No More Learning

"
Straight on the marble floor he knelt,
And in his breast exulting felt
A vivid furnace glow;
Forth to his task the giant sped:
Earth shook abroad beneath his tread,
And idols were laid low.
India repaired half Europe's loss;
O'er a new hemisphere the Cross
Shone in the azure sky;
And from the isles of far Japan
To the broad Andes, won o'er man
A bloodless victory!


## p. 10854 (#62) ###########################################

10854
FRANCIS SYLVESTER O'MAHONY
MALBROUCK
From The Songs of France,' in the Reliques'
M
ALBROUCK, the prince of commanders,
Is gone to the war in Flanders;
His fame is like Alexander's:
But when will he come home?
Perhaps at Trinity Feast, or
Perhaps he may come at Easter.
Egad! he'd better make haste, or
We fear he may never come.
For Trinity Feast" is over,
«<
And has brought no news from Dover;
And Easter is past, moreover:
And Malbrouck still delays.
Milady in her watch-tower
Spends many a pensive hour,
Not well knowing why or how her
Dear lord from England stays.
While sitting quite forlorn in
That tower, she spies returning
A page clad in deep mourning,
With fainting steps and slow.
"O page, prithee come faster!
What news do you bring of your master?
I fear there is some disaster,
Your looks are so full of woe. "
"The news I bring, fair lady,"
With sorrowful accent said he,
"Is one you are not ready
So soon, alas! to hear.
But since to speak I'm hurried,”
Added this page, quite flurried,
"Malbrouck is dead and buried! "
(And here he shed a tear. )
"He's dead! he's dead as a herring!
For I beheld his 'berring,'
And four officers transferring
His corpse away from the field.


## p. 10855 (#63) ###########################################

FRANCIS SYLVESTER O'MAHONY
10855
"One officer carried his sabre,
And he carried it not without labor,
Much envying his next neighbor,
Who only bore a shield.
"The third was helmet-bearer
That helmet which on its wearer
Filled all who saw it with terror,
And covered a hero's brains.
―――――
"Now, having got so far, I
Find that (by the Lord Harry! )
The fourth is left nothing to carry;
So there the thing remains. ”
THE SONG OF THE COSSACK
From The Songs of France,' in the 'Reliques>
C
OME, arouse thee up, my gallant horse, and bear thy rider on!
The comrade thou, and the friend, I trow, of the dweller on
the Don.
Pillage and Death have spread their wings! 'tis the hour to hie thee
forth,
And with thy hoofs an echo wake to the trumpets of the North!
Nor gems nor gold do men behold upon thy saddle-tