Part 1

DEIRDRE WED

AND OTHER POEMS

WILT THOU ADVENTURE ON THE GULFS OF MORNING? COME, THEN, AND SUFFER THESE SELF-MUTTERING CITIES THAT HAVE LOST HORIZONS TO SINK BEHIND THE MOUNTAINS AND THE TREES.

DEIRDRE WED AND OTHER POEMS

BY

HERBERT TRENCH

[Illustration: [Logo]]

METHUEN & CO. 36 ESSEX STREET, STRAND LONDON 1901

_Copyrighted in the United States of America_

CONTENTS

DEIRDRE WED— PAGE 1. _The Chanters_ 3 2. _Fintan_ 5 3. _Cir_ 16 4. _Urmael_ 31 5. _Fintan_ 53 Ode on a Silver Birch 59 A Charge 64 Song for the Funeral of a Boy 66 Come, let us make love deathless 69 Claviers at Night 70 The Man Digging 75 Schiehallion 76 The Shell 78 The Rock of Cloud 79 She comes not when Noon is on the roses 85 The Night 86 Maurya’s Song 88 Tired with the day’s monotony 90 You were stay’d in heart on heaven 91 The Bloom 92 In the Roman Amphitheatre, Verona 94 A Winter Song 95 The Nutter 97 Shakespeare 101

Notes 104

DEIRDRE WED

I THE CHANTERS

I _I stood on the Hill of Time when the sun was fled And my vision sought where to rest, till it knew the plains Of my country, the Night’s harp, and the moonless bed Of rivers and bristling forests and sea-board chains._

II

_And from many a chanter’s mound—none is nameless there— Could I hear, amid rumour eternal, the voice ascend: With the bones of man endureth his floating hair And the song of his spirit on earth is slow to end._

III

_Speak to me, speak to me, Fintan, dark in the south, From the west Urmael, and Cir, lying under the pole, Some chant that ye made, who never spake mouth to mouth, But over the ridge of ages from soul to soul._

IV

_And a strain came out of Dun Tulcha, the yews’ shores, From Fintan, the elder than yews, the too old for tears, “Let us tell him of Deirdre wed, that his heart’s doors Resound, as when kings arrive, with the trees of spears.”_

II VOICE OF FINTAN _out of the First Century_,

O Sightless and rare-singing brotherhood! It was the night of marriage. Word had sped, Tokens gone out to every rath and ring And every pasture on the woody knolls Green about Eman, of the slaughter blithe Of sheep and boar, of badger and of stag, Reddening the ways up to the kingly house— Of sheep and goats and of the stintless food That should be poured out to his beggary By Connachar, that all time should remember The night he wed the girl from the elf-mound. Yonside of Assaroe the swineherd found her Bred in a peaty hillock of the west By some old crone. Though tribeless she and wild— Barefoot, and in the red wool chasing cattle— Connachar saw and took, biding his time, And let queens give her skill the winter long In webs and brews and dyes and broideries Up to this night of marriage.

Fabulous, O friends, and dark, and mighty, was his house, The beam-work in its dome of forest trunks— They that had been the chantries of the dawn To blacken songless through a thousand years:— But never since they sway’d buds in the glens Or spun the silken-floating violet gleam Had those spars groan’d above so fierce a breath Rich with the vapour of the boar. For now Hundreds with ruddy-glistening faces ran Jostling round the nine shadows of the blaze And spread with skins the lengthy beds of men And soused warm spice of herbs in ale. Here—thither— Was rousing of age-slumber’d horns, arranging Smooth banks throughout the house, strawing of rushes, And cauldrons humm’d before the empty throne Set high in the shadow of the wall, and bubbled Inaudible, impatient for the king.

