Poems by Denis Florence MacCarthy Part 17

"But, not to mar our feast to-night With what to-morrow's sword may right, O Bard of many songs! again Awake thy sweet harp's silvery strain.

If beauty decks with peerless charm MacDonnell's wife in fair Glenarm, Say does there bound in Antrim's meads A steed to match O'Donnell's steeds?"

Submissive doth the bard incline His reverend head, and cries, "O Con, Thou heir of Conal Golban's line, I've sang the fair wife of MacJohn; You'll frown again as late you frowned, But truth will out when lips are freed; There's not a steed on Irish ground To stand beside MacDonnell's steed!

"Thy horses o'er Eargals' plains, Like meteors stars their red eyes gleam; With silver hoofs and broidered reins, They mount the hill and swim the stream; But like the wind through Barnesmore, Or white-maned wave through Carrig-Rede,[87]

Or like a sea-bird to the sh.o.r.e, Thus swiftly sweeps MacDonnell's steed!

"A thousand graceful steeds had Fin, Within lost Almhaim's fairy hall, A thousand steeds as sleek of skin As ever graced a chieftain's stall.

With gilded bridles oft they flew, Young eagles in their lightning speed, Strong as the cataract of Hugh,[88]

So swift and strong MacDonnell's steed!"

Without the hearty word of praise, Without the kindly smiling gaze, Without the friendly hand to greet, The daring bard resumes his seat.

Even in the hospitable face Of Con, the anger you could trace.

But generous Con his wrath suppressed, For Owen was Clan Dalaigh's guest.

"Now, by Columba!" Con exclaimed, "Methinks this Scot should be ashamed To s.n.a.t.c.h at once, in sateless greed, The fairest maid and finest steed; My realm is dwindled in mine eyes, I know not what to praise or prize, And even my n.o.ble dog, O Bard, Now seems unworthy my regard!"

"When comes the raven of the sea To nestle on an alien strand, Oh! ever, ever will he be The master of the subject land.

The fairest dame, he holdeth her-- For him the n.o.blest steed doth bound--; Your dog is but a household cur, Compared to John MacDonnell's hound!

"As fly the shadows o'er the gra.s.s, He flies with step as light and sure, He hunts the wolf through Trosstan pa.s.s, And starts the deer by Lisanoure!

The music of the Sabbath bells, O Con, has not a sweeter sound Than when along the valley swells The cry of John MacDonnell's hound.

"His stature tall, his body long, His back like night, his breast like snow, His fore-leg pillar-like and strong, His hind-leg like a bended bow; Rough, curling hair, head long and thin, His ear a leaf so small and round: Not Bran, the favourite hound of Fin, Could rival John MacDonnell's hound.

"O Con! thy bard will sing no more, There is a fearful time at hand; The Scot is on the northern sh.o.r.e, The Saxon in the eastern land; The hour comes on with quicker flight, When all who live on Irish ground Must render to the stranger's might Both maid and wife, and steed and hound!"

The trembling bard again retires, But now he lights a thousand fires; The pent-up flame bursts out at length, In all its burning, tameless strength.

You'd think each clansman's foe was by, So sternly flashed each angry eye; You'd think 'twas in the battle's clang O'Donnell's thundering accents rang!

"No! by my sainted kinsman,[89] no!

This foul disgrace must not be so; No, by the Shrines of Hy, I've sworn, This foulest wrong must not be borne.

A better steed!--a fairer wife!

Was ever truer cause of strife?

A swifter hound!--a better steed!

Columba! these are cause indeed!"

Again, like spray from mountain rill, Up started Con: "By Collum Kille, And by the blessed light of day, This matter brooketh no delay.

The moon is down, the morn is up, Come, kinsmen, drain a parting cup, And swear to hold our next carouse, With John MacJohn MacDonnell's spouse!

"We've heard the song the bard has sung, And as a healing herb among Most poisonous weeds may oft be found, So of this woman, steed, and hound; The song has burned into our hearts, And yet a lesson it imparts, Had we but sense to read aright The galling words we heard to-night.

"What lesson does the good hound teach?

Oh, to be faithful each to each!

What lesson gives the n.o.ble steed?

Oh! to be swift in thought and deed!

What lesson gives the peerless wife?

Oh! there is victory after strife; Sweet is the triumph, rich the spoil, Pleasant the slumber after toil!"

They drain the cup, they leave the hall, They seek the armoury and stall, The shield re-echoing to the spear Proclaims the foray far and near; And soon around the castles gate Full sixty steeds impatient wait, And every steed a knight upon, The strong, small-powerful force of Con!

Their lances in the red dawn flash, As down by Easky's side they dash; Their quilted jackets shine the more, From gilded leather broidered o'er; With silver spurs, and silken rein, And costly riding-shoes from Spain; Ah! much thou hast to fear, MacJohn, The strong, small-powerful force of Con!

