\n\n\n1.\n\n    Oh Johnnie Gibbons my five hundred healths to you,\n    Its long you\u2019re away from us over the sea.\n\n2.\n\n    Oh Johnnie Gibbons its you were the prop to us,\n    You to have left us, we\u2019re fools put astray.\n\n\n\n\n\u201cThe Lion shall lose his strength.\u201d\n\n\n    Oh the Lion shall lose his strength,\n    And the bracket thistle pine ...\n    And the harp shall sound sweet, sweet at length\n    Between the eight and nine.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HOUR-GLASS.\n\n\n_TRADITIONAL ARAN AIR._\n\n    I was going the road one day ...\n    O! the brown and the yellow beer,\n    And I met with a man that was no right man, ...\n    Oh my dear, my dear.\n\n\n\n\nCATHLEEN NI HOULIHAN.\n\nFLORENCE FARR.\n\n\nI.\n\n    I will go cry with the woman,\n    For yellow-haired Donough is dead,\n    With a hempen rope for a neck-cloth,\n    And a white cloth on his head.\n\n\n\n\nII.\n\n\n    Do not make a great keening\n    When the graves have been dug tomorrow.\n\n\n\n\nIII.\n\n\n    They shall be remembered forever\n    [repeat 3 times]\n    The people shall hear them forever.\n\n\n\n\nMUSIC FOR LYRICS.\n\n\nThree of the following settings are by Miss Farr, and she accompanies\nthe words upon her psaltery for the most part. She has a beautiful\nspeaking-voice, and, an almost rarer thing, a perfect ear for verse;\nand nothing but the attempting of it will show how far these things\ncan be taught or developed where they exist but a little. I believe\nthat they should be a part of the teaching of all children, for the\nbeauty of the speaking-voice is more important to our lives than that\nof the singing, and the rhythm of words comes more into the structure\nof our daily being than any abstract pattern of notes. The relation\nbetween formal music and speech will yet become the subject of science,\nnot less than the occasion of artistic discovery; for I am certain\nthat all poets, even all delighted readers of poetry, speak certain\nkinds of poetry to distinct and simple tunes, though the speakers may\nbe, perhaps generally are, deaf to ordinary music, even what we call\ntone-deaf. I suggest that we will discover in this relation a very\nearly stage in the development of music, with its own great beauty, and\nthat those who love lyric poetry but cannot tell one tune from another\nrepeat a state of mind which created music and yet was incapable of the\nemotional abstraction which delights in patterns of sound separated\nfrom words. To it the music was an unconscious creation, the words a\nconscious, for no beginnings are in the intellect, and no living thing\nremembers its own birth.\n\nI give after Miss Farr\u2019s settings three others, two taken down by Mr.\nArnold Dolmetsch from myself, and one from a fine scholar in poetry,\nwho hates all music but that of poetry, and knows of no instrument that\ndoes not fill him with rage and misery. Mr. Arnold Dolmetsch, when he\ntook up the subject at my persuasion, wrote down the recitation of\nanother lyric poet, who like myself knows nothing of music, and found\nlittle tunes that delighted him; and Mr. George Russell (\u2018A.E.\u2019) writes\nall his lyrics, a musician tells me, to two little tunes which sound\nlike old Arabic music. I do not mean that there is only one way of\nreciting a poem that is correct, for different tunes will fit different\nspeakers or different moods of the same speaker, but as a rule the more\nthe music of the verse becomes a movement of the stanza as a whole,\nat the same time detaching itself from the sense as in much of Mr.\nSwinburne\u2019s poetry, the less does the poet vary in his recitation. I\nmean in the way he recites when alone, or unconscious of an audience,\nfor before an audience he will remember the imperfection of his ear in\nnote and tone, and cling to daily speech, or something like it.\n\nSometimes one composes to a remembered air. I wrote and I still speak\nthe verses that begin \u2018Autumn is over the long leaves that love us\u2019 to\nsome traditional air, though I could not tell that air or any other on\nanother\u2019s lips, and _The Ballad of Father Gilligan_ to a modification\nof the air _A Fine Old English Gentleman_. When, however, the rhythm is\nmore personal than it is in these simple verses, the tune will always\nbe original and personal, alike in the poet and in the reader who has\nthe right ear; and these tunes will now and again have great beauty.