Part 2

But when an upward space of grass—so free— So endless—beckon’d to the realms of wind Deirdre broke from his side, and airily Fled up the slopes, flinging disdains behind, And paused, and round a little vivid tree The wolf-skins from her neck began to bind. Naois watch’d below this incantation; Then upward on his javelin’s length he swung To catch some old crone’s ditty freshly sung, Bidding that shoot be wise, for yet ’twas young.

With gaze in gaze, thus ever up and on Roved they unwitting of the world out-roll’d, Their ears dinn’d by the breeze’s clarion That quicks the blood while yet the cheek is cold; Great whitenesses rose past them—brooks ran down— And step by step Findruim bare and bold Uplifted. So a swimmer is uplifted Horsed on a streaming shoulder of the Sea— Our hasty master, who to such as we Tosses some glittering hour of mastery.

They heard out of the zenith swoop and sting Feathery voices, keen and soft and light: “_Mate ye as eagles mate, that on the wing Grapple—heaven-high—hell-deep, for yours is flight! Souls like the granite candles of a king Flaming unshook amid the noise of night What of pursuit, that you to-day shouldst fear it?_” Pursuit they reck’d not, save of wind that pours Surging and urging on to other shores Over the restless forest of a thousand doors.

“Deirdre,” he cried, “the blowing of thy hair Is of the clouds that everlasting stream Forth from the castles of those islands rare Black in the ragged-misted ocean’s gleam And glimpsed by Iceland galleys as they fare Northward!” But in her bosom’s open seam She set the powder’d yew-sprig silently; “Speak not of me nor give my beauty praise, Whose beauty is to follow in thy ways So that my days be number’d with thy days.”

In the high pastures of that boundless place Their feet wist not if they should soar or run They turned, at earth astonish’d, face to face Deeming unearthly blessedness begun. And slow, mid nests of running larks, they pace Drinking from the recesses of the sun Tremble of those wings that beat light into music. There the world’s ends lay open: open wide The body’s windows. What shall them divide Who have walk’d once that country side by side?

She mused, “O why doth happiness too much Fountains of blood and spirit seem to fill? The woods, over-flowing, cannot bear that such An hour should be so sweet and yet be still: Even the low-tangled bushes at a touch Break into wars of gleemen, thrill on thrill. O son of Usnach, bring me not thy glories! Bring me defeats and shames and secret woe; That where no brother goeth I may go And kneel to wash thy wounds in caverns bleak and low!”

“Here, up in sight of the far shine of sea, (He sang) once after hunting, by the fire I knelt, and kindling brushwood raised up thee, Deirdre, nor wist the star of my desire Should ever walk Findruim’s head with me Far from a king’s loud house and soft attire. Fain would I thatch us here a booth of hazels, Thatch it with drift and snow of sea-gulls’ wings: And thy horn’d harp should wonder to its strings _What spoil is it to-night Naois brings?_”

“Listen,” quoth he, when scarce those words were gone (A neck of the bare down it was, a ledge Of wind-sleek turf, the lovers roam’d upon And sent young rabbits scuttling to the edge Of underwoods beneath) “I think that yon Some beast—haply a stag—takes harbourage.” And Deirdre at a word come back from regions Of bliss too close to pain, snatch’d with no fear Out of his hand the battle-haunted spear And, questing swiftly down the pasture sheer,

Enter’d the yew’s black vault: therein profound Green-litten air, and there as seeking fresh Enemies, one haunch crush’d against the ground The grey boar slew’d, tusking the tender flesh Of shoots, his ravage-whetted bulk around: But when his ear across the straggling mesh Of feather’d sticks report of Deirdre found He quiver’d, snorted; from his jaws like wine Foam dripp’d; along the horror of his spine The bristles grew up like a ridge of pine.

Mortals, the maiden deem’d that guise a mask— Believed that in that beast sate to ensnare He of the red eye—little need to ask The druid-wrinkled hide, the sluttish hair: This was to escape—how vain poor passion’s task!— Connachar of the illimitable lair! He crash’d at her; she heaved the point embrown’d In blood of dragons. Heavily the boar Grazed by the iron, reel’d, leapt, charged once more And thrice in passage her frail vesture tore.