But while outside the black roof on the mount Outwafted was the gold divinity On swooning wings, the Lake of Pearls far down Curdled beneath the unseen seed of rain. Ramparts run there that misty prisoners Bore once in bags of slime up from the lake For barriers of the house they most abhorr’d. And on the hill-side, where that rampart old Dips lowest to the lakeward, Deirdre stood, Hearing from distant ridges the faint bleat Of lambs perturb the dusk—bleats shivering out Like wool from thorns—there the young Deirdre stood, Even she whose climbing beauty pales the world, Looking far off on hills whence she was come. Mountains that lift the holiness of Fire! Fortitudes, ye that take the brunt of fate! Send her across the bog a little cloud Full of the ancient savours, full of peace, And for its drops she will hold up her heart, O ye that stand in heaven, far removed! She ask’d aloud, Wherefore were greens so bare That but an hour ago shook with the thud Of racers and of hurlers? Was it late? The wrinkled nurse replied, Had the child eyes? Back from a hosting and a desperate prey For corn and mares and rustless brass and beeves Naois, with the rest of Usnach’s sons, Had come. She had seen him weary go but now Heavily up the steep through the king’s hedge. Now on the hill-top while the woman spoke So chanced it. Hanging on the young man’s lips The hosts sway’d round him, and above the press Connachar, glittering all in torques of gold And writhen armlets, listen’d from the mound Of judgment, by the doom-oak at his door. His beak’d helm took the sunset, but he held His flint-red eyes in shadow and averse. And when before him, dark as a young pine, Unmoved the son of Usnach had told all; How half his folk had perish’d in the task By plague or battle, and how poor a spoil Was driven home, the king cried, Paragon! We must go griddle cakes in honey for him, Bring lavers of pale gold to wash off blood So precious to us; since for many moons This champion had forsworn the face of softness And stretch’d his hungers to the sleety rock, Call in the smile of women to unlatch From his grim ribs the iron:—Faugh! Away! Let Usnach’s sons take out again that night Their broken clans, their piteous cattle thence; Defeated men should see his gates no more.

The son of Usnach turn’d and went. He ran Down hill and to the loch to wash his wounds Chanting—his dark curls waver’d in the wind— Chanting he strode, tossing a brace of spears, Lest we should think him humbled. Half-way down The shapes of women loiter’d in the dusk And one held backward out her arms to take The latchets of a cloak. But as Naois Pass’d by them, closely as is heard a sigh— His vehement flood of soul fierce for the mere— Glancing not right nor left, O then I saw The foot of Deirdre stricken motionless— I saw the stiff cloak many-colour’d sink Slow to the grass, wrinkling its blazon’d skins Behind her.

Gloom suck’d in the banqueters; And from the warmth of drinking at his feast Connachar sent forth to the women’s house; And heralds bade bring also the gray seer Cathva, though Cathva had not will’d to come. But hardly had those erranders gone out When rose the door-hide: the gray seer came in Noiseless. He was of fog the night hath spun, Earth in his hair and on his meagre cheek, Consumed and shaking, ragged as seaweed, And to the throne he cried: “Why hast thou called Me to carousal? Is this bed my work? Nay—too great clearness underneath the thunder Shew’d insupportably the things to be. Too long have I, with glamours, drops and runes, Shook round her cabin low my skirts of storm To shield thee from that devastating face. My fault is only that I slew her not. Know! it was I that, seeing those cradled limbs Bright with disaster for the realm and thee, Flung her away among sea-warding mountains. But Muilréa to Ben Gorm said: _What is this? What glee is this disturbs our desolation? I hear another than the wild duck sheering Sidelong the wind. Tall as a rush is she, Sweet as the glitter of the netted lakes!_ And Ben Gorm answer’d: _We are sick alone: Let us distil the heavens into a child: Yea, let our bones appear, the black goat starve Upon our heads, yet shall this wafted seed Superabound with ripeness we forego. Dark space shall come to heart—silver of mists— And thou, blue depth of gorges!_ Connachar, I heard the plotters, but I let her live.” And the king ask’d: “Hath any seen her there?” And Cathva answer’d, “Till thy servant found her She knew not that men were.” Then Connachar Commanded yet again: “Bring us in Deirdre.” Straightway a woman like the claw of birds, Decrepit, bright of eye, and innocent, Stood up beyond the fire. Her fingers play’d— Play’d with a red stone at her breast. He ask’d “Who gave thee, hag, the jewel of thy bosom?” Now every drinker from the darkest stalls Perceived the brooch was Deirdre’s, and a gift To her from Connachar. Aghast, the woman Fumbled at her sere breast, and wept and said: “It was a gift to me, O Connachar, This night.” And he, consummate lord of fear, Our never-counsell’d lord, the Forest-odour’d, That kept about his heart a zone of chill, Smiled, though within the gateway of his fort A surmise crept, as ’neath a load of rushes Creeps in the stabber. “Fix the pin, Levarcham, For she that loses such a brooch will grieve. Why comes not Deirdre?” “Sir, she is not yet Duly array’d, and so is loth to come.” O, then, believe me, all the floor was hush, But a mad discordancy like fifes, drums, brasses,— Bondmen of old wars on the winds released— Shook every beam and pillar of the house; And the king said—“Thou hear’st out of the marsh Scream of my stallions mounting on the gale?” And she said “Yea.” “Thou knowest round these walls How many chariots now are tilted up?” And she said “Yea.” “Then, woman, bring with haste Deirdre, thy charge, into this presence now Or limb from limb upon the pleasant grass Those wheels shall parcel thee at dawn.” And she Lifted her hands and closed her eyes and sang, “She will come back, but I, I shall not bring her! O rainbow breathed into the dreadful pine, Why art thou gone from me? Dearer to me Than the sobbing of the cuckoo to the shore Why art thou gone from me?” She bow’d and wept. And Connachar came from the throne, and grasping As if he felt no heat, the cauldron’s brims Lean’d through its steams, watching the nurse and said, “Will these afflicting tears bring Deirdre in?” But she look’d up and said: “How shall I bring her? Look now outside thy door, O Connachar! The black oak with the vision-dripping boughs Whose foot is in thy fathers’ blood of pride Stagger’d as I came up in the night-blast. In vain it stretches angers to the sky: It cannot keep the white moon from escape To sail the tempest; nor, O king, canst thou!” The cheek of him that listen’d grew thrice-pale And his thick nostrils swell’d, his half-shut eyes Fang’d sheen, and slow dilated; stubbornly He clutch’d to steady his convulsive frame The sea-full cauldron; quick, with efforts vast, Upheaved and swung and pillar’d it on high— And hoarsely bade “Take torches.” Every man Kindled in silence at the hearth divine. Then Connachar pour’d out upon the blaze The flood within the vat. The roofs were fill’d With darkness foul, with hissings and with smoke....

