woman’s loved me, no man sought my help. Fergus

A king is but a foolish labourer
Who wastes his blood to be another’s dream.

Druid

Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams;
Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.

Fergus

I see my life go dripping like a river
From change to change; I have been many things,
A green drop in the surge, a gleam of light
Upon a sword, a fir-tree on a hill,
An old slave grinding at a heavy quern,
A king sitting upon a chair of gold,
And all these things were wonderful and great;
But now I have grown nothing, knowing all,
And the whole world weighs down upon my heart:
Ah! Druid, Druid, how great webs of sorrow
Lay hidden in the small slate-coloured thing?

Cuchulain’s Fight with the Sea

A man came slowly from the setting sun,
To Emer, raddling raiment in her dun,
And said, “I am that swineherd, whom you bid
Go watch the road between the wood and tide,
But now I have no need to watch it more.”

Then Emer cast the web upon the floor,
And raising arms all raddled with the dye;
Parted her lips with a loud sudden cry.

That swineherd stared upon her face and said:
“No man alive, no man among the dead,
Has won the gold his cars of battle bring.”

“But if your master comes home triumphing
Why are you pale and shake from foot to crown?”

Thereon he shook the more and cast him down
Upon the web-heaped floor, and cried his word:
“With him is one sweet-throated like a bird.”

“You dare me to my face,” and thereupon
She smote with raddled fist, and where her son
Herded the cattle came with stumbling feet,
And cried with angry voice, “It is not meet
To idle life away, a common herd.”

“I have long waited, mother, for that word:
But wherefore now?”

“There is a man to die;
You have the heaviest arm under the sky.”

“Whether under its daylight or the stars
My father stands amid his battle cars.”

“But you have grown to be the taller man.”

“Yet somewhere under starlight or the sun
My father stands amid his battle cars.”

“But he is old and sad with many wars.”

“I only ask what way my journey lies.
For He who made you bitter, made you wise.”

“The Red Branch camp in a great company
Between wood’s rim and the horses of the sea.
Go there, and light a camp fire at wood’s rim;
But tell your name and lineage to him
Whose blade compels, and wait till they have found
Some feating man that the same oath has bound.”

Among those feasting kings Cuchulain dwelt,
And his young sweetheart close beside him knelt,
Stared on the mournful wonder of his eyes,
Even as Spring upon the ancient skies,
And pondered on the glory of his days;
And all around the harp-string told his praise,
And Conchubar, the Red Branch king of kings,
With his own fingers touched the brazen strings.

At last Cuchulain spake, “Some man has made
His evening fire amid the leafy shade.
I have often heard him singing to and fro,
I have often heard the sweet sound of his bow,
Seek out what man he is.”

One went and came.
“He bade me let all know he gives his name
At the sword point, and waits till we have found
Some feating man that the same oath has bound.”

Cuchulain cried, “I am the only man
Of all this host so bound from childhood on.”

After short fighting in the leafy shade,
He spake to the young man, “Is there no maid
Who loves you, no white arms to wrap you round,
Or do you long for the dim sleepy ground,
That you have come and dared me to my face?”

“The dooms of men are in God’s hidden place.”

“Your head a while seemed like a woman’s head
That I loved once.”

Again the fighting sped,
But now the war rage in Cuchulain woke,
And through that new blade’s guard the old blade broke,
And pierced him.

“Speak before your breath is done.”

“Cuchulain I, mighty Cuchulain’s son.”

“I put you from your pain. I can no more.”

While day its burden on to evening bore,
With head bowed on his knees Cuchulain stayed;
Then Conchubar sent that sweet-throated maid,
And she, to win him, his grey hair caressed;
In vain her arms, in vain her soft white breast.
Then Conchubar, the subtlest of all men,
Ranking his Druids round him ten by ten,
Spake thus, “Cuchulain will dwell there and brood,
For three days more in dreadful quietude,
And then arise, and raving slay us all.
Chaunt in his ear delusions magical,
That he may fight the horses of the sea.”
The Druids took them to their mystery,
And chanted for three days.

Cuchulain stirred,
Stared on the horses of the sea, and heard
The cars of battle and his own name cried;
And fought with the invulnerable tide.

The Rose of the World

Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?
For these red lips, with all their mournful pride,
Mournful that no new wonder may betide,
Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam,
And Usna’s children died.

We and the labouring world are passing by:
Amid men’s souls, that waver and give place,
Like the pale waters in their wintry race,
Under the passing stars, foam of the sky,
Lives on this lonely face.

Bow down, archangels, in your dim abode:
Before you were, or any hearts to beat,
Weary and kind one lingered by His seat;
He made the world to be a grassy road
Before her wandering feet.

The Rose of Peace

If Michael, leader of God’s host
When Heaven and Hell are met,
Looked down on you from Heaven’s door-post
He would his deeds forget.

Brooding no more upon God’s wars
In his Divine homestead,
He would go weave out of the stars
A chaplet for your head.

And all folk seeing him bow down,
And white stars tell your praise,
Would come at last to God’s great town,
Led on by gentle ways;

And God would bid His warfare cease,
Saying all things were well;
And softly make a rosy peace,
A peace of Heaven with Hell.

The Rose of Battle

Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World!
The tall thought-woven sails, that flap unfurled
Above the tide of hours, trouble the air,
And God’s bell buoyed to be the water’s care;
While hushed from fear, or loud with hope, a band
With blown, spray-dabbled hair gather at hand.
Turn if you may from battles never done,
I call, as they go

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