As when a herd-boy lying on the scar (Who pipes to flocks below him on the steep Melodies like their neckbells, scattering far, Cool as the running water, soft as sleep) Hurls out a flint from peril to debar And from the boulder’d chasm recall his sheep— So with a knife Naois leapt and struck. Strange, in the very fury of a stride The grey beast like a phantom from his side Plunged without scathe to thickets undescried.

Naois sheathed his iron with no stain And laugh’d “This shall be praised in revels mad Around Lug’s peak, when women scatter grain Upon the warriors. Why shouldst thou be sad Pale victory?” But she, “Ah, thus again Ere night do I imperil thee, and add Burden to burden.” And he strove to lead her From grief, and said “What, bride! thy raiment torn?” “Content thee, O content thee, man of scorn, I’ll brooch it with no jewel but a thorn!”

They seek down through the Wood of Awe that hems Findruim, like the throng about his grave, Dusk with the swarth locks of ten thousand stems In naked poise. These make no rustle save Some pine-cone dropt, or murmur that condemns Murmur; bedumb’d with moss that giant nave. But let Findruim shake out overhead His old sea-sigh, and when it doth arrive At once their tawny boles become alive With flames that come and go, and they revive

The north’s Fomorian roar.—“I am enthrall’d,” He said, “as by the blueness of a ray That, dropping through this presence sombre-wall’d Burns low about the image of a spray— Of some poor beech-spray witch’d to emerald. Wilt thou not dance, daughter of heaven, to-day Free, at last free? For here no moody raindrop Can reach thee, nor betrayer overpeer; And none the self-delightful measure hear That thy soul moves to, quit of mortal ear.”

Full loth she pleads, yet cannot him resist And on the enmosséd lights begins to dance. Away, away, far-floating like a mist, To fade into some leafy brilliance; Then, smiling to the inward melodist, Over the printless turf with slow advance Of showery footsteps, makes she infinite That crowded glen. But quick, possess’d by strange Rapture, wider than dreams her motions range Till to a span the forests shrink and change.

And in her eyes and glimmering arms she brings Hither all promise,—all the unlook’d-for boon Of rain-bow’d life—all rare and speechless things That shine and swell under the brimming Moon. Who shall pluck tympans? For what need of strings To waft her blood who is herself the tune— Herself the warm and breathing melody? Art come from the Land of the Ever-Young? O stay! For his heart, after thee rising away, Falls dark and spirit-faint back to the clay.

Griefs, like the yellow leaves by winter curl’d, Rise after her—long-buried pangs arouse— About that bosom the grey forests whirl’d, And tempests with her beauty might espouse,— She rose with the green waters of the world And the winds heaved with her their depth of boughs. Then vague again as blows the beanfield’s odour On the dark lap of air she chose to sink, As, winnowing with plumes, to the river-brink The pigeons from the cliff come down to drink.

Sudden distraught, shading her eyes, she ceased, Listening, like bride whom cunning faery strain Forth from the trumpet-bruited spousal feast Steals. But she beckon’d soon, and quick with pain He ran, he craved at those white feet the least Pardon; nor, till he felt her hand again Descend flake-soft, durst spy that she was weeping Or kneel with burning murmurs to atone. For sleep she wept. Long fasting had they gone And ridden from the breaking of the dawn.

It chanced that waters, nigh to that selve grove, From Sleep’s own lake as from a cauldron pass; He led towards their sound his weary love And lay before her in the fresh of grass Resting—the white cirque of the cliffs above— Against a sun-abandon’d stem there was. Spray from the strings of water spilling over The weir of rock, their fever’d cheeks bewet; And to its sound a voiceless bread they ate, And drank the troth that is unbroken yet.

Out in the mere—brown—unbesilver’d now By finest skimming of the elfin breeze— An isle was moor’d, with rushes at its prow And fraught with haze of deeply-mirror’d trees; And knowing Deirdre still was mindful how The boar yet lived, that she might sleep at ease Naois swore to harbour on that islet. Nine strides he waded in, on footings nine Deep, deeper yet, until his basnet’s shine Sank to the cold lips of the lake divine.

Divine; for once the sunk stones of that way Approach’d the pool-god, and the outermost Had been the black slab whereon druids slay With stoop and mutter to the water’s ghost, Though since to glut some whim malign the fay Had swell’d over the flags. Of all the host Few save Naois, and at sore adventure Had ta’en this pass. But who would not have press’d Through straits by the chill-finger’d fiend possess’d To bear unto that isle Deirdre to rest?

