{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_60108/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_60108","id":"gutenberg_60108","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/60108","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Poetry","English poetry -- Irish authors"],"text":"_THE LEGEND\n\n                                OF THE\n\n                            BLEMISHED KING\n\n                           AND OTHER POEMS._\n\n\n\n\n                       _A FEW COPIES REMAINING._\n\n                      The Little Library--Vol. I.\n\n                                IDYLLS\n\n                        By LAURA JEAN DOUGLAS.\n\n\n=MODERATOR= says:--\u201cSome of the most exquisite prose we have read for many\na day.\u201d\n\n=IRISH NEWS= (Belfast) says:--\u201cIn the ten \u2018Idylls\u2019 which Miss Douglas\ncontributes, we have a group of the sweetest prose poetry possible.... A\ngallery of lovely pictures.... A thing of beauty and a joy for ever....\nThe turn-out of the book is equal to anything of the same kind produced\nin London.\u201d\n\n=MRS. ALICE A. PITMAN=, author of \u201c=TALES FROM LONDON LIFE=,\u201d says:--\u201cThe\npictures are beautifully conceived, and elegantly portrayed.\u201d\n\n=IRISH FIGARO= says:--\u201cI am grateful to all who essay in a sincere spirit\nthe difficult task of making Dublin a book-producing place. In \u2018The\nLittle Library,\u2019 author, editor, publisher, and draughtsman have\ncombined in an honest endeavour to attain that desirable end. The writer\nof \u2018Idylls\u2019 gives us ten short prose-poems, of which I take the liberty\nto give the first in its entirety as a specimen. It is entitled, \u2018A Rose\nGarden.\u2019... This is a beautiful picture.\u201d\n\n=JAMES H. COUSINS= says:--\u201cBeautiful prose fancies.\u201d\n\n=IRISH DAILY INDEPENDENT= says:--\u201cThe book is beautifully produced, and a\ncredit to Dublin.\u201d\n\n=SCOTTISH SOCIETY= says:--\u201cThe weirdly-covered little book with the\nstrange frontispiece which comes to us under the title of \u2018Idylls,\u2019 will\nbe read with great enjoyment by all whose sense of literary quality is\nsufficiently educated to appreciate the extreme delicacy of\nword-painting in water-colours, if it may be so expressed.... In every\nsense of the word, they are perfect representations of the idyll in its\npurest form,... impossible to criticise, and difficult properly to\npraise.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                     THE LITTLE LIBRARY.--VOL. 2.\n\n                        EDITED BY M. J. KEATS.\n\n                                  The\n                             Legend of the\n                            Blemished King\n\n                           And Other Poems.\n\n                                  BY\n                           JAMES H. COUSINS.\n\n                _WITH COVER DRAWN BY LOUIS H. VICTORY._\n\n                                Dublin:\n                BERNARD DOYLE, FRANKLIN PRINTING WORKS,\n                         9 UPPER ORMOND QUAY.\n\n                                 1897.\n\n\n\n\n                        [Illustration: Gaelic]\n\n                                  AND\n\n                   TO THE COMPANION OF MY WANDERINGS\n\n                              AMONG MOST\n\n                    OF THE SCENES HEREIN MENTIONED,\n\n                            WHOSE PRESENCE\n\n                   GILDED THE SUN THAT SHINES UPON,\n\n                  AND PAINTED THE FLOWERS THAT BEDECK\n\n                                  THE\n\n                     \u201cFAIR HILLS OF HOLY IRELAND.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\nTHE LEGEND OF THE BLEMISHED KING--                                  PAGE\n\n    PROLOGUE                                                          19\n\n    CANTO I.                                                          23\n\n    CANTO II.                                                         30\n\n    CANTO III.                                                        37\n\n    CANTO IV                                                          42\n\nTHE LEGEND OF SAINT MAHEE OF ENDRIM                                   49\n\nA SONG OF DECADENCE                                                   65\n\nTHE RAILWAY ARCH                                                      67\n\nSCHAKHE                                                               70\n\nIN THE GIANT\u2019S RING, BELFAST                                          74\n\nTHE BLIND FATHER                                                      78\n\nTHE SOUTHERN CROSS                                                    85\n\nON THE DEATH OF WILLIAM MORRIS                                        87\n\nCOPERNICUS                                                            89\n\nTO ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE                                         90\n\nHEAVEN AND EARTH                                                      91\n\nON SOME TWENTIETH CENTURY FORECASTS                                   92\n\nIRELAND                                                               93\n\n\n\n\n_EDITOR\u2019S NOTE._\n\n\nWordsworth, writing a sonnet, having for its subject the sonnet-form,\nsaid:--\n\n                              \u201cTo me,\n    In sundry moods, \u2019twas pastime to be bound\n    Within the sonnet\u2019s scanty plot of ground;\u201d\n\nand all those who have essayed the task of composing in this particular\nform will admit that Wordsworth\u2019s definition--\u201cscanty plot of\nground\u201d--characterises the sonnet\u2019s limitations precisely.\n\nAs will be observed in the following pages, Mr. Cousins not only excels\nas a sonneteer; but in \u201cThe Legend of the Blemished King\u201d he performs\nthe remarkable feat of producing a poem of classical character,\ncontaining forty-eight stanzas, cast perfectly in the no less difficult\nmould known as the Spenserian stanza--eight heroic lines, followed by an\nAlexandrine, rhyming thus:--1, 3; 2, 4, 5, 7; 6, 8, 9.\n\nThe subject, however more than the technique, is remarkable. It will\nhave an especial attraction for all who are interested in the ancient\nliterature of Ireland; and, indeed it should be of universal interest,\nbecause of the fact that this story of Fergus bears a strong resemblance\nto the Scriptural narrative of Eden and the Fall of Man. It is a kind of\nallegory common to all ancient races, containing in its heart an\nunobtruded moral, wrapped in dramatic incident and decorated with\ncharming pictures of land and sea.\n\nIt is, in short, what Fiona M\u2019Leod would call a \u201clegendary morality.\u201d\n\nThe other poems are equally admirable; and, indeed, however considered,\nI think that this book should prove a valuable addition to the best\nliterary products of Ireland.\n\nRIGHT\nM. J. K.\n\n\n\n\n         DEIRDRE.\n\n    Illan, what King was he dwelt here of yore?\n\n         ILLAN.\n\n    Fergus, the son of Leide Lithe-o\u2019-limb,\n    Ere yet he reigned at Eman, did dwell here.\n\n         DEIRDRE.\n\n    What, Fergus Wry-mouth? I have heard of him,\n    And how he came by his ill-favoured name.\n    Methinks I see him when he rose again\n    From combat with the monster, and his face,\n    That had that blemish till love wiped it off,\n    Serene and ample-featured like a King.\n\n         ILLAN.\n\n    Not love but anger, made him fight the beast.\n\n         DEIRDRE.\n\n    No, no, I will not have it anger. Love\n    Prompts every deed heroic. \u2019Tis the fault\n    Of him who did compose the tale at first,\n    Not to have shown \u2019twas love unblemished him.\n                . . . . . .\n\n         FERGUS.\n\n    All Erin, shore to shore, shall ring with it\n    And poets in the ages yet to come\n    Make tales of wonder of it for the world.\n\n              \u201cDEIRDRE.\u201d--FERGUSON\n\n\n\n\n    The Legend of the\n    Blemished King.\n\n\n\n\n        Prologue: At Scrabo, Co. Down.\n\n\n    _The rugged rock against the sky\n      Heaves high a tower-topped crest,\n    Whence widens out beneath the eye\n      The realms of East and West.\n    Here lies a land but seldom sung,--\n      This crude, majestic crown,\n    And that white sea that moves among\n      The fertile fields of Down!_\n\n    _Unsung!--save when an alien lyre\n      A moment\u2019s space was strung,\n    And Browning fanned a little fire,\n      And Helen\u2019s Tower was sung.\n    Yet storied homes of sept and clan\n      Are here, and,--dim and vague,--\n    Anear and far, Ben Madighan,\n      And Keats-sung Ailsa Craig!_\n\n    _Unsung!--and wherefore? lovely land!\n      Hast thou not ample store\n    For song, from yonder ocean strand,\n      To Strangford\u2019s shining shore?\n    Hast thou not throbbed to foamy flanks,\n      And sound of Saxon steel,\n    To crash of Cromwell\u2019s rattling ranks,\n      And Clansmen of O\u2019Neill?_\n\n    _And yet, not all thy songful crown\n      Is strife of right with wrong;\n    Here, limpid lark-streams trickle down\n      A hundred peaks of song;\n    There, silent sheep and lambkins lie--\n      A white, uncertain thing--\n    Like lingering snow that fain would spy\n      The secret of the spring._\n\n    _The roaming robber breezes catch,\n      And hither upward float,\n    A lusty lilt and vagrant snatch\n      From some far rustic throat;\n    And blustering bye, with strident shout,\n      From scenes of festive glee,\n    That libertine of flower and sprout,\n      The bacchanalian bee._\n\n    _All life is song:--and song is life\n      To souls with these akin,\n    Unfettered by yon city\u2019s strife,\n      Unsullied by its sin!\n    Some part of these fair fields and coast,\n      Some waft of phantom wings,\n    Will haunt my heart, a welcome ghost,\n      A hint of higher things._\n\n    _Dear land of love and happy lot\n      Of merry maids and swains,\n    Worthy the martial muse of Scott,\n      Or Virgil\u2019s pastoral strains;\n    Loved land, this tongue thy song would share\n      This votive soul is thine:\n    Thy lips are loud with praise and prayer,--\n      Pray God they kindle mine!_\n\n\n\n\n        The Legend of the Blemished King.\n\n\n[NOTE:--I am indebted to \u201cThe Ecclesiastical History of Down and\nConnor,\u201d by Rev. James O\u2019Laverty, for the story of the \u201cBlemished King.\u201d\nBelieving it to be comparatively unknown, and desiring, as far as lay in\nmy power, to spread a knowledge of the interesting stories and legends\nwhich abound in Irish History and Literature, I translated it into\nverse. I learn, however, that a poem on the same subject has been\nwritten by the late Sir Samuel Ferguson, under the title of \u201cFergus\nWry-mouth.\u201d I can only plead justification for running the inevitable\ngauntlet of comparison between a giant and a pigmy, on the ground that I\nhad already committed myself to the publication of the present version\nof the legend before I became aware of the fact mentioned. I have not\nread the poem by Sir Samuel Ferguson, and I shall not do so until after\nthis volume is in print; but I have written Lady Ferguson on the matter,\nand she very kindly refuses to see any possible objection to the\npublication of my rendering of the story, seeing that it contains almost\nas many stanzas as there are lines in Sir Samuel\u2019s.\n\nThe Loch of Rory ([Illustration: Gaelic]), the centre around which the\nfollowing story moves, is Dundrum Bay. That bay is still remarkable for\nits roar, which has been frequently referred to by ancient writers. Even\na modern poet (S. K. Cowan, in \u201cSung by Six\u201d) has written of the bay,\n\u201cwhere deep seas moan.\u201d Other evidences point to the identity of Rory\nand Dundrum, in opposition to the conjectures of some that the present\nBelfast Lough was the scene of the incidents contained in the \u201cLegend of\nthe Blemished King.\u201d--THE AUTHOR.]\n\n\n\n\n        CANTO I.\n\n\n        I.\n\n    Eastward in Eireann lay the Lough of Rory.\n      The Moon, like some pale huntress, landward led\n    Her white-toothed hounds betwixt the promontory\n      And its far twin. Thither King Fergus sped\n      Within his chariot. High his shaggy head\n    Clove thro\u2019 the dusky clouds his chargers made;\n      And o\u2019er his shoulders, far behind him, spread\n    Loose locks, and circling cloak, in which arrayed\n    He, with benignant arm, Ultonia\u2019s sceptre swayed.\n\n\n        II.\n\n    Beside him stood his suremost charioteer,\n      (Mu\u00ebna, faithful bondsman of his lord,\n    Favoured in form, and swift of eye and ear),\n      Urging with well-skilled hand and timely word\n      The flying steeds. The seaward-soaring bird\n    Seemed fixed in Heaven, so swift they sped: the day\n      Lumbered behind, as high the sand they stirred,\n    And echoes of their wheels that edged the spray\n    Rolled thro\u2019 the silent hills like thunder far away!\n\n\n        III.\n\n    Onward they whirled. The billows on the beach\n      Drew backward in amaze, then, bolder grown,\n    Sprang forward to the chase, but far from reach\n      The phantom bounded on o\u2019er sand and stone;\n      Till the low clouds that late-born winds had blown\n    About the hills, upon the chariot\u2019s flight\n      Drew down their brows; or was it they had flown\n    Thro\u2019 dalliant day into a former night\n    That now, with jealous hand, hid shore and sea from sight?\n\n\n        IV.\n\n    Then when the day had rallied all its forces,--\n      A splash of glory in a murky west,--\n    Obedient, where it pleased (like men), the horses\n      Slackened their speed, and paused, and stood at rest.\n      \u201cThus far, O King! fulfilled is thy behest,\u201d\n    Mu\u00ebna said. To whom the King: \u201cTo thee\n      And me \u2019twere Heaven in Night\u2019s soft arms carest\n    To sleep.\u201d--They slept.--Without, that smith, the sea,\n    On adamantine anvils shaped new shores to be.\n\n\n        V.\n\n    Who knoweth not the spell that lurks in twilight?--\n      When mystic murmurs float across the world\n    From strange, vague forms that hate the brazen highlight\n      Of day, and sleep in hidden corners curled\n      Till, westward, day has nigh his banner furled.\n    Then fare they forth: rich spoil, in sooth, they found\n      Where Fergus had his mighty figure hurled\n    Upon the chariot\u2019s floor. They drew around,\n    Plucked from its sheath his sword, and bore him to the ground,\n\n\n        VI.\n\n    Thence to the verge of ocean. Fairy elves,\n      A thousand strong, the toilsome task essayed;\n    While twice a thousand, perched on rocky shelves,\n      A wierd accomp\u2019niment of laughter made\n      (Timed to their phantom forms that swung and swayed).\n    So sweet the sound, \u2019twould seem the winds, at rest\n      For once from warring, \u2019mong the treetops played:\n    Till, lo, the King, so close they round him prest,\n    Woke, and a struggling trio clasped upon his breast.\n\n\n        VII.\n\n    \u201cLife for thy life,\u201d they cried: \u201chave mercy, King!\u201d\n      Swift to his feet he sprang. The fairy throng\n    Vanished like vapour, save where, in the ring\n      Of his tight-clasping arms, as swift along\n      The dim-seen beach he strode the stones among,\n    The wriggling remnant of the elvish crew\n      Craved mercy.--\u201cMercy doth to thee belong,\n    And ours in turn to render service due.\u201d\n    Clasping them in his arms he toward his chariot drew.\n\n\n        VIII.\n\n    There lay Mu\u00ebna, wrapt in peaceful sleep,\n      Nor woke the King his bondsman; but did say\n    To those he held his captives: \u201cThrough the deep,\n      And under, give me knowledge of the way,\n      Unfearful of the power of wave or spray.\n    This shall ye grant and live.\u201d \u201cO King, such boon,\u201d\n      Thus said the elves, \u201csweeps not beyond our sway;\n    So shall be thine, ere swings another moon,\n    Skill meet to dare the depths of river and lagoon,\n\n\n        IX.\n\n    \u201cSave Rory, whence thou camest; that shalt thou\n      Ne\u2019er ruffle with thy foot: within its wide\n    Impassioned breast, from day\u2019s first dawn till now,\n      And still from now till dawn\u2019s last day, has plied,\n      And still shall ply, the spirit of the tide\n    His secret craft. Nor thou nor human kind\n      Shall scan his face and live. All else beside\n    Is thine when Earth \u2019s again to Day resigned,\n    Whose advent now is blown on trumpets of the wind.\u201d\n\n\n        X.\n\n    So when the morn, like Virtue\u2019s cheek red-blushing\n      For night\u2019s black deeds, from couch of cloud arose,\n    Ere yet were heard hoarse caws and dark wings rushing\n      Athwart the sun, when trailing lines of crows\n      Hasten to haunts far off that no man knows,\n    Beside the sea stood King and charioteer\n      To take the waves\u2019 great secret now from those\n    In promise bound, who stand apart, yet near,\n    Where wavelets lift and lay, as if some word to hear.\n\n\n        XI.\n\n    Then spake the first of fairies: \u201cO great King,\n      Thy life was ours--we spared it; ours was thine\n    And thou didst spare us, yet encompassing\n      Thy deed with obligation, line on line,\n      And promise holding promise,--me and mine\n    To do, and thou to do not. Now the hour\n      Hath come--as ne\u2019er before--when billow and brine\n    Yield to a mortal every whit of power--\n    Save one--how suns soe\u2019er may shine or clouds may lower.\u201d\n\n\n        XII.\n\n    Low bowed the Monarch his assenting head.\n      The elfin chieftain swiftly drew anear\n    Doffing his hood, long-trailing, ruby red.\n      Lo! on the King \u2019tis placed. In either ear\n      They plant sweet spices, herbs, anointing clear;\n    And weird enchantments drown the muffled roar\n      Of throbbing ocean. Then the charioteer\n    Beholds his master pass the waters o\u2019er,\n    And stands, a lonely man upon a lonely shore.\n                . . . . . .\n\n\n        XIII.\n\n    Day brightened in the East, and o\u2019er the waters\n      The round sun rose and threw across the wave\n    A lambent flame, blood-red, as though from slaughters\n      In Orient lands. The breaking surf did lave\n      Mu\u00ebna\u2019s feet: he, wrapt in wonderings grave,\n    Looked long and wistful, such as lovers do\n      To greet their love. At length the wondering slave\n    Saw on the deep a form that neared, and grew,\n    And stepped upon the beach--the King returned anew.\n\n\n\n\n        CANTO II.\n\n\n        XIV.\n\n    Thenceforth, King Fergus, strong in power new born,\n      Recked not a restful hour, but, passion-fired,\n    And strong in strength un\u2019customed, night and morn\n      Probed to the farthest deeps his soul desired.\n      At such swift speed too soon his soul acquired\n    The sum of knowledge granted. \u201cAll below,\u201d\n      So spake the King, \u201cto which I have aspired\n    Is mine,--that earth or ocean can bestow,\n    Save one, whose secret fain my mind would grasp and know.\u201d\n\n\n        XV.\n\n    So chafe Restriction\u2019s fetters. So within\n      Dwelleth for ever ancient Adam\u2019s will.\n    Sweet though the tasted fruit, the fruit unseen,\n      Or seen but yet forbid, is sweeter still.\n      Lord of the land, of river, vale, and hill,\n    King Fergus stood, and \u201cWherefore,\u201d thus said he,\n      \u201cThis circumscription? What of greater ill\n    Dwelleth within the breast of mine own sea\n    Than those whose farthest caves have felt the foot of me?\n\n\n        XVI.\n\n    \u201cI _will_ descend to Rory: haply there\n      May dwell some secret whose resistless charms,\n    Bent to my kindred\u2019s service, danger, care\n      Shall put apart, and shield from hurt or harm\n      In council grave or battle\u2019s loud alarm.\n    What ho, Mu\u00ebna. Haste my charioteer.\n      Who boasts that weak has grown my kingly arm\n    To sweep its path of all restriction clear?\n    Fergus is Fergus still--and Fergus knows no fear!\u201d\n\n\n        XVII.\n\n    Mu\u00ebna heard, and answered word by deed.\n      Soon rolled the chariot round the palace hall,\n    And Eastward toward the ocean; steed by steed\n      Stretched to the task his limbs; their hoofs did fall\n      Like rain on summer noons. The curlews\u2019 call\n    Gave token of the near-approaching end,\n      And soon before their eyes the ocean wall\n    Shouldered the shock of waters that extend\n    To meet the sky. The King did to the marge descend.\n\n\n        XVIII.\n\n    Know you the Loch of Rory? Sages tell\n      How, when the sons of Adam felt the force\n    Of watery judgments, came a vagrant swell\n      And burst round shores of Eireann. Man and horse,\n      King, chief, and clansman, in the widening course\n    Of high, resistless billows, sank from sight\n      \u2019Mong cries from throats in sudden anguish hoarse\n    That called, and called, and ceased when fell the night,--\n    And on a stranger shore soft broke the morning\u2019s light.\n\n\n        XIX.\n\n    Across this shore Ultonia\u2019s King now passed.\n      The waves that rattled up the pebbled strand\n    Rose in their ranks, then low before him cast\n      Themselves, and stood aside on either hand.\n      The King moved forward. Never magic wand\n    More swift compelled submission. Thro\u2019 the spray,\n      As tho\u2019 he trod upon the level land,\n    He took, \u2019twixt watery walls, a deepening way,\n    Till o\u2019er his head the waves shut out the light of day.\n\n\n        XX.\n\n    Forward he fared. No swimmer\u2019s opened eye\n      E\u2019er scanned so sweet a sight. In glimmering green\n    Slow lightening upward to the watery sky\n      That arched the watery world, in softer sheen\n      Than mortals wot of, lay the fairy scene:--\n    Fantastic rocks, sea-flowers that rose and fell\n      As brushed by silent shapes that moved between\n    Him and the darkening distance, fairy cell,\n    And beds of ocean bloom more sweet than Asphodel.\n\n\n        XXI.\n\n    There sat the King adown to scan the world\n      Of more than wonder. Thither came to sue\n    For explanation things that swam, and curled,\n      Then circled round, and passed away from view.\n      Here stood as \u2019twere a camp, and there a few\n    Forms, not of ocean, human arms outspread.\n      King Fergus wept to make the sad review\n    Where those who faced the flood, now dumb and dead,\n    Slept out the tale of time upon the ocean\u2019s bed.\n\n\n        XXII.\n\n    Short space he sat when, from athwart the deep,\n      There came a sound of horror! Far and near\n    A wild commotion rose, as things that creep,\n      Or climb, or swim, smitten with sudden fear,\n      Darkened the depths that erst had been so clear.\n    King Fergus started upward to his feet,\n      And saw, but dimly, toward him quickly steer\n    A dreadful shape that came like lightning fleet,\n    And chilled the monarch\u2019s blood such fearful foe to meet.\n\n\n        XXIII.\n\n    It was the Muirdris!! Nought that men have known\n      Could match its awful visage: high upheld\n    On ogrish limbs, one moment ape-like grown,\n      It flew along, till, lo! it sank, and swelled\n      To size gigantic, while it yelped and yelled\n    In sound that spake of fury, fiendish ire.\n      In tremulous awe the King the beast beheld\n    Bent in its course on devastation dire,\n    While from its eyeballs streamed malignant lines of fire.\n\n\n        XXIV.\n\n    Round turned the King, and flew as \u2019twere from Death!\n      Swift sped the beast within his foamy track.\n    Wreathed round his form the King could feel its breath,\n      Nor dared he glance one smallest moment back.\n      Behind the twain, like tempest-driven rack,\n    Spread clouds of foam, pointing the path of each.\n      Above, white billows lashed the shore. His neck\n    Mu\u00ebna, wondering, strained,--till on the beach\n    Swooned the swift-fleeing King beyond the monster\u2019s reach.\n\n\n        XXV.\n\n    But tho\u2019 Mu\u00ebna wondered as he saw\n      His King, \u2019mid foamy spray, make sudden flight,\n    Far more he wondered as he scanned the flaw\n      Upon the King\u2019s wan face, that made the sight\n      More dreadful than some horror-haunted night.\n    Lo! wide apart, and stretched from ear to ear,\n      In sudden aspect of tremendous fright,\n    Gaped, like a cave, his jaws: the eyes, once clear,\n    Stared as upon a sight of overmastering fear.\n\n\n        XXVI.\n\n    Mu\u00ebna bore the King upon his breast\n      Into the chariot. There he laid him, dazed,\n    On ample couch, his fevered form to rest,\n      Soft shaded from the sun, that burned and blazed\n      High overhead,--then whipt the steeds, as crazed\n    From some pursuing phantom. Might and main\n      In lightning alternation high they raised\n    Sure-stepping foot, and over hill and plain\n    Toward far Emania\u2019s walls their swiftest strength they strain.\n\n\n\n\n        CANTO III.\n\n\n        XXVII.\n\n    Not far the sun had fallen, when he drew\n      The chargers\u2019 reins beside the circling sweep\n    Of Royal walls. The gathering clansmen knew\n      From foam and steam no slow and leisured creep\n      Had been their pace. Their thought took leap on leap\n    From sight to meaning. Then upon the floor\n      They spied the King recumbent as in sleep,\n    And as the form was borne within the door,\n    In others\u2019 eyes they sought the secret o\u2019er and o\u2019er.\n\n\n        XXVIII.\n\n    Straightway into the council-room of chiefs\n      And sages was the limp-limbed body borne.\n    Then spake Mu\u00ebna: \u201cLo! a grief of griefs,\n      Ultonia\u2019s hearts are kingless and forlorn,\n      For know ye not how spake the wiseman, born\n    To wisdom?--\u2018Ne\u2019er shall King with blemish marred\n      Reign\u2019: and behold! alas! since this sad morn\n    King Fergus, from Ambition evil-starred,\n    Lies now before your eyes in visage sorely scarred.\n\n\n        XXIX.\n\n    \u201cChoose ye a King, to reign within his stead.\u201d\n      He ceased, but answer came not; rather, round\n    The silent throng flew questioning glance that said\n      Unstable vacillation. Not a sound\n      Broke cover till one bolder spirit wound\n    The trumpet-horn of speech; then left and right,\n      Leapt forth the hounds of thought, and roof and ground\n    Echoed impassioned tongues, and feet bedight\n    With thong and sandal, plied with each loud speaker\u2019s might.\n\n\n        XXX.\n\n    Then spake the sons of wisdom, they who stood\n      Apart in silent conclave, while the din\n    Of ineffectual babblings drew no rood\n      More near conclusion: \u201cHear, Ultonian kin!\n      What arm so strong Ultonia\u2019s wars to win,\n    Foster the strength of strong, inspire the weak?\n      Lives there a soul full fit to stand within\n    The Monarch\u2019s room? What worthier do you seek\n    To guide the reins of peace, or would ye other? Speak!