The Penguin Book of Irish Poetry Page 12

  VII

  And we came to the Isle of Fire: we were lured by the light from afar,

  For the peak sent up one league of fire to the Northern Star;

  Lured by the glare and the blare, but scarcely could stand upright,

  For the whole isle shudder’d and shook like a man in a mortal affright;

  We were giddy besides with the fruits we had gorged, and so crazed that at last

  There were some leap’d into the fire; and away we sail’d, and we past

  Over that undersea isle, where the water is clearer than air:

  Down we look’d: what a garden! O bliss, what a Paradise there!

  Towers of a happier time, low down in a rainbow deep

  Silent palaces, quiet fields of eternal sleep!

  And three of the gentlest and best of my people, whate’er I could say,

  Plunged head down in the sea, and the Paradise trembled away.

  VIII

  And we came to the Bounteous Isle, where the heavens lean low on the land,

  And ever at dawn from the cloud glitter’d o’er us a sunbright hand,

  Then it open’d and dropt at the side of each man, as he rose from his rest,

  Bread enough for his need till the labourless day dipt under the West;

  And we wander’d about it and thro’ it. O never was time so good!

  And we sang of the triumphs of Finn, and the boast of our ancient blood,

  And we gazed at the wandering wave as we sat by the gurgle of springs,

  And we chanted the songs of the Bards and the glories of fairy kings;

  But at length we began to be weary, to sigh, and to stretch and yawn,

  Till we hated the Bounteous Isle and the sunbright hand of the dawn,

  For there was not an enemy near, but the whole green Isle was our own,

  And we took to playing at ball, and we took to throwing the stone,

  And we took to playing at battle, but that was a perilous play,

  For the passion of battle was in us, we slew and we sail’d away.

  IX

  And we past to the Isle of Witches and heard their musical cry –

  ‘Come to us, O come, come’ in the stormy red of a sky

  Dashing the fires and the shadows of dawn on the beautiful shapes,

  For a wild witch naked as heaven stood on each of the loftiest capes,

  And a hundred ranged on the rock like white seabirds in a row,

  And a hundred gamboll’d and pranced on the wrecks in the sand below,

  And a hundred splash’d from the ledges, and bosom’d the burst of the spray,

  But I knew we should fall on each other, and hastily sail’d away.

  X

  And we came in an evil time to the Isle of the Double Towers,

  One was of smooth-cut stone, one carved all over with flowers,

  But an earthquake always moved in the hollows under the dells,

  And they shock’d on each other and butted each other with clashing of bells,

  And the daws flew out of the Towers and jangled and wrangled in vain,

  And the clash and boom of the bells rang into the heart and the brain,

  Till the passion of battle was on us, and all took sides with the Towers,

  There were some for the clean-cut stone, there were more for the carven flowers,

  And the wrathful thunder of God peal’d over us all the day,

  For the one half slew the other, and after we sail’d away.

  XI

  And we came to the Isle of a Saint who had sail’d with St Brendan of yore,

  He had lived ever since on the Isle and his winters were fifteen score,

  And his voice was low as from other worlds, and his eyes were sweet,

  And his white hair sank to his heels and his white beard fell to his feet,

  And he spake to me, ‘O Maeldune, let be this purpose of thine!

  Remember the words of the Lord when he told us “Vengeance is mine!”

  His fathers have slain thy fathers in war or in single strife,

  Thy fathers have slain his fathers, each taken a life for a life,

  Thy father had slain his father, how long shall the murder last?

  Go back to the Isle of Finn and suffer the Past to be Past.’

  And we kiss’d the fringe of his beard and we pray’d as we heard him pray,

  And the Holy man he assoil’d us, and sadly we sail’d away.

  XII

  And we came to the Isle we were blown from, and there on the shore was he,

  The man that had slain my father. I saw him and let him be.

  O weary was I of the travel, the trouble, the strife and the sin,

  When I landed again, with a tithe of my men, on the Isle of Finn.

  Alfred Tennyson

  from The Vision of Mac Conglinne

  A vision that appeared to me,

  An apparition wonderful

  I tell to all:

  There was a coracle all of lard

  Within a port of New-milk Lake

  Upon the world’s smooth sea.

  We went into that man-of-war,

  ’Twas warrior-like to take the road

  O’er ocean’s heaving waves.

  Our oar-strokes then we pulled

  Across the level of the main,

  Throwing the sea’s harvest up

  Like honey, the sea-soil.

  The fort we reached was beautiful,

  With works of custards thick,

  Beyond the lake.

  Fresh butter was the bridge in front,

  The rubble dyke was fair white wheat,

  Bacon the palisade.

  Stately, pleasantly it sat,

  A compact house and strong.