“Seal up thy sight; my shield of iron rims Unhook; cast in this shatter’d helm for spoil.” ’Twas done, and then with rush of cleaving limbs He swam and bore her out with happy toil Secret and fierce as the flat otter swims Out of the whistling reeds as if through oil. And Deirdre, whiter than the wave-swan floating, Smiled that he suffer’d her no stroke to urge. At length they reach the gnarl’d and ivied verge And from the shallows to the sun emerge.

She spreads her wolf-skins on the rock that glows And sun-tears wrings out of the heavy strands Of corded hair. He, watching to the close, Sees not the white silk tissue as she stands Clinging bedull’d to the clear limbs of rose. She turn’d and to him stretch’d misdoubting hands: “Tell me, ere thou dissolve, O wordless watcher, Am I that Deirdre that would sit and spin Beside Keshcorran? Dost thou love me? Then I touch thee. For I, too, have love within.”

O sacred cry! Again, again the first Love-cry! How the steep woods thirst for thy voice, O never-dying one! That voice, like the outburst And gush of a young spring’s delicious noise Driven from the ancient heights whereon ’twas nursed! Yet, as death’s heart is silent, so is joy’s. His mouth spake not; for, as in dusk Glen Treithim Smelters of bubbling gold brook not to breathe Reek of the colour’d fumes whose hissings wreathe The brim, he choked at his own spirit’s seethe.

Sternly he looked on her and strangely said “What touch is thine? It hath unearthly powers. I think thou art the woman Cairbre made Out of the dazzle and the wind of flowers. Behold, the flame-like children of the shade, The buds, about thee rise like servitors! It seems I had not lipp’d the cup of living Till thou didst stretch it out. Vaguely I felt Irreparable waste. Why hast thou dwell’d Near me on earth so long, yet unbeheld?”

Chanters! The Night brings nigh the deeps far off, But Twilight shows the distance of the Near; And with a million dawns that pierce above Mixes the soul of suns that disappear, To make man’s eyes approach the eyes of love In simpleness, in mystery and fear. All blooms both bright and pale are in her gardens, All chords both shrill and deep under her hand Who, sounding forth the richness of the land, Estrangeth all, that we may understand.

So still it was, they heard in the evening skies Creak as of eagles’ wing-feathers afar Coasting the grey cliffs. On him slowly rise, As to Cuchullain came his signal star, Out of the sheeted rivers, Deirdre’s eyes. And who look’d in them well was girt for war; Seeing in that gaze all who for love had perish’d: The queens calamitous unbow’d at last— The supreme fighters that alone stood fast— Fealties obscure, unwitness’d, and long past,

Cloud over cloud—the host that had attain’d By love,—in very essence, force, heat, breath Now, now arose in Deirdre’s eyes and deign’d Summons to him—“_Canst follow us?_” it saith— Till from that great contagion he hath gain’d An outlook like to conquest over death. Then he discerns the solemn-rafter’d world By this frail brazier’s glowings, wherein blend Coals that no man hath kindled, without end Born and re-born, from ashes to ascend.

And face to face to him unbared she cleaves Woman no more—scarce-breathing—infinite, Grave as the fair-brow’d priestess Earth receives In all her lochs and plains and invers bright And shores wide-trembling where one image heaves, Him that is lord of silence and of light. Slow the God sigh’d himself from rocks and waters But in his soft withdrawals from the air No creature in the weightless world was there Uttered its being’s secret round the pair.

Ah! them had Passion’s self-enshrouding arm Taken, as a green fury of ocean takes, Through the dense thickets smitten with alarm To the islet’s trancéd core. And Deirdre wakes, Lifting hot lids that shut against the storm, Lying on a hillock, amid slender brakes Of grey trees, to the babble of enchantments From mouths of chill-born flowers. The place was new To rapture. Branchéd sunbursts plashing through After, had laid the mound with fire and dew.

Naois cuts down osiers. Now he seeks A narrow grass-plot shorn as if with scythe And over two great boulders’ wrinkled cheeks Draws down and knots a hull of saplings lithe, Well-staunch’d with earthy-odour’d moss and sticks Known to the feet of birds. This darkness blithe He frames against the stars for forest sleepers. The living tide of stars aloft that crept Compassion’d far below. No wavelet leapt; And deep rest fell upon them there. They slept.