\u201d\n\n\n        XXXI.\n\n    \u201cNone! none!\u201d the multitudinous answer rang\n      Unanimous. (King Fergus, with a sigh,\n    Turned in his sleep. Perchance he dreamed there sang\n      Some bard of deeds their fathers did.) The cry\n      Thrilled through the chamber\u2019s walls, and far and nigh\n    Found answer in a thousand throats, that gave\n      Their yet unmeaning plaudits to the sky;\n    And as, in sound like shoreward-shrieking wave\n    They shout, the secret they in others\u2019 faces crave.\n\n\n        XXXII.\n\n    Without, the crowd swayed back and forth, with din\n      Low-muffled, as the sea doth surge and sway\n    In silken swell, from storm gone past. Within\n      Was calm, and brows determined sought a way\n      Through that old law to write emphatic \u201cNay!\u201d\n    Then quoth the wisemen\u2019s chief: \u201cOur path is plain.\n      Our hearts upon our tongues have said their say,\n    And Fergus o\u2019er Ultonia\u2019s host shall reign,\n    If but to meet our thoughts your constant strength ye strain.\n\n\n        XXXIII.\n\n    \u201cLet fools and babblers take their journey far,\n      And silent sit as sent\u2019nel to your speech.\n    What wots the King of that which him doth mar\n      If but the knowledge in the breast of each\n      Be locked beyond a thought\u2019s long-arm\u00e9d reach\n    Till forced forgetfulness doth rust the key\n      Or haply lose it. E\u2019en your art let teach\n    The water to forget his form to see\n    Or give it back, when to ablution cometh he.\u201d\n\n\n        XXXIV.\n\n    Approval shone within their eyes. Their tongues\n      In loud assent gave forth: \u201cFergus is King!\u201d\n    And once again without, untutored lungs\n      Caught up the cry, nor knew what meant the thing,\n      \u2019Till, like a mighty bird, on fresh-plumed wing,\n    The Royal chariot once again did shake\n      Rampart and roof, as champing steeds did fling\n    Their heads on high, and sped by mount and brake\n    To scenes of less surprise when Fergus should awake.\n\n                . . . . . .\n\n\n\n        XXXV.\n\n    What need to sing of deeds within the scope\n      Of thrice a dozen moons? What need to tell\n    How fared the King when, by the sanded slope\n      Where twice a day the sea-waves fret and swell,\n      He woke? Or devious deeds that oft befell\n    Clansman and chief in those high-sounding days\n      Of war-girt peace--a Heaven ringed round with Hell--\n    Or battle\u2019s loud-lunged shout, or conquest\u2019s blaze,\n    Or how the blemished King ne\u2019er on his fault did gaze.\n\n\n\n\n        CANTO IV.\n\n\n        XXXVI.\n\n    \u2019Twas thus--and thus, when thrice a year had sped\n      King Fergus of his blemish happed to know:--\n    \u201cI go to mine ablutions (so he said\n      Unto his bond-maid), girl, the task you know\n      Of preparation. Haste you, for I go\n    On mighty mission!\u201d P\u2019r\u2019aps \u2019twas Fate\u2019s decree\n      The maiden\u2019s arm in service seemed full slow,\n    And Fergus, strained of nerve, was swift to see\n    In microscopic faults, some slight of majesty.\n\n\n        XXXVII.\n\n    Howbeit,--the fire to firelike will give blaze,\n      And progeny of one small word or deed\n    Count thousand-thousand. Half in wide amaze,\n      And half in wild vexation that slow heed\n      The maiden gave to that his will decreed,\n    He strode into her presence: then on high\n      He raised the stinging lash his stout-skinned steed\n    Oft felt, and flinched, and, drawing swiftly nigh,\n    Its serpent hiss was drowned in the smit\u2019 maiden\u2019s cry.\n\n\n        XXXVIII.\n\n    \u201cA curse upon your laggard form!\u201d he hissed.\n      The smitten girl swift raised her flashing eyes\n    In scarlet indignation, nor was missed\n      The blemish on the Monarch\u2019s face. She cries:\n      \u201cKing Fergus, heartless coward! I loathe, despise\n    Your craven hand, nor e\u2019en a word would deign,\n      But that I deem your spirit\u2019s shape and size\n    Must match your brute-like visage.\u201d Purpling plain\n    With rage, he drew his sword and cut the maid in twain.\n\n\n        XXXIX.\n\n    A maddened moment\u2019s deed! And when the storm\n      Was past, the King in calm the wreck surveyed\n    Of his own making. Towering o\u2019er the form\n      Prostrate and purple, holding still the blade\n      Wet with her life, he stood as sore dismayed,\n    Muttering: \u201cVisage! Visage!\u201d still the word\n      Beat inward on his \u2019wildered brain, nor stayed\n    Till that grim truth, long hid, to sight restored,\n    Burst on his mind. He turned, still clasping tight the sword.\n\n\n        XL.\n\n    Three steps beyond the portal of the room\n      Where lay the maid, he stopped and cast a look\n    Backward,--a look portentous of dark doom\n      To all beneath its ban. Aloft he shook\n      The bleeding blade; then cried, till every nook,\n    E\u2019en to the farthest of the farthest halls,\n      Trembled; and, as he called, his way he took\n    Down corridors that held his foot\u2019s swift falls\n    Till cry and footfall blent without the castle walls.\n\n\n        XLI.\n\n    The cry was: \u201cVisage! Visage! Death and blood\n      To what has wrought the ruin of yon maid,--\n    That hideous habitant of Rory\u2019s flood\n      Who plies--mayhap not long--his secret trade;\n      And mine ambition that such depths essayed\n    As strained the strength of me. Yet, not for nought\n      The fiend was found, tho\u2019 fled I sore dismayed:\n    Some lesson yet is there, tho\u2019 anguish-taught;\n    Some profit yet remains, tho\u2019 it in blood be bought.\n\n\n        XLII.\n\n    One falleth--that foul spirit: then is past\n      Temptation of ambition; but, perchance\n    Mine arm may fail: sobeit, then is cast\n      Away the secret.\u201d On did he advance.\n      And one who saw his eyeballs\u2019 lightning glance,\n    And marked his mood and manner, thro\u2019 the crowd\n      Spread rumouring words, keen, swift as strong-threwn lance,\n    That drew them forth, a multitude, all browed\n    With wonderment that grew with each swift stride, till, loud\n\n\n        XLIII.\n\n    And deep before them, Rory swells and swings.\n      Behold! the King nor pauses, nor aside\n    Turns in his track.--Not mine to tell of things\n      Run riot in those minds that edged the tide,\n      Where late the billows did King Fergus hide,\n    Nor gave of him a token, save the swell\n      Of giant strivings in the waters wide,\n    And one wild wave that, as from heart of Hell,\n    Leaped for the shore and \u2019mong the wondering warriors fell.\n\n\n        XLIV.\n\n    And thereupon arose confusion, such\n      As ne\u2019er was seen before, and ne\u2019er again\n    Shall e\u2019er be seen. With tops that seemed to touch\n      The heights of Heaven arose the strenuous main\n      In wild tumultuous strivings, till the brain\n    Of those beholders whirled, and they that spake\n      In terror seemed all voiceless, for in vain\n    Speech called at its own ears. All heaven did make\n    Sound at whose dreadful voice all earth did seem to shake.\n\n\n        XLV.\n\n    And far across the world a tempest bore\n      Sounds of a conflict such as never yet\n    Man\u2019s eyes beheld,--e\u2019en to the cloudy shore\n      Of distant Britain: there did they beget\n      Vague words of wonder. Ere the sun had set\n    Within a stormy west nor man nor maid\n      Of all Ultonia but with spray was wet\n    As, lo! from each far hill, each distant glade\n    Long thousands shoreward drew with wide-eyed wonder swayed.\n\n\n        XLVI.\n\n    And when it seemed as if the heavens swam\n      In wild bewilderment,--each starry sphere\n    Would topple earthward, straightway fell a calm\n      That laid a hush upon the heart of fear,\n      And soothed both sea and sky, till softest tear\n    Would drop with sound of cataracts in the glen.\n      And thus they waited what should next appear,\n    Uncounted thousands of full-arm\u00ebd men,\n    Bards, chieftans, clansmen, women, maids, youths, children:--then\n\n\n        XLVII.\n\n    As if the sea had stolen half the glow\n      Of the sunk sun, the quiet Loch flushed red,\n    And lengthened day, e\u2019en tho\u2019 the day did go\n      To other lands. \u201cSome portent this,\u201d they said,\n      \u201cOf the fight\u2019s finish: one hath joined the dead--\n    Which, shall appear full soon.\u201d--Lo! on the sea\n      What form is yon that waves a hideous head\n    Within its hand? They gaze, they shout: \u201c\u2019Tis he,\n    Fergus, Ultonia\u2019s King. Fergus hath victory!\u201d\n\n\n        XLVIII.\n\n    Then that red glory brightened, and they scanned\n      The King\u2019s marred visage--marred?--nay, pure and bright\n    As erst in youth! He called: \u201cWith this right hand\n      Nerved with the fury of revengeful might,\n      I fought--and won! I\u2019ve lived my day; now night\n    Doth wrap its blackness round me: I but pay\n      The price of mine own deed.