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THE WANDERINGS OF OISIN

       Table of Contents

      S. PATRIC.

      You who are bent, and bald, and blind,

      With a heavy heart and a wandering mind,

      Have known three centuries, poets sing,

      Of dalliance with a demon thing.

      OISIN.

      Sad to remember, sick with years,

      The swift innumerable spears,

      The horsemen with their floating hair,

      And bowls of barley, honey, and wine,

      And feet of maidens dancing in tune,

      And the white body that lay by mine;

      But the tale, though words be lighter than air,

      Must live to be old like the wandering moon.

      Caolte, and Conan, and Finn were there,

      When we followed a deer with our baying hounds,

      With Bran, Sgeolan, and Lomair,

      And passing the Firbolgs’ burial mounds,

      Came to the cairn-heaped grassy hill

      Where passionate Maeve is stony still;

      And found on the dove-gray edge of the sea

      A pearl-pale, high-born lady, who rode

      On a horse with bridle of findrinny;

      And like a sunset were her lips,

      A stormy sunset on doomed ships;

      A citron colour gloomed in her hair,

      But down to her feet white vesture flowed,

      And with the glimmering crimson glowed

      Of many a figured embroidery;

      And it was bound with a pearl-pale shell

      That wavered like the summer streams,

      As her soft bosom rose and fell.

      S. PATRIC.

      You are still wrecked among heathen dreams.

      OISIN.

      ‘Why do you wind no horn?’ she said.

      ‘And every hero droop his head?

      The hornless deer is not more sad

      That many a peaceful moment had,

      More sleek than any granary mouse,

      In his own leafy forest house

      Among the waving fields of fern:

      The hunting of heroes should be glad.’

      ‘O pleasant maiden,’ answered Finn,

      ‘We think on Oscar’s pencilled urn,

      And on the heroes lying slain,

      On Gavra’s raven-covered plain;

      But where are your noble kith and kin,

      And into what country do you ride?’

      ‘My father and my mother are

      Aengus and Edain, and my name

      Is Niamh, and my land where tide

      And sleep drown sun and moon and star.’

      ‘What dream came with you that you came

      To this dim shore on foam-wet feet?

      Did your companion wander away

      From where the birds of Aengus wing?’

      She said, with laughter tender and sweet:

      ‘I have not yet, war-weary king,

      Been spoken of with any one;

      For love of Oisin foam-wet feet

      Have borne me where the tempests blind

      Your mortal shores till time is done!’

      ‘How comes it, princess, that your mind

      Among undying people has run

      On this young man, Oisin, my son?’

      ‘I loved no man, though kings besought

      And many a man of lofty name,

      Until the Danaan poets came,

      Bringing me honeyed, wandering thought

      Of noble Oisin and his fame,

      Of battles broken by his hands,

      Of stories builded by his words

      That are like coloured Asian birds

      At evening in their rainless lands.’

      O Patric, by your brazen bell,

      There was no limb of mine but fell

      Into a desperate gulph of love!

      ‘You only will I wed,’ I cried,

      ‘And I will make a thousand songs,

      And set your name all names above,

      And captives bound with leathern thongs

      Shall kneel and praise you, one by one,

      At evening in my western dun.’

      ‘O Oisin, mount by me and ride

      To shores by the wash of the tremulous tide,

      Where men have heaped no burial mounds,

      And the days pass by like a wayward tune,

      Where broken faith has never been known,

      And the blushes of first love never have flown;

      And there I will give you a hundred hounds;

      No mightier creatures bay at the moon;

      And a hundred robes of murmuring silk,

      And a hundred calves and a hundred sheep

      Whose long wool whiter than sea froth flows,

      And a hundred spears and a hundred bows,

      And oil and wine and honey and milk,

      And always never-anxious sleep;

      While a hundred youths, mighty of limb,

      But knowing nor tumult nor hate nor strife,

      And a hundred maidens, merry as birds,

      Who when they dance to a fitful measure

      Have a speed like the speed of the salmon herds,

      Shall follow your horn and obey your whim,

      And you shall know the Danaan leisure:

      And Niamh be with you for a wife.’

      Then she sighed gently, ‘It grows late,

      Music and love and sleep await,

      Where I would be when the white moon climbs,

      The red sun falls, and the world grows dim.’

      And