Long, long, the melancholy mountains lay Aware; mute-rippling shades that isle enwound. Naois fell through dreams, like the snapt spray That drops from branch to branch,—that stillest sound!— And while from headlands scarce a league away The din of the sea-breakers come aground Roll’d up the valley, he in vision govern’d His ribbéd skiff under Dun Aengus sweeping, Triumphing with his love, and leaping, leaping, Drew past the ocean-shelves of seals a-sleeping.

But over starr’d peat-water, where the flag Rustles, and listens for the scud of teal; Over coast, forest, and bethunder’d crag Night—mother of despairs, who proves the steel In men, to see if they be dross and slag Or fit with trusts and enemies to deal Uneyed, alone—diffusing her wide veils Bow’d from the heavens to his exultant ear: _A questioner awaits thee: rouse!_ The mere Slept on, save for the twilight-footed deer.

“Those antler’d shadows of the forest-roof Nigh to the shore must be assembled thick,” He thought, “and bringing necks round to the hoof Or being aslaked and couching, seek to lick The fawns. Some heady bucks engage aloof, So sharp across the water comes the click Of sparring horns.” But was it a vain terror, Son of the sword, or one for courage staunch, That the herd, dismay’d, at a bound, with a quivering haunch Murmur’d away into night at the crack of a branch?

And Deirdre woke. Reverberate from on high Amongst the sullen hills, distinct there fell A mournful keen, like to the broken cry From the house of hostage in some citadel Of hostages lifting up their agony After the land they must remember well, “Deirdre is gone! Gone is the little Deirdre!” And she knowing not the voice as voice of man Stood up. “Lie still, lest thee the spirit ban O vein of life, lie still!” But Deirdre ran

Like the moon through brakes, and saw where nought had been On the vague shore what seem’d a stone that stood; Faceless, rough-hewn, it forward seem’d to lean Like the worn pillar of Cenn Cruaich the God. She cried across “If thou with things terrene Be number’d, tell me why thy sorrowful blood Mourneth, O Cathva, father!” But the stone Shiver’d, and broke the staff it lean’d upon, Shouting, “What! livst thou yet? Begone, begone!”

V VOICE OF FINTAN _again, out of the First Century_,

Let my lips finish what my lips began.— Then to the two beclouded in black boughs The third across the water cried “Speak once! Though the earth shake beneath you like a sieve With wheels of Connachar, answer me this: Naois, could she understand his hate Whose arm requiteth—far as runs the wind— By me, that blow away the gaze and smile From women’s faces; O could Deirdre have guess’d— Mourning all night the fading of her kingdoms Fled like a song—what means, _a banished man_; That he and I must hound thee to the death; That thou shalt never see the deep-set eaves, The lofty thatch familiar with the doves, On thy sad mother Usnach’s house again; But drift out like some sea-bird, far, far, hence, Far from the red isle of the roes and berries, Far from sun-galleries and pleasant dúns And swards of lovers,—branded, nationless; That none of all thy famous friends, with thee Wrestlers on Eman in the summer evenings, Shall think thee noble now; and that at last I must upheave thy heart’s tough plank to crack it— Knowing all this, would this fool follow thee?”

Then spoke Naois, keeping back his wrath, “Strange is it one so old should threat with Death! Are not both thou and I, are not we all, By Death drawn from the wickets of the womb— Seal’d with the thumb of Death when we are born? As for friends lost (though I believe thee not), A man is nourish’d by his enemies No less than by his friends. But as for her, Because no man shall deem me noble still,— Because I like a sea-gull of the isles May be driven forth—branded and nationless,— Because I shall no more, perhaps, behold The deep-set eaves on that all-sacred house,— Because the gather’d battle of the powers Controlling fortune, breaks upon my head,— Yea! for that very cause, lack’d other cause, In love the closer,—quenchless,—absolute, Would Deirdre choose to follow me. Such pains, Seër, the kingdoms are of souls like hers!” He spoke; he felt her life-blood at his side Sprung of the West, the last of human shores, Throbbing, “Look forth on everlastingness! Through the coil’d waters and the ebb of light I’ll be thy sail!”