\u201d And from their sight\n    He sank beneath the waters of the bay\n    Which rolled in waves of blood for many a devious day!\n\n\n\n\n        The Legend of St. Mahee\n\n            of Endrim.\n\n\n\n\n        The Legend of Saint Mahee of Endrim.\n\n\n\n\n        TO J. A. GREGG.\n\n\n[NOTE.--Saint Mahee ([Illustration: Gaelic]) was born about 420 A.D.,\nfounded the Abbey of Endrim ([Illustration: Gaelic]--the single ridge),\non the beautiful island bearing that name, about 450, and died in the\nyear 496 or 497. For several centuries the Abbey, in which education and\nreligion were combined, occupied a prominent position, and turned out a\nnumber of subsequent founders of similar institutions. Between 974 and\n1178 history is silent in regard to it, but it is certain that, from its\nposition on Cuan ([Illustration: Gaelic]--a lough, now Strangford),\nwhich was infested by Danish marauders, it came in for a large share of\ntheir devastating attentions. From the date of its affiliation with an\nEnglish educational establishment, 1178, it seems to have fallen on evil\ndays, and in 1450 it is simply noted as a Parish Church in the charge of\nthe Bishop of Down.\n\nThe Island of Endrim--or, as it is now called, in memory of its Patron\nSaint, Mahee--is situated most picturesquely on Strangford Lough, about\nseven miles from Comber, Co. Down, and is approachable on foot or car by\na modern causeway-road, which crosses an intervening island. On the\nshoreward end of the island may be seen many remnants of the stone\nbuildings which superseded the original wooden structures. These\nremnants include the stump of a round tower; traces of extensive\nfoundations once laid bare by the late Bishop Reeves, but now almost\nentirely hidden from view; the site of the harbour where anchored \u201cships\nfrom Britain;\u201d evidences of a hallowed God\u2019s-acre, and a fairly complete\ncastle of a later period. The circuit of the island can be made on foot\nleisurely in a couple of hours, and the walk affords a view of the\nextensive waters of the once Dane-infested lough, the distant hoary\nwalls of Greyabbey, the haunts of Saint Patrick, the reputed scene of\nthe death of Ollav Fola ([Illustration: Gaelic], the lawgiver of Erin),\nand the martial deeds of De Courcey.\n\nBallydrain, about half-way between Comber and Mahee Island, is so-called\nfrom [Illustration: Gaelic], a townland, and [Illustration: Gaelic], a\nblackthorn tree; and the reader will observe the connection between this\nplace and the Island of Mahee. No trace of a church has yet been\ndiscovered at Ballydrain.\n\nThe idea contained in the Legend has been variously rendered by several\neminent authors. The incident in which it is here embodied may, however,\nbe fairly claimed as the oldest version--the original, in fact.--THE\nAUTHOR.]\n\n\n    Lo! right and left, in calm repose,\n      Are spread unnumbered isles,\n    Between whose shores the bluff breeze blows,\n      And sungilt Strangford smiles.\n    The shoreward way our feet have left\n      Below, still winds along\n    Where strenuous waves, in eddy and cleft,\n      Croon low their iterant song.\n\n\n        II.\n\n    Bright in the passionate, tremulous rays\n      From cloudy towers of day,\n    Yon crumbling castle seems to gaze\n      At castles far away,\n    Like parted friends of other years\n      Who meet, nor waste a word,\n    But wondering stand, and smile thro\u2019 tears\n      From depths unfathomed stirred.\n\n\n        III.\n\n    Here may we rest, and make our seat\n      On this high rock-strewn mound,\n    \u201cPut off our shoes from off our feet\u201d--\n      We tread on holy ground\n    The haunts where many a sandalled sole\n      Trod out life\u2019s lust and woe,\n    And, stedfast set to one high goal,\n      Went down in dust below.\n\n\n        IV.\n\n    No stone is theirs engraven large\n      With record born of strife,\n    No gilded scroll, no carven marge,\n      No legend loud with life.\n    Far other deeds than men applaud\n      Their holy hands essayed,\n    In life viceregent here of God,\n      In death still undismayed.\n\n\n        V.\n\n    No fluctuant favours--servile spouse\n      Of princes\u2019 transient smile--\n    Did e\u2019er bedeck their sacred brows,\n      Their saintly souls defile:\n    No life-warm lips their own had kissed\n      (Earth\u2019s hope-inspiring dove)--\n    Their life was one long Eucharist\n      Eternalised in love.\n\n\n        VI.\n\n    The workers went; the works remain.\n      Time here small kingship owns.\n    Thro\u2019 \u2019whelming winds, thro\u2019 sun and rain,\n      Have lived these lichened stones,\n    And that brief tower upreared by those\n      Whose dread was from the deep,--\n    In strife their strength, in peace repose,\n      Their guardian now in sleep.\n\n\n        VII.\n\n    Thine eyes, old tower, have scanned the scroll\n      And palimpsest of Earth,\n    And fain would we thy thoughts unroll\n      Thro\u2019 years of bliss or dearth,\n    For thou from thy calm height dost look\n      With sage, dispassionate eye,\n    To where the star of day-dawn shook\n      Within a youthful sky.\n\n\n        VIII.\n\n    We deem thee old; but age is not\n      A toll of hours and days,--\n    Mean measure of our little lot\n      And arbitrary ways.\n    We run our little round of change\n      Thro\u2019 years of less or more,\n    But Time to thee holds nought of strange,\n      Unheard, unseen before.\n\n\n        IX.\n\n    Down paths of night no starrier balls\n      No new Milanion throws;\n    Thro\u2019 no transfigured day\u2019s high halls\n      Th\u2019 itinerant breeze still blows;\n    Belligerent ever, baffled still,\n      Th\u2019 importunate surges swing;\n    Still dear as dawn th\u2019 ecstatic thrill\n      And prophet power of Spring.\n\n\n        X.\n\n    Wrapt in a dream of ancient days\n      Thou stand\u2019st aloof from ours,\n    Yet nought hast thou of battle\u2019s blaze\n      Or blighting iron showers;\n    For well-beloved art thou of moon,\n      And sun, and winds, and stars,\n    Forever in thy heart attune\n      To every statelier bars\n\n\n        XI.\n\n    Than aught my highest hope could know\n      In this inspiring breath\n    Where wilding blossoms bloom and blow,\n      As life blooms out of death;\n    Yet fain, withal, my lips would wed\n      To song, for modern ears,\n    This chord from lyric days long dead,\n      This dream from epic years:\n\n\n        THE LEGEND.\n\n      Quoth good Saint Mahee of Endrim,\n        \u201cI shall build for Christ my master\n      Here a church, and here defend him\n        And His cause from all disaster.\u201d\n    Seven score youths cut beam and wattle,\n    Seven score hands unseared in battle\n      Their unstinted aid did lend him,\n        Fast and ever faster.\n\n      But tho\u2019 arm, and voice loud-ringing,\n        To a test of toil defied him,\n      Right and left the wattles flinging,\n        Not a tongue could dare deride him\n    For, before them all, he stood\n    Finished, waiting. Not a rood\n      From the spot a bird was singing\n        In a thorn beside him.\n\n      Sang no bird in ancient story\n        Half so sweet or loud a strain:\n      Seaward to the Lough of Rory,\n        Landward then, and back again,\n    Swelled the song, and trilled and trembled\n    O\u2019er the toiling youths assembled,\n      Rang around \u2019mid Summer glory\n        There at Ballydrain.\n\n      Far more beautiful the bird was\n        Than the bright-plumed Bird of Bliss\n      And the Abbot\u2019s feeling stirred was\n        To its deepest depths, I wis;\n    \u2019Till, as from the fiery splendour\n    Moses saw, in accents tender\n      Spake the bird, and lo, the word was:\n        \u201cGoodly work is this!\u201d\n\n      \u201cTrue,\u201d quoth Saint Mahee of Endrim,\n        \u201c\u2019Tis required by Christ my master\n      Here to build, and here defend Him\n        And His cause from all disaster;\n    But my blood mounts high with weening\n    Of this goodly word the meaning?\u201d\n      Nearer then the bird did tend him,\n        Fast and even faster.\n\n      \u201cI shall answer. I descended\n        From mine angel-soul\u2019s compeers,\n      From my home serene and splendid\n        To this haunt of toil and tears;\n    Came to cheer thee with a note\n    From an angel\u2019s silvern throat.\u201d\n      Then he sang three songs: each, ended,\n        Made a hundred years.\n\n      There, thro\u2019 days that dawned and darkened,\n        With his wattles by his side,\n      Stood the island Saint and hearkened\n        To that silvery-flowing tide\n    Stood entranced, and ever wondr\u2019\u00e9d,\n    Till had circled thrice a hundred\n      Years o\u2019er fields, life-lade or stark, and\n        Strangford\u2019s waters wide.\n\n      Then when came the final number,\n        Ceased the angel-bird its strain,\n      And, unheld by ills that cumber\n        Mortals, sought the heavenly plain.