\n\n\nNOTE BY FLORENCE FARR.\n\nI made an interesting discovery after I had been elaborating the art\nof speaking to the psaltery for some time. I had tried to make it\nmore beautiful than the speaking by priests at High Mass, the singing\nof recitative in opera and the speaking through music of actors in\nmelodrama. My discovery was that those who had invented these arts\nhad all said about them exactly what Mr. Arnold Dolmetsch and Mr. W.\nB. Yeats said about my art. Anyone can prove this for himself who\nwill go to a library and read the authorities that describe how early\nliturgical chant, plain-song and jubilations or melismata were adapted\nfrom the ancient traditional music; or if they read the history of the\nbeginning of opera and the \u2018nuove musiche\u2019 by Caccini, or study the\nmusic of Monteverde and Carissimi, who flourished at the beginning of\nthe seventeenth century, they will find these masters speak of doing\nall they can to give an added beauty to the words of the poet, often\nusing simple vowel sounds when a purely vocal effect was to be made\nwhether of joy or sorrow. There is no more beautiful sound than the\nalternation of carolling or keening and a voice speaking in regulated\ndeclamation. The very act of alternation has a peculiar charm.\n\nNow to read these records of music of the eighth and seventeenth\ncenturies one would think that the Church and the opera were united in\nthe desire to make beautiful speech more beautiful, but I need not say\nif we put such a hope to the test we discover it is groundless. There\nis no ecstasy in the delivery of ritual, and recitative is certainly\nnot treated by opera-singers in a way that makes us wish to imitate\nthem.\n\nWhen beginners attempt to speak to musical notes they fall naturally\ninto the intoning as heard throughout our lands in our various\nreligious rituals. It is not until they have been forced to use their\nimaginations and express the inmost meaning of the words, not until\ntheir thought imposes itself upon all listeners and each word invokes a\nspecial mode of beauty, that the method rises once more from the dead\nand becomes a living art.\n\nIt is the belief in the power of words and the delight in the purity of\nsound that will make the arts of plain-chant and recitative the great\narts they are described as being by those who first practised them.\n\n\n\n\n_THE WIND BLOWS OUT OF THE GATES OF THE DAY._[A]\n\nFLORENCE FARR.\n\n\n    The wind blows out of the gates of the day,\n    The wind blows over the lonely of heart,\n    And the lonely of heart is withered away,\n    While the fairies dance in a place apart,\n    Shaking their milkwhite feet in a ring,\n    Tossing their milkwhite arms in the air\n    For they hear the wind laugh and murmur and sing\n    Of a land where even the old are fair\n    And even the wise are merry of tongue.\n    But I heard a reed of Coolaney say,\n    When the wind has laughed and murmured and sung,\n    The lovely of heart must wither away.\n\n\n\n\n_THE HAPPY TOWNLAND._[D]\n\nFLORENCE FARR.\n\n\n    O Death\u2019s old bony finger\n    Will never find us there\n    In the high hollow townland\n    Where love\u2019s to give and to spare;\n    Where boughs have fruit and blossom\n    at all times of the year;\n    Where rivers are running over\n    With red beer and brown beer.\n    An old man plays the bagpipes\n    In a gold and silver wood;\n    Queens, their eyes blue like the ice,\n    Are dancing in a crowd.\n\nChorus.\n\n    The little fox he murmured,\n    \u2018O what of the world\u2019s bane?\u2019\n    The sun was laughing sweetly,\n    The moon plucked at my rein;\n    But the little red fox murmured,\n    \u2018O do not pluck at his rein,\n    He is riding to the townland\n    That is the world\u2019s bane.\u2019\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[D] The music as written suits my speaking voice if played an octave\nlower than the notation.\u2014F.F.\n\n\n\n\n_I HAVE DRUNK ALE FROM THE COUNTRY OF THE YOUNG._[E]\n\nFLORENCE FARR.