  Then I went in:

  The door of it was hung beef,

  The threshold was dry bread,

  Cheese-curds the walls.

  Smooth pillars of old cheese

  And sappy bacon props

  Alternate ranged;

  Stately beams of mellow cream,

  White posts of real curds

  Kept up the house.

  Behind it was a well of wine,

  Beer and bragget in streams,

  Each full pool to the taste.

  Malt in smooth wavy sea

  Over a lard-spring’s brink

  Flowed through the floor.

  A lake of juicy pottage

  Under a cream of oozy lard

  Lay ’twixt it and the sea.

  Hedges of butter fenced it round,

  Under a crest of white-mantled lard

  Around the wall outside.

  A row of fragrant apple-trees,

  An orchard in its pink-tipped bloom,

  Between it and the hill.

  A forest tall of real leeks,

  Of onions and of carrots, stood

  Behind the house.

  Within, a household generous,

  A welcome of red, firm-fed men,

  Around the fire:

  Seven bead-strings and necklets seven

  Of cheeses and of bits of tripe

  Round each man’s neck.

  The Chief in cloak of beefy fat

  Beside his noble wife and fair

  I then beheld.

  Below the lofty caldron’s spit

  Then the Dispenser I beheld,

  His fleshfork on his back.

  Wheatlet son of Milklet,

  Son of juicy Bacon,

  Is mine own name.

  Honeyed Butter-roll

  Is the man’s name

  That bears my bag.

  Haunch of Mutton

  Is my dog’s name,

  Of lovely leaps.

  Lard, my wife,

  Sweetly smiles

  Across the brose.

  Cheese-curds, my daughter,

  Goes round the spit,

  Fair is her fame.

  Corned Beef is my son,

  Who beams over a cloak,<
br />
  Enormous, of fat.

  Savour of Savours

  Is the name of my wife’s maid:

  Morning-early

  Across New-milk Lake she went.

  Beef-lard, my steed,

  An excellent stallion

  That increases studs;

  A guard against toil

  Is the saddle of cheese

  Upon his back.

  A large necklace of delicious cheese-curds

  Around his back;

  His halter and his traces all

  Of fresh butter.

  Kuno Meyer

  Ireland’s Women, and Her Men

  ANONYMOUS

  Créide’s Lament for Dínerteach

  These spears that pierce the night

  with jags of poisoned light

  are cast by the memory

  of him from near Royny.

  Wild love for that great stranger,

  that scorner of all danger,

  shrivels heart in breast

  and robs each night of rest.

  Hosannas lifted to our Lord

  are not as fine as his kind word;

  no fabled warrior ever

  matched in grace my slender lover.

  Once, a child, I was pure:

  chastity does not endure;

  an adult now, passion’s slave

  I grieve and rave.

  Here in Aidne’s pleasant land

  all voices in one sorrow blend

  for on Guaire’s bloody plain

  our hero Dínerteach is slain.

  O Christ most chaste, that early death

  lays me helpless out beneath

  these spears that pierce the night

  with jags of poisoned light.

  PC

  The Lament of Baoi, the Nun of Beare Island

  Ebbing always, unlike the sea

  Whose ebb will flood tomorrow,

  My life, with no tide’s turn,

  Runs down the strand in sorrow.

  I am Baoi, the Nun of Beare;

  The plushest gowns I used to wear

  Who now am wizened, chaste and thin

  – Threadbare habit, mottled skin.

  When we lived

  It was people we loved

  But people today

  Care for riches only.

  The women and men of these plains

  Were a fabled, noble race

  Who treated us with courtesy:

  Their graces matched our grace.

  Much talk today of demanding one’s due,

  No time for old hospitality;

  No talk today of paying one’s debts,

  Much time for boasting of charity.

  Swift coursers then, swift war cars

  Winning every prize;

  Swifter still the years

  Racing past these eyes.

  My bitter, dried-up body

  Plods towards its last abode –

  Called in by the Son of God,

  All debts must be repaid.

  To think these arms of mine

  Now bony and thin

  Were draped sumptuously

  Round the shoulders of kings!

  To think of these arms of mine

  So bony and thin

  Raised in love’s service

  Over handsome young men!

  When girl-blood stirs for the Maytide

  My blood thickens with cold;

  Sad though it is to be sapless

  It is far sadder to be old.

  Sweet honey-breath long since soured

  (The wedding lamb escaped the kill!)

  Hair lank now and grey and sparse,

  My head hangs ready for the veil.

  It is no shame to want to hide

  Such a head in the white of a veil;

  The colours that bedecked that head

  The years I sat down to the ale!

  To all the old I bear good will

  Except wide-pastured Feven

  Whose mane though as old as mine

  Is sunbright still and golden.