\n    Then the Saint, in mute amaze,\n    Round him turned an anxious gaze,\n      And from that far land of slumber\n        Came to Earth again.\n\n      Low his load, mid weed and flower,\n        Lay beside him all unbroken,\n      Till, with thrice augmented power,\n        From his holy dream awoken,\n    Up he bore it to his shoulder--\n    Broad and not a hand\u2019s breath older.\n      Scarce, thought he, had passed an hour\n        Since the bird had spoken.\n\n      Toward his island church he bore it.\n        Lo, an oratory gleaming,\n      And \u201cTo Saint Mahee,\u201d writ o\u2019er it!\n        \u201cNow,\u201d quoth he, \u201cin faith I\u2019m dreaming!\n    Say, good monk, at whose consistory\n    Shall I solve this mighty mystery,\n      And to form of fact restore it\n        From this shadowy seeming?\u201d\n\n      Thus he spake to one who faced him\n        With a look of mild surprise,\n      One who swiftly brought and placed him\n        \u2019Neath the Abbot\u2019s searching eyes.--\n    Leave him there: not mine to rhyme of\n    Deeds that filled the latter time of\n      Him who, fain tho\u2019 years would waste him,\n        Ages not, nor dies.\n\n                . . . . . .\n\n      Such the wondrous old-time story\n        Of the bird\u2019s long, lethal strain\n      Sung thro\u2019 Summers hot and hoary,\n        Winters white on mount and main\n    And the monks, to mark the mission\n    Of the bird,--so tells tradition,--\n      Built a church to God\u2019s great glory\n        There at Ballydrain.\n\n\n        XII.\n\n    The song has ceased, the dream is done,\n      Lo, nought but shattered shrine\n    And weed-clad walls greet now the sun\n      That sparkles in the brine;\n    Yet these no remnant are of dead\n      Insalutary days,\n    Vicarious blood of morning, shed\n      For more than Memphian haze.\n\n\n        XIII.\n\n    The fires of worship, and of war,\n      De Courcey\u2019s marshalled hosts,\n    The rude sea-rovers from afar\n      Have vanished from our coasts;\n    And out of these an ampler field\n      Found Freedom, mind and hand,\n    Toward unattempted ends to wield\n      A world-enchanting wand.\n\n\n        XIV.\n\n    What tho\u2019 in oft ignoble cause\n      The wave of war still rolls,\n    The hate of sects, the clutching claws,\n      The strife of armoured souls;\n    What tho\u2019 the thousands, born to fail,\n      In darkness come and go,\n    Be ours no pessimistic wail\n      Of fear for larger woe;\n\n\n        XV.\n\n    For even now the dawn doth give\n      Some promissory gleams,\n    Tho\u2019 most \u2019tis ours in night to live,\n      Participant in dreams\n    Of some broad-beamed and brighter morn,\n      Some elemental balm,\n    Some purer peace, of battle born,\n      Some tempest-cradled calm!\n\n[Illustration: text decoration]\n\n[Illustration: text decoration]\n\n\n\n\n        Miscellaneous Poems.\n\n\n\n\n        Song of Decadence.\n\n\n    I wonder if there still remain\n      Some echoes from the songs of old;\n    Or what the measure of the strain\n      The future shall unfold?\n\n    The voice that breathed across the years,\n      And came, and went, and passed the bar,\n    And sang the battle song of tears,\n      Sounds small, and faint, and far;\n\n    And men have found another chord,\n      An offspring, not of heart, but head;\n    And gold is God, and lust is Lord,\n      And Love lies stricken dead!\n\n    Ah, me! the race goes blindly on\n      And leaves the old familiar ways;\n    And still, earth-weighted, flowers the dawn\n      To still ignoble days;\n\n    And men, as sheep within their folds,\n      Grope round their world with great sad eyes;\n    And hate the hand that still withholds\n      The secret of the skies;\n    Or, deeming God an idle tale\n      Withdrawn from lore of ancient shelves,\n    Themselves would reckon by the scale\n      And measure of themselves!\n\n    How mean the stature of the song\n      Of our inglorious--glorious time,\n    Attenuating, as along\n      It moves from that great prime\n\n    When Milton, in the midnight hours,\n      Lay waiting for the mystic breath\n    Of God to touch his soul to flowers\n      Of song that smile at Death.\n\n    O singers of the years to come!\n      Be yours the large and liberal scope:\n    Sing sweetly--or for aye be dumb--\n      Of God, and Love, and Hope,\n\n    Encircled by no little line\n      Of gain or loss, of time or sense,\n    Nor, bent at Mammon\u2019s soulless shrine,\n      Your birth-right part for pence;\n\n    But bend an arm across the past,\n      And finger all the vibrant years,\n    Till sunlight, on our shadows cast,\n      Makes rainbows of our tears.\n\n\n\n\n        The Railway Arch.\n\n\n    There it stands, as it has stood--\n      Theme for bards, and theme for seers--\n    Mute to sun and tempests rude,\n      To the swift express of years;\n\n    Stretched across from bank to bank\n      Where the rabbits flash and go,\n    Where the fir-trees, rank by rank,\n      Gaze upon the track below\n\n    As the train, at man\u2019s behest,\n      In the calm or tempest\u2019s teeth,\n    Speeds with lightning in its breast,\n      And the thunder underneath.\n\n    There in many a rift and rent,\n      Many a bird finds friendly cover;\n    And the toiler, homeward bent,\n      Whistles as he passes over;\n\n    And the children from the town\n      Climb its parapets and strain\n    Half a hundred throats to drown\n      With a cheer the passing train.\n\n    Yet how many children, toilers,\n      List\u2019 to what that arch would say\n    To the thousands of earth\u2019s moilers?--\n      Dull of ear and listless they!\n\n    Ah! adown the track of time,\n      In the world\u2019s great sidings lying,\n    Many a theme for many a rhyme\n      Is unmarked by thousands, flying\n\n    After all the fen-fires, darting\n      In the damps and swamps of life;\n    Fires of meeting and of parting,\n      Hate and love, and strain and strife!\n\n    There it stands--O! how I love it;\n      For it speaks of weal, and woe,\n    For the thousands pass above it;\n      For the thousands rush below;\n\n    And, attune to whirr and clatter,\n      Wide and wider does it span,\n    High o\u2019er time and sense and matter,\n      High o\u2019er life and death and man,\n\n    Stretched from age to age unborn;\n      And above it in a stream\n    Pass, unceasing, night and morn,\n      Shapes like those in Jacob\u2019s dream\n\n    All the souls of all the ages,\n      All the ghosts of all the years,\n    Priests and prophets, saints and sages,\n      Sweet-breathed bards and broad-browed seers,\n\n    Who from many a cloudy station\n      List\u2019 the whirring of the wheels\n    Bounding on without cessation,\n      Dragging progress at their heels;\n\n    Who, as children from the town,\n      Throng the parapets, and strain\n    Form and voice in flashing down\n      Warning signals to the train\n\n    Speeding on, at man\u2019s behest,\n      In the calm, or tempest\u2019s teeth,\n    With the lightning in its breast,\n      And the thunder underneath!\n\n\n\n\n        Schakhe.\n\n   (A Ballad of Armenia.)\n\n\n    They had fought, they had failed, those women and now,\n        in a wild-eyed throng,\n    They fled from the red destroyer, and they cried: \u201cO Lord, how long?--\n    How long, O Lord, till the ending of the ghastly sounds and sights,\n    Till the dripping days be finished, and the thrice red-running nights,--\n    Till the last cold corpse falls, severed from the last Armenian head,\n    Till the last maid be dishonoured, and the last hot tear be shed?\u201d\n\n    They had fled from the red destroyer, but he hastens around their track,\n    Till the fate they had flown is before them, and they turn\n        in their pathway back.\n    But, Northward and Southward and Eastward and Westward,\n        and round and round,\n    Come the gleam of the steely lightning, and the wild,\n        soul-harrowing sound,\n    As mother and sister and daughter, and the child at its mother\u2019s breast\n    Go down in the surge of slaughter and the wreck of the great Opprest.\n    And now they are huddled together, as the death-cries rise and swell,\n    Where the rock runs up to Heaven, and the gulf goes down to Hell,--\n    On the edge of a beetling hillock; when, lo! from the \u2019wildered crowd,\n    On a peak of the rock steps Schakhe, and calls to her sisters, loud:--\n\n    \u201cO sisters in nameless sorrow, baptised in a life of tears;\n    Before you two paths lie open: behind you a thousand years\n    Fade far in the dusky distance, one long, broad stream of blood,\n    That flows by the wreck and ruin of sword and fire and flood!\n    Before you two paths lie open: one leads where dangers lurk,\n    And the pain and the dumb dishonour from the merciless hand of the Turk.