III VOICE OF CIR _out of a Century more remote_, _but unknown_,

As a horseman breaks on a sea-gulf enwomb’d in the amber woods Where tide is at ebb, and out on the airy brim Glass’d upon cloud and azure stand multitudes Of the flame-white people of gulls—to the sky-line dim

All breast to the sun,—and his hoofs expand the desolate strait Into fevers of snows and ocean-wandering cries: Even so, chanters divine, in some woman’s fate At coming of him to be loved do her dreams arise.

And Deirdre the exquisite virgin pale as the coat of swans Took the flame of love in her heart at the time of dew

And clad her in ragged wool from a coffer of bronze And walked in the chill of night, for her soul was new.

“Why thick with the berries of sweetness, ye barren thorns of the spring? I could drink up this tempest cold as a burning wine. Why laugh, my grief, for art thou not bride of a king, And the drinkers drink to a couch array’d to be thine?”

Where the wounded toss without sleep in the warrior’s hive of stones— The house Bron Bhearg—she laid her cheek to the wall And bless’d them by stealth, with no pang at the sound of groans Having that in her rich heart which could heal them all.

To the fortress-gate on the steep that looketh toward Creeve Roe She fled, and spied not a sling-cast off the flare Of a torch, and the skull fixed over the gate. And lo, To the right hand watchmen paced by the water there.

And the shag-hair’d guard, with a mock, laid spears in their passage house Athwart, for who was this phantom over the grass Like a filcher of food? And Deirdre uncover’d her brows And cried: “I am Deirdre!” And sullen they gave her the pass.

And towards Creeve Roe the dip of the cuckoo’s vale was dark To blindness. She pluck’d her steps on that miry road Through copses alive with storm, till at length a spark Shew’d the forge where the smith on the heroes’ way abode.

Now Culann the smith was wise; and leaping her spirit stirr’d With the soft roar of his hide-wing’d fire as it soar’d: “Has the son of Usnach pass’d?” “Yea, gone back!” With the word He smote on a ribbon of iron to make him a sword.

And the argentine din of anvils behind her steadily dwindling The woman fled to the wastes, till she came to a Thorn Black, by the well of a God, with stars therein kindling And over it rags fluttering from boughs forlorn.