As borne upon autumnal gales, Wild whirring gannets pierce the sails Of barks that sweep by Arran's sh.o.r.e,[90]

Thus swept the train through Barnesmore.

Through many a varied scene they ran, By Castle Fin, and fair Strabane, By many a hill, and many a clan, Across the Foyle and o'er the Bann:--

Then stopping in their eagle flight, They waited for the coming night, And then, as Antrim's rivers rush Straight from their founts with sudden gush, Nor turn their strong, brief streams aside, Until the sea receives their tide; Thus rushed upon the doomed MacJohn The swift, small-powerful force of Con.

They took the castle by surprise, No star was in the angry skies, The moon lay dead within her shroud Of thickly-folded ashen cloud; They found the steed within his stall, The hound within the oaken hall, The peerless wife of thousand charms, Within her slumbering husband's arms:

The bard had pictured to the life The beauty of MacDonnell's wife; Not Evir[91] could with her compare For snowy hand and shining hair; The glorious banner morn unfurls Were dark beside her golden curls; And yet the blackness of her eye Was darker than the moonless sky!

If lovers listen to my lay, Description is but thrown away; If lovers read this antique tale, What need I speak of red or pale?

The fairest form and brightest eye Are simply those for which they sigh; The truest picture is but faint To what a lover's heart can paint.

Well, she was fair, and Con was bold, But in the strange, wild days of old; To one rough hand was oft decreed The n.o.blest and the blackest deed.

'Twas pride that spurred O'Donnell on, But still a generous heart had Con; He wished to show that he was strong, And not to do a bootless wrong.

But now there's neither thought nor time For generous act or bootless crime; For other cares the thoughts demand Of the small-powerful victor band.

They tramp along the old oak floors, They burst the strong-bound chamber doors; In all the pride of lawless power, Some seek the vault, and some the tower.

And some from out the postern pa.s.s, And find upon the dew-wet gra.s.s Full many a head of dappled deer, And many a full-ey'd brown-back'd steer, And heifers of the fragrant skins, The pride of Antrim's gra.s.sy glynns, Which with their spears they drive along, A numerous, startled, bellowing throng.

They leave the castle stripped and bare, Each has his labour, each his share; For some have cups, and some have plate, And some have scarlet cloaks of state, And some have wine, and some have ale, And some have coats of iron mail, And some have helms, and some have spears, And all have lowing cows and steers!

Away! away! the morning breaks O'er Antrim's hundred hills and lakes; Away! away! the dawn begins To gild gray Antrim's deepest glynns; The rosy steeds of morning stop, As if to gaze on Collin top; Ere they have left it bare and gray, O'Donnell must be far away!

The chieftain on a raven steed, Himself the peerless dame doth lead, Now like a pallid, icy corse, And lifts her on her husband's horse; His left hand holds his captive's rein, His right is on the black steed's mane, And from the bridle to the ground Hangs the long leash that binds the hound.

And thus before his victor clan, Rides Con O'Donnell in the van; Upon his left the drooping dame, Upon his right, in wrath and shame, With one hand free and one hand tied, And eyes firm fixed upon his bride, Vowing dread vengeance yet on Con, Rides scowling, silent, stern MacJohn.

They move with steps as swift as still, 'Twixt Collin mount and Slemish hill, They glide along the misty plain, And ford the sullen muttering Maine; Some drive the cattle o'er the hills, And some along the dried-up rills; But still a strong force doth surround The chiefs, the dame, the steed, and hound.

Thus ere the bright-faced day arose, The Bann lay broad between the foes.

But how to paint the inward scorn, The self-reproach of those that morn, Who waking found their chieftain gone, The cattle swept from field and bawn, The chieftain's castle stormed and drained, And, worse than all, their honour stained!

But when the women heard that Anne, The queen, the glory of the clan Was carried off by midnight foes, Heavens! such despairing screams arose, Such shrieks of agony and fright, As only can be heard at night, When Clough-i-Stookan's mystic rock The wail of drowning men doth mock.[92]

But thirty steeds are in the town, And some are like the ripe heath, brown, Some like the alder-berries, black, Some like the vessel's foamy track; But be they black, or brown, or white, They are as swift as fawns in flight, No quicker speed the sea gull hath When sailing through the Gray Man's Path.[93]

Soon are they saddled, soon they stand, Ready to own the rider's hand, Ready to dash with loosened rein Up the steep hill, and o'er the plain; Ready, without the p.r.i.c.k of spurs, To strike the gold cups from the furze: And now they start with winged pace, G.o.d speed them in their n.o.ble chase!

By this time, on Ben Bradagh's height, Brave Con had rested in his flight, Beneath him, in the horizon's blue, Lay his own valleys of Tirhugh.

It may have been the thought of home, While resting on that mossy dome, It may have been his native trees That woke his mind to thoughts like these.

"The race is o'er, the spoil is won, And yet what boots it all I've done?

What boots it to have s.n.a.t.c.hed away This steed, and hound, and cattle-prey?