  Feven’s Stone of the Kings has been battered

  By winter’s storms time out of mind

  But like the Fort of Ronan’s in Bregon

  Its face is youthful, still unlined.

  How great the turmoil of the sea

  Stirred up by winter’s whips of spray!

  Neither nobleman nor bondsman’s son

  Will cross the strait to me today.

  For I know their inclination:

  If they row, they row away.

  Deeply men sleep among the reeds of Alma

  Where water is colder than coldest clay.

  Across the wide surface of the sea

  Of youth and folly I sail no longer;

  The years of beauty I wasted,

  The years of my ugliness linger.

  And the cold lingers also,

  No matter how sultry the weather

  I still crave a shawl for my shoulders:

  Old age and cold go together.

  How swiftly the high summer of youth

  To sad autumn descended!

  But the winter that now grips my heart

  Is a season without ending.

  I squandered my youth, yet

  – Had I been sober and staid –

  Would the cloak of my life not likewise

  Have ended up tattered, frayed?

  The cloak of my King, though, is seamless

  And its green drapes every hill;

  The worker who plumps out such cloth

  Is the master who never is idle.

  But I am a useless poor wretch,

  A queen shrivelled, a drone;

  After candles and bright laughter at table

  The dark oratory here on my own!

  Golden mead and rarest red wine

  Were our toasts when I feasted with kings;

  These nights I feed in a circle of hags

  With watery whey for our pledgings.

  If I could quaff the whey like ale,

  Calling all that pains me the will of God,

  I would beseech Him night and day

  To quell the anguish in my blood.

  This cloak of age wrapped loose about me

  Is greying, flaccid, stranger’s skin:

  Thus an ancient tree prepares for dying,

  Its bark all blotched with moss and lichen.

  My once sparkling right eye has been taken

  As deposit on a small stretch of land

  And my left one too has been borrowed

  To secure that same patch of ground.

  Three floods threaten the fort at Ardree:

  A floodhost of men darkening the plain,

  A floodherd of horses with hooves thundering,

  A floodpack of dogs running, baying.

  Flood’s wave fills to fullness,

  Ebb’s drain empties all;

  What the rising tide gives you

  It takes in its fall.

  (Tide’s giving

  Then taking

  Has been

  my Unmaking.)

  Flood’s wave:

  Silence of the flooded cellar

  Where all who ever visited me

  Lie silent under water.

  How soundly beneath my roof

  Sleeps great Mary’s Son!

  (I have kept my house always

  Open to everyone.)

  I pity that creature,

  The most wretched of all,

  Who watches tide’s rising

  But misses its fall.

  Blessed is the island offshore

  That waits for the turn of the tide;

  Cursed is the lonely old woman

  Whose ebbing will abide.

  No face, no house, no feature

  She remembers from the past;

  Gone is the great flood tide:

  Ebb is all at last.

  PC

  Liadan

  Gain without
gladness

  Is in the bargain I have struck;

  One that I loved I wrought to madness.

  Mad beyond measure

  But for God’s fear that numbed her heart

  She that would not do his pleasure.

  Was it so great

  My treason? Was I not always kind?

  Why should it turn his love to hate?

  Liadan,

  That is my name, and Curithir

  The man I loved; you know my sin.

  Alas too fleet!

  Too brief my pleasure at his side;

  With him the passionate hours were sweet.

  Woods woke

  About us for a lullaby,

  And the blue waves in music spoke.

  And now too late

  More than for all my sins I grieve

  That I turned his love to hate.

  Why should I hide

  That he is still my heart’s desire

  More than all the world beside?

  A furnace blast

  Of love has melted down my heart,

  Without his love it cannot last.

  Frank O’Connor

  The Wooing of Etain

  Fair lady, will you travel

  To the marvellous land of stars?

  Pale as snow the body there,

  Under a primrose crown of hair.

  No one speaks of property

  In that glittering community:

  White teeth shining, eyebrows black,

  The foxglove hue on every cheek.

  The landscape bright and speckled

  As a wild bird’s eggs –

  However fair Ireland’s Plain,

  It is sad after the Great Plain!

  Warm, sweet streams water the earth,

  And after the choicest of wine and mead,

  Those fine and flawless people

  Without sin, without guilt, couple.

  We can see everyone

  Without being seen ourselves:

  It is the cloud of Adam’s transgression

  Conceals us from mortal reckoning.

  O woman if you join my strong clan,

  Your head will hold a golden crown.

  Fresh killed pork, new milk and beer,

  We shall share, O Lady Fair!

  John Montague

  Advice to Lovers

  The way to get on with a girl

  Is to drift like a man in a mist,

  Happy enough to be caught,

  Happy to be dismissed.

  Glad to be out of her way,

  Glad to rejoin her in bed,

  Equally grieved or gay

  To learn that she’s living or dead.