\n\n    Choose ye! Will ye thread that pathway, prove false to the men ye love;\n    Prove false to the children ye bore them; prove false to the God above?\n    Will ye sell yourselves to the spoilers of father and mother and child,\n    Who butchered and then, like devils, at their cries for mercy smiled?\n    Do ye think of the thousands rotting, flung down in a ghastly heap\n    Unblessed; whose dust commingles in their last unhallowed sleep?\n    Do ye think of the blood, the sorrow, the wild, sky-rending cries,\n    As the scarce-born babe was mangled to feast their fiendish eyes?\n    Do you think of the brute defilement when, full in the flare of day,\n    Ye were robbed of your dear-prized honour, and made the Moslem\u2019s prey?\n    Will ye choose that path, O sisters? \u2019Tis a path ye have often trod;\n    Or throw yourselves on the mercy of the great, all-powerful God?\n\n    What though He is veiled in silence, and behind our clouds grown dim;\n    If He come not down to help us, then we will go to Him.\n    See! there is the other pathway, down, down to the home of Night.\n    Jump! long ere the body be broken, the soul will have taken flight.\n    He will give His charge to His angels: in their hands\n        they will bear thee up,\n    As ye tread the Saviour\u2019s pathway, and drink the Saviour\u2019s cup.\n    There,--lean on my breast, sweet infant, and good-bye to Earth and woe.\n    Now, sisters, the way lies open: I am weary and long to go!\u201d\n\n    They had fought: they had failed; and they followed\n        brave Schakhe, a martyr throng;--\n    And soft o\u2019er the corpse-strewn valley the winds sigh: \u201cLord, how long?\u201d\n\n\n\n\n       In the Giant\u2019s Ring, Belfast.\n\n\n    No Shakespeare girdle this, whose girth\n      Would compass with its arms\n    The sounding seas and snows of earth,\n      The fruitful fields and farms.[A]\n    Here priestly power has thrown around\n      A circuit wide and high,\n    A bar where waves of human sound\n      Beat vainly, drop, and die.\n\n    \u201cWho dreams of war in such a scene\n      Of undisturbed repose?\n    Who babbles here of spite and spleen?\n      Who rhymes of human woes?\n    Nought here is heard of mingling cries,\n      Of life\u2019s unlovely jars\n    Nought here is seen but yonder skies,\n      And circling suns and stars!\u201d\n\n    O wise in wisdom of the fool!\n      O warped in sight and soul!\n    O Arctic spirit, icy cool\n      As passions of the Pole!\n\n    Is \u2019t but a dream of babe or bard\n      That conjures grief and groans?\n    Or is thy shrunken heart more hard\n      Than those three standing stones?\n\n    I dreamed a dream when last I stood\n      Within their sombre shade:\n    Time took my hand full many a rood\n      Beyond the tides of trade,\n    Beyond the sacerdotal rite,\n      And soul-absorbing creeds,\n    Beyond the narrow skirts of sight\n      And despicable deeds.\n\n    I soared above the brimming Earth;\n      I peered beneath its breast;\n    I saw the founts of joy and mirth,\n      And seats of life\u2019s unrest.\n    But in the ocean of its thought\n      One current swelled and grew\n    And on to seas with blessing fraught\n      A thousand others drew.\n\n    \u2019Twas Love: and Time stood by, and said:\n      \u201cBehold! a thousand spires\n    Speak gilded words from hearts as dead\n      As those old Druid fires.\n\n    But love lives on and leavens all\n      In Earth\u2019s expanding range,\n    The height and depth, the rise and fall,\n      The first and last of Change.\n\n    \u201cKings pale and perish, dogmas die,\n      The world goes slowly on\n    To greet an all-unclouded sky,\n      To kiss a purer dawn.\n    Stript of the garb of mimic worth,\n      Freed from his brothers\u2019 ban\n    And circumscribing creeds, steps forth\n      A newer, nobler man.\n\n    \u201c\u2019Twas thus God\u2019s chosen race was bent\n      Beneath a tyrant yoke:\n    \u2019Twas thus the hated chains were rent,\n      The conqueror\u2019s sceptre broke.\n    Thus Babylon to Persia bowed,\n      Thus Persia bent to Greece,\n    Thus Greece gave place to Rome the proud,\n      The Goth broke Roman peace.\u201d\n\n    These mighty stones, this giant ring\n      Give token of a day\n    That died, as dies a dreamt-of thing,\n      And passed in dust away,\n    Save these, for you--dear heart--and me\n      To gaze on, muse, and rhyme:\n    \u201cTime conquers all, both bond and free,\n      But Love shall conquer Time!\u201d\n\n[Illustration: text decoration]\n\n\n\n\n        The Blind Father.\n\n\n        I.\n\n    So, my son, you came this morning at the blinking of the day,\n    \u201cKing, and heir for Uther,\u201d riding swiftly shoreward on the spray\n    That, within my face, comes blowing from a stranger sea and sky,--\n    Felt, not seen--upon whose margin here, a sightless Merlin, I\n    Stand, and turn my head and harken to the whisper of the wind\n    Borne from seaward on to leeward,--dark before and dark behind.\n\n\n        II.\n\n    And they say you\u2019re like your father?--How can I know, for I look\n    With a dead eye into darkness; yet I\u2019ve felt upon a book\n    Something tell me: \u201cIn His form and with His likeness made He man:\u201d\n    So you\u2019re like your father, and he looks like God--but, ah! the ban,\n    A Damocles-blade, keeps hanging, as o\u2019er ancient Adam\u2019s head,\n    O\u2019er last moment\u2019s latest Adam, just arisen from the dead.\n\n\n        III.\n\n    Ban! Who banned you? Is it God, or is it man suspends the knife?\n    God decreed you\u2019d toil for bread, but man decrees you\u2019ll die for life!\n\n\n        IV.\n\n    \u201cFrom the dead.\u201d--You like the phrase not, wife;\n        yet not from death he\u2019s come,\n    But from life, of all the ages past the product and the sum.\n    Thine and mine,--yet neither mine nor thine, but heir of every hour,\n    Drawing through thee from the world\u2019s breast,--we the\n        stem and he the flower.\n    Ours, and yet not ours; the acorn from its parent will be broke,\n    Drop to earth, from earth to heaven stretch the fingers of the oak.\n    Acorn--oak, and back to acorn, hedging all the hills of time,\n    On and on forever, housing birds of every wing and clime.\n    Thus we die,--and thus we die not; mortal, yet immortal we;\n    Closely clasping crumbling fingers round the hand of the To Be;\n    Flingling out along the ages tendrils that will grip, and twine\n    In a slow attenuation down the long posterior line.\n\n\n        V.\n\n    Thus the generations, marching to an universal strain,\n    Start, and stop; and in the starting from Da Capo sing again.\n\n\n        VI.\n\n    Ah! not ours: yet ours the moulding of a future near or far;\n    Ours to set a sun in heaven,--hurl in space a red-eyed star.--\n    For I\u2019m told, beyond my curtain there revolveth day and night,\n    And among the stars there standeth one that winketh red with fight;\n    And you say the glow that lights upon my cheek is from the sun\n    Guiding lightning-footed planets as they in their orbits run;\n    And I\u2019ve heard that all have sprung from atoms crowding God\u2019s abyss,--\n    Mars, the evil-eyed and warlike; Sol, the pivot-point of bliss.\n\n\n        VII.\n\n    Yes, a weakness, sprung from weakness, weaker waxes, and a strength\n    On from strength to strength goes marching, grasping\n        God\u2019s right hand at length;\n    For the mickle at the shoulder means the muckle at the hand,\n    And the hair\u2019s breadth on the compass means the ship upon the land.\n\n\n        VIII.\n\n    Aye, wife; now I know the reason why you sighed so since we wed:\n    You have seen the world hang on you. Don\u2019t you mind, dear, what you read\n    Out of Cowper?--where he speaks of how the arrow on the wing\n    Falls at last far out of line though small the error at the string.\n\n\n        IX.\n\n    There he\u2019s: take him! You can rhyme of chubby cheeks, and laughy eyes\n    That have housed far down within them little patches of the skies;\n    You can paint your glowing pictures, that a tear may wash away\n    When a future Vandal stumbles through your dream some after day.\n    Mine are coloured from th\u2019 eternal, set by Love in Fancy\u2019s mould,\n    Knowing nought of life\u2019s mutations, Summer\u2019s heat or Winter\u2019s cold.\n\n\n        X.\n\n    So you\u2019ve only come this morning, courier dove with pinions white?\n    What\u2019s the news from God, what message from the hidden heart of Night?\n\n[Illustration: text decoration]\n\n\n\n\n    Sundry Songs\n              and Sonnets.\n\n\n\n\n        The Southern Cross.\n\n\n    Afar from his wife and his sons and his daughters,\n      The fisherman grapples for gain or loss;\n    Beneath him the silent midnight waters;\n      Above him the blaze of the Southern Cross:\n    And ever his thoughts on the breeze hie homeward,\n      As he calls to the watcher again and again,--\n        \u201cO what of the night: is it dark or bright?