\n\n\n    I have drunk ale from the Country of the Young\n    And weep because I know all things now:\n    I have been a hazel tree and they hung\n    The Pilot Star and the Crooked Plough\n    Among my leaves in times out of mind:\n    I became a rush that horses tread:\n    I became a man, a hater of the wind,\n    Knowing one, out of all things, alone, that his head\n    Would not lie on the breast or his lips on the hair\n    Of the woman that he loves, Until he dies;\n    Although the rushes and the fowl of the air\n    Cry of his love with their pitiful cries.\n\n\n\n\n_THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS._\n\nW.B.Y.\n\n\n    I went out to the hazel wood,\n    Because a fire was in my head,\n    And cut and peeled a hazel wand,\n    And hooked a berry to a thread;\n    And when white moths were on the wing,\n    And moth-like stars were flickering out,\n    I dropped the berry in a stream,\n    And caught a little silver trout.\n\n\n\n\n_THE HOST OF THE AIR._\n\nA.H.B.\n\n\n    O\u2019Driscoll drove with a song\n    The wild duck and the drake\n    From the tall and tree tufted reeds\n    Of the drear Hart Lake.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[E] To be spoken an octave lower than it would be sung.\u2014F.F.\n\n\n\n\n_THE SONG OF THE OLD MOTHER._\n\nW.B.Y.\n\n\n    I rise in the dawn, and I kneel and blow\n    Till the seed of the fire flicker and glow;\n    And then I must scrub and bake and sweep\n    Till stars are beginning to blink and peep;\n    And the young lie long and dream in their bed\n    Of the matching of ribbons for bosom and head,\n    And their day goes over in idleness,\n    And they sigh if the wind but lift a tress;\n    While I must work because I am old,\n    And the seed of the fire gets feeble and cold.\n\n\n\n\n    _Printed by_ A. H. BULLEN, _at The Shakespeare Head Press,\n                    Stratford-on-Avon_.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTranscriber\u2019s Notes:\n\nObvious punctuation errors repaired.\n\nPage 25, stage direction, mixed case \u201cTEIg\u201d was changed to \u201cTEIG\u201d (TEIG\nand SHEMUS go out)\n\nPage 70, \u201cmarhsalled\u201d changed to \u201cmarshalled\u201d (marshalled into rude\norder)\n\nPage 112, \u201cThe CHILD\u201d changed to \u201cTHE CHILD\u201d to match rest of usage in\ntext (THE CHILD makes a)\n\nPage 214, \u201c_Les Matin\u00e9es de Timoth\u00e9 Trimm_\u201d was retained as printed as\nit appears spelled this way in more than one text. More common is \u201c_Les\nMatin\u00e9es de Timoth\u00e9e Trimm_.\u201d\n\nPage 216, \u201capre\u201d changed to \u201capr\u00e8s\u201d (Deux jours apr\u00e8s)\n\nPage 217, \u201cDes\u201d changed to \u201cD\u00e8s\u201d (D\u00e8s qu\u2019elle fut)\n\nPage 218, \u201cenchain\u00e9s\u201d changed to \u201cencha\u00een\u00e9s\u201d (encha\u00een\u00e9s dans une prison)\n\n\nMusic Transcriber\u2019s Notes:\n\nRhythms have been added to all songs where words are to be spoken on a\nsingle note, to match the rhythm of speech.\n\nShadowy Waters\u2014Although Yeats states in his notes on the music (pp.\n223-24) that this piece was played on a violin in actual performance,\nhe states that it is meant to be \u201cForgael\u2019s magic harp.\u201d For that\nreason, and reasons of improved sound in midi, a harp sound has been\nused.\n\nThe Airy Bachelor\u2014in bar 3, the second and fourth quarter notes have\nbeen corrected to eighths. In \u201cJohnnie Gibbons,\u201d bar 1, the first note\nshould be a dotted quarter. In \u201cThe Lion shall lose his strength,\u201d bar\n3, the first note should be a dotted quarter.\n\nI\u2014The rests should be quarter rests. II and III\u2014The key and time\nsignature are missing in the original, so the transcriber has guessed\nat them and adjusted the rhythm to the words.\n\nThe Song of Wandering Aengus\u2014a sixteenth rest and fermata have been\nadded to bar 7 to match the rhythm of the other lines in the song.\n\nThe Song of the Old Mother\u2014In bars 3 and 19, the first note should be\nsharp. In the line \u201cAnd they sigh if the wind but lift a tress,\u201d the\neighth note for \u201cbut\u201d should be in the next bar.","title":"The Collected Works in Verse and Prose of William Butler Yeats, Vol. 3 (of 8): The Countess Cathleen. The Land of Heart's Desire. The Unicorn from the Stars","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":38388}