And she knelt and shore with a knife a lock of her deathless hair, And leash’d the black-shuddering branch with that tress, and pray’d: “Sloe-tree, thou snow of the darkness, O hear my prayer, And thou, black Depth, bubble-breather, vouchsafe thine aid;

“From Connachar’s eyes of love let me hide as a gray mole, Sons of the earth’s profound, that no weeper spurn! I have look’d on a face, and its kindness ravish’t my soul But deliverance pass’d; unto you for escape I turn.”

And loud as the sloven starlings in winter whistle and swarm Came the banish’d of Usnach nigh, thrice fifty strong As they drove from Eman away on that night of storm And Naois spoke with his brothers behind the throng:

“O, Aillean, O, Ardan, hark! What cry was that? For some cry Rang on my soul’s shield; hark! hear ye it now?” But they rein’d not their weary chariots, shouting reply “It was fate,’twas the curs’t hag that is crouch’d on a bough!”

Tossing they drove out of sight, Naois the last, and his hood Rain-dripping mantled the wind. One ran like a roe, And call’d on that great name from the nightbound wood, “Stay, long-awaited, stay! for with thee I go!”

And his brothers cried “Halt not! the host of the air makes moan Or a gang of the wild geese going back to the lake.” But Naois rear’d up the deep-ribb’d Srōn, “Good Srōn, Thou and I needs must turn for our fame’s sake.”

And he heard a voice: “Son of Usnach, take me to be thy wife!” He bent from the withers, the blaze of her trembling drew The breath from his lips and the beat from his heart’s life; And he said, “Who art thou, Queen?” But himself knew,

And mutter’d “Return, return, unto him that I hate. For know Him least of all I rob, least of all that live.” But she cried: “Am I then a colt, that ye snare from a foe With a bridle’s shaking? I am mine own to give.”

“Thy beauty would crumble away in the spate of my wild nights, And famine rake out thine embers, the lean paw Of jeopardy find thee. He is not rich in delights Whose harp is the gray fell in the winter’s flaw.”

And she laid her arm round the neck of Srōn: “Hast heard, Horse swollen-vein’d from battle, insulter of death— Whose back is only a perch for the desert bird— Whose fore-hooves fight—whose passage is torn with teeth,

“And dost thou not shudder off the knees of a master deaf To the grief of the weak?” And the lad, deeply-moved, rejoins “Mount then, O woman, behind me,”—and light as a leaf Drawing her up from his foot to the smoking loins

Shook loose the ox-hide bridle. Even as the great gull dives From Muilréa’s moon-glittering peak when the sky is bare, Scraped naked by nine days’ wind, and sweepingly drives Overnight-blurr’d gulfs and the long glens of the air,

And feels up-tossing his breast an exhaustless breath bear on Spouted from isleless ocean to aid his flight— So fiercely, so steadily gallop’d the sinewy Srōn, Braced by that double burden to more delight.

Though his mane wrapp’d a wounded bridle-hand, fast, fast As giddy foam-weltering waters dash’d by the hoof Flee away from the weirs of Callan, even so pass’d Dark plains away to the world’s edge, behind and aloof.

And the rider stoop’d and whisper’d amidst the thunder of weirs Such sweetness of praise to his horse in the swirl of the flood That Srōn twitch’d back for an instant his moonëd ears— Strain’d forth like a hare’s,—as his haunches up to the wood

Wrested them. Beaks of magic, the wreckage of time, came out And talon’d things of the forest would waft and sway But Naois raised unforgotten that battle-shout That scatters the thrilling wreath of all fears away.

So they measured the Plain of the Dreamers, the Brake of the Black Ram, Till the Crag of the Dances before them did shape and loom. And the Meads of the Faery Hurlers in silver swam Then up to the Gap of the Winds, and the far-seen tomb

White on Slieve Fuad’s side. By many a marchland old And cairn of princes—yea, to mine own bedside— They adventured. Think ye, sweet bards, that I could lie cold When my chamber of rock fore-knew that impassion’d stride?

Had I, too, not pluck’d the webs of rain-sweet drops from the harp And torn from its wave of chords an imperishable love To sleep on this breast? Here, through the mountain sharp My grave-chamber tunnell’d is, and one door from above

Westward surveys green territories, gentle with flowers and charm, But forth from the eastern face of the ridge is unquell’d Wilderness, besown with boulders and grass of harm. And even in my trance could I feel those riders approach and beheld

Naois assault the ridge, to the wilderness setting his face Expectant, unconscious, as one whom his foes arouse; His heart was a forge—his onset enkindled space— He shook off the gusty leagues like locks from his brows.

What should he reck of Earth save that under his wounds he felt Stolen round him, as dreamy water steals round a shore, A girdle, the arms of Deirdre, clasp’d for a belt That terror of main kings should unlock no more?

I was caught from the grave’s high gate as that spume-flaked ecstacy drew Upward, and wing’d like the kiss of Aengus, strove For utterance to greet them—encircling their heads that flew— But who loops the whirlwind’s foot or out-dreameth love?

He wheel’d round Srōn on the crest. Abrupt he flung back a hand And spoke, “Dost thou know the truth? Look where night is low! Soon the ants of that mound shall shake the ledge where we stand: Now the tribes are summon’d, the Night prepares his blow.

“Now wrath spurts, hot from the trumpet—the main beacon flares— Now tackle the arrogant chariots—dogs in their glee Hang on the leash-slaves, numb in the cockcrow airs. Why, out of all that host, hast thou singled me?”

I heard her behind him breathe, “Because out of all that host Aptest art thou in feats, held in honour more Than any save bright Cuchullain.”[1] He turn’d as one lost, “Is this time a time to mock? Are there not fourscore

“Better at feats than I, my masters, the noble teams, The attemper’d knights of the Red Branch every one? Nay, though I knead up the whole earth in my dreams, Nought to such men am I, who have nothing done.”

I heard the blowings of Srōn, and then lasting words: “I choose Thee—wherefore? Ah, how interpret? To-day on the slope Where first by the wall I saw thee at gloam of dews I knew it was fated. It was not some leaf of hope

Eddying. Thou wast the token—half of the potter’s shard— That a chief beleaguer’d cons in his desperate camp Pass’d in by some hand unseen to the outmost guard, And fits to the other half by his wasted lamp.

“Seeing thee, I knew myself to be shaped of the self-same clay— Half of the symbol—and broken, mayhap, to serve As language to them of the night from powers of the day.” By the Path of the throbbing Curlew no step may swerve

Where they rode through the Gap; and at last she murmur’d, “Dost grieve at me still?” And he said, “Glorious is it to me that behind us pursuit Shall be wide as the red of the morning, for thou art my will! To the beach of the world of the dead, and beyond it to boot,

“Let me take and defend thee.” In silence the hearts of the twain were screen’d,— But crossing the mires and the torrents I saw strange ease Afloat, like a spark, on the woman’s eyes as she lean’d Forth, and a shadow betwixt her lips like peace.

Footnote 1:

Pronounced Cuhoollin.

IV VOICE OF URMAEL _out of the Sixth Century_

The slender Hazels ask’d the Yew like night Beside the river-green of Lisnacaun “Who is this woman beautiful as light Sitting in dolour on thy branchéd lawn; With sun-red hair, entangled as with flight, Sheening the knees up to her bosom drawn? What horses mud-besprent so thirstily Bellying the hush pools with their nostrils wide?” And the Yew old as the long mountain-side Answer’d, “I saw her hither with Clan Usnach ride.”

“Come, love, and climb with me Findruim’s woods Alone,” Naois pray’d. Through broom and bent Strown with swift-travelling shadows of their moods, Leaving below the camp’s thin cries, they went. And never a tress, escaping from her snoods, Made the brown river with a kiss content, So safe he raised up Deirdre through the ford. Thanks, piteous Gods, that no fore-boding gave, He should so bear her after to the grave, Breasting the druid ice, breasting the phantom wave.

“O, bear me on,” she breathed, “for ever so!” And light as notes the Achill shepherd plays On his twin pipes they wanton’d, light and slow, Up the broad valley. Birds sail’d from the haze Far up, where darkling copses over-grow Scarps of the gray cliff from his river’d base. Diaphaneity, the spirit’s beauty, Along the dimnéd coombes did float and reign, And many a mountain’s scarry flank was plain Through nets of youngling gold betrimm’d with rain.