\u201d\n      And ever there cometh the old refrain,--\n        \u201cThe skies are clearing, the dawn is nearing,\n          The midnight shadows fly.\n        The Cross is bending, the night is ending,\n          The day is drawing nigh.\u201d\n\n    Again, on the storm-swept winter waters,\n      He battles the billows that tumble and toss;\n    And he thinks of the weeping of wives and daughters,\n      As the clouds fly over the Southern Cross.\n    Ah, then in the hour of his heart\u2019s despairing,\n      When sheets are rending and cables strain,\n        How sweet to his ear come the words of cheer,\n      And the sound of the watcher\u2019s old refrain,--\n        \u201cThe skies are clearing, the dawn is nearing,\n          The midnight shadows fly.\n        The Cross is bending, the night is ending,\n          The day is drawing nigh.\u201d\n\n                . . . . . .\n\n    Far out, far out on Life\u2019s wild waters,\n      Where storms are howling, where breakers toss,\n    How many of earth\u2019s fair sons and daughters\n      Are drifting and dragging to gain or loss!\n    But ever the Stars of Hope are shining,\n      Through calm and tempest, through wind and rain;\n        And soft through the night, be it dark or bright,\n      The heart still echoes the old refrain,--\n        \u201cThe skies are clearing, the dawn is nearing,\n          The midnight shadows fly.\n        The Cross is bending, the night is ending.\n          The day is drawing nigh.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n        On the Death of William Morris.\n\n\n        I.\n\n    Mine eyes beheld thee--but not nigh: mine ear,\n      Close to thy page, could feel the beat, beat, beat,\n      That told thy great, good heart: now strangers\u2019 feet\n    Have borne thee out. Thee? Nay, I have thee here\n    Forever young; nor less that eye, so clear,\n      Beams brotherhood, nor can the years that fleet\n      Leave me more lonely. No hot tear--full meet\n    From widowed Friendship--drop I on thy bier.\n      Some earth-stained page mars oft fair Friendships\u2019s book;\n    And happier I, who saw thro\u2019 Fancy\u2019s light\n        Kin only of the sacred singing race,\n    Blameless of all that mars familiar sight!--\n      Then wherefore should I weep, who skyward look,\n        And mark a god move Godward to his place?\n\n\n        II.\n\n    Perfume of eld, more sweet than all the scent\n      Of late-blown roses squandered on the air,\n      Sweetens the tawny forest of thy hair,\n    And there shall dwell till all the years be spent.\n    To thee war\u2019s call with hint of song is blent,\n      And time sits easy on the brows of care;\n      Love lifts a white affirming hand to swear\n    Thee hero of thy heroes,--thou, who went\n          To the frore Past. Lo! in its eyes did dance\n      Reflection of a day within the wake\n    Of some unrisen, kindlier star; and thou\n    Didst cry: \u201cBehold, with goodlier days the Now\n      Is great, as forests wave in seeds to break,\n          And countless thousands pulse in Love\u2019s first glance!\u201d\n\n[Illustration: text decoration]\n\n\n\n\n        Copernicus.\n\n\n    They deemed, self-centred souls! that those great eyes\n      Which star the night, in amorous orbit turned\n      And, ever boldly bashful, sighed and burned\n    For one earth kiss, and stood within the skies\n    Eternally expectant. O most wise\n      In your great selves! that rude iconoclast\n      His stones of Truth among your dreamings cast,\n    And robbed your wisdom of its dear disguise.\n      He stood, a Sampson of Titanic force,\n        \u2019Twixt men and God, and swiftly grasped and hurled\n    His bolts at callow thoughts of centuries,\n      And pivoted th\u2019 unreckoned universe,\n        And marked the rhythmic orbit of a world,\n    And changed chaotic chords to harmonies!\n\n\n\n\n        To Algernon Charles Swinburne.\n\n     (To remind him that the Genius of Ireland, nigh twenty centuries\n     ago, taught the dull ears of the world the subtleties and charms of\n     the rhyme of which he is now acknowledged master.)\n\n\n    Moulder of mighty measures and sublime;\n      Whose flower of song--how dead soe\u2019er the ground--\n      Blossoms: whose feet, from no great depth profound,\n    By cloudy slopes to cloudier summits climb!\n    What though thou art, in this thy world-broad prime,\n      Great King of Song, sceptred and robed and crowned;\n      Be it not thine to scorn the narrow round\n    Whence broadened out the bounds of later time.\n    Not all the message of that far-off chime\n      The strident strains of this our day have drowned:\n    \u201cForget not, Singer, whence hath sprung thy rhyme,\n      Or whence thy tongue its lofty power hath found;\n    Nor squander all thy store in mocking mime,\n      Niggard of sense and prodigal of sound.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n        Heaven and Earth.\n\n_In the beginning the Heaven and the Earth were wedded together, and\nthen was the golden age of joy and beauty. But something occurred which\ndestroyed the union, and the Heaven and the Earth were parted amid the\ntears of Nature, which men call the dew._--LEGEND OF SOUTH SEA ISLANDS.\n\n\n    Truth in untruth; wisdom on Folly\u2019s tongue,\n      And substance in a shadow!--Hear ye this:\n      Erewhile, \u2019mid transports of primeval bliss,\n    In starry ears a bridal song was sung,\n    And Heav\u2019n and Earth, in mutual rapture, strung\n      Ethereal harps, and took one reeling kiss,\n      \u2019Till, seated with much joy, Earth grew remiss:\n    But, love was rife, and, ah! the Earth was young.\n\n    O trembling tears of dawn in Nature\u2019s eyes!\n      Forget your sadness. Lo! methinks the hour\n        When recreant Love turns loveward, thrills the dome;\n      Earth lifts mute praying hands in tree and flower,\n    And Heav\u2019n, in all the windows of the skies,\n        Hangs nightly lamps to light the wand\u2019rer home!\n\n\n\n\n        On Some Twentieth Century forecasts.\n\n\n    O imperturable and silent years,\n      That reck not all the riot of our time\n      Whose fevered feet, with inharmonious rhyme,\n    Royster around thy high phantasmal tiers!\n    How mean our mockings of the silent seers\n      To read the riddle of th\u2019 Eternal Soul!\n      We list\u2019 the thundering life within thy bole,\n    And count the hidden harvest that anears,\n      And dream our dreams, and smile to see them wrecked!\n    Oh, vain insurgence on the unrevealed:\n      Enough to map the paths our fathers tracked\n    Not, mother-like, kiss yet the face concealed.\n      Age ages not the elemental law,\n    And we are thou in hope, thou we anew,\n    And still beneath are depths whence Shakspere drew,\n      And still above are stars that Milton saw!\n\n\n\n\n        Ireland.\n\n\n    Somewhat of Autumn\u2019s splendour round her lies;\n      Yet deem not thou \u2019tis preface of her death,\n      For there is that within her heart which saith\n    This word that buds and blossoms in her eyes:--\n    \u201cReck not the portent of the season\u2019s skies,\n      Nor deem yon darkling clouds aught but a breath\n      Sundrawn from half a world that offereth\n    Its votive incense to the year that flies.\u201d\n      The hand that bevels down the shortening day\n    Is one with that which quickens leaf and wing,\n      So prophecy of pregnance in decay\n    Thou hast, and in thine Autumn germs of Spring;\n    To vindicate these lips, that late have said:\n    \u201cThey dreamed a lie who deemed thee wholly dead!\u201d\n\n[Illustration: THE LITTLE LIBRARY.\n\nTHE FOLLOWING VOLUMES WILL APPEAR IN DUE COURSE:--\n\n1.\n\nThe King\u2019s Oak and Other Stories,\n\nBy ROBERT CROMIE,\n\nAuthor of \u201cThe Crack of Doom,\u201d \u201cA Plunge into Space,\u201d &c.\n\nThese Stories are amongst the best things from the pen of this brilliant\nand popular Irish Author.\n\n\n2.\n\n[_Immediately._\n\nSOCIALISM: ITS STRUCTURAL STUPIDITIES,\n\nBy IGNOTUS.\n\nA pungent criticism and confutation of Fabian fallacies.\n\n\n3.\n\nThe Eve of the World\u2019s Tragedy;\n\nOR, THE THOUGHTS OF A WORM,\n\nBy LOUIS H. VICTORY,\n\nAuthor of \u201cLady Rosalind,\u201d \u201cCollected Verses,\u201d \u201cPoems,\u201d \u201cThe Higher\nTeaching of Shakespeare,\u201d &c., &c.\n\n\n4.\n\nA VOLUME OF POEMS\n\nBy the world-renowned\n\nSAMUEL K. COWAN, M.A., T.C.D.,\n\nAuthor of \u201cPoems,\u201d \u201cRoses and Rue,\u201d \u201cIdylls of Ireland,\u201d \u201cPlay,\u201d \u201cLaurel\nLeaves,\u201d &c., &c.\n\n\n5.\n\nA BOOK OF PROSE\n\nBy one of the greatest Irish Writers of his time,\n\nW. B. YEATS,\n\nAuthor of \u201cThe Countess Kathleen,\u201d \u201cCeltic Twilight,\u201d \u201cThe Secret Rose,\u201d\n&c., &c.\n\n\nOTHERS TO FOLLOW.]\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[Footnote A:\n\n...Put a Girdle round the earth\n      In forty minutes.\n]","title":"The legend of the blemished king, and other poems","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":10325}