Over the mist like wool No sound; the echo-trembling tarn grew mute. But when through matted forest with uproar The levy of pursuers, brazen, vast, Gush’d like a river, and torch’d chariots drew With thunder-footed horses on, and lash’d Up to the sedge, and at the Druid’s shape Their steamy bellies rose over the brink Pawing the mist, and when a terrible voice Ask’d of that shape if druid ken saw now The twain,—advanced out of the shade of leaves Nor Deirdre nor Naois heard reply; And like a burning dream the host, dissolving, Pass’d. On the pale bank not a torch remain’d. They look’d on one another, left alone.

THE END

OTHER POEMS

ODE ON A SILVER BIRCH _in St James’ Park_

1

Muse, I will show thee, on a grassy mound Moving with tufted shadows, albeit bare Herself, for yet young April primes the air And bloom snow-laden boughs, the tree I love. London doth compass it with shores of sound And thrills the buds when there’s no breath above To shake its fountain beauty. Thus I came Along the courtly mere of thicket isles, And Spring entoil’d me in a hundred wiles, Bringing the heart content without a name. Broods, russet-plumed and emerald, steer’d on With arrowy wake adown the placid tide And in that gloomy pool there rode enskied, Aloof, the stately languor of a swan. But now the lake sets hither with a breeze And crooks the peel’d bole of its planes.—Ah, there Thou shall find audience—yon’s my shadowy love!— O’er head a rose-grey pigeon beat his wings About his ’lighted mate, and wooed the bough And passion born of sight of mortal things In warmth of living, moved and moves me now As from the careless height that sways above Floateth his voice, the soul of greening trees.

2

Approaching ’twixt the herald saplings pale Whose light arrayment is a whirl of green Of flamelets dropping for a virgin veil, I come. Though Hades’ crocus-jets are stayed, Soft! for a golden troop instead upsprung Gossips apart in yon unfooted glade. Broke we on earshot of that frolic tongue Straightway would all be husht, they being afraid To sing’t to simple ear of mutest maid.

3

But thou, still silver Spirit, unappall’d Standest alone, and with thy senses dim Feeling the first warmth fledge the unleaféd limb Hearest not tread of mine, O Sun-enthrall’d! What buried God conceived thee, and forestall’d In the dull depth thy white and glistering graces— That fume of netted drops and subtle laces And listening statue-air, by men miscall’d? Shower o’er the blue, and sister of blown surf! Dream-daughter of the silences of turf! Couldst thou but waken and recall the Mind Lifts thee to image, then could I reveal Wherefore thou seem’st remember’d and I feel In thee mine own dream risen and divined!

4

Surely the hymn that charm’d thee from the grass Fashion’d me also, and the selfsame lyre Sounded accords that out of darkness pass And in thy beauty and my song conspire? The drum of streets, the fever of our homes, Clangours and murk metallurgy of gnomes, All are by thee unheard, who dost ignore The wisdom of the wise, in dead pasts now Dungeon’d as never to ascend; but thou Whose being is for the light, and hath no care To know itself nor root from whence it sprang, Wouldst only murmur, in the heavenly air, “_The sun, the sun!_” if but thy spirit sang!

5

O might I show thee by the lute’s devising Man, from thy soft turf, flown with light, arising! Him, too, doth hope, the boon without a pang, Summon with thrilling finger forth to hang— To cast a heaving soul to the wave of wind, Sun-passion’d and earth-lodged. Ah, Tree serene Dilating in the glow of the unseen, We and our roofs and towers magnifical— Our Fame’s heroic head against the sky— Our loves—and all That, with our briefness perfect, rise and die,— Like thee must find Beauty in a besieging of the dark; Our glories on expectancy embark, And the height of our ecstasy— The touch of infinity— Is blind.

A CHARGE

If thou hast squander’d years to grave a gem Commission’d by thy absent Lord, and while ’Tis incomplete, Others would bribe thy needy skill to them— Dismiss them to the street!

Shouldst thou at last discover Beauty’s grove, At last be panting on the fragrant verge, But in the track, Drunk with divine possession, thou meet Love— Turn, at her bidding, back.

When round thy ship in tempest Hell appears, And every spectre mutters up more dire To snatch control And loose to madness thy deep-kennell’d Fears— Then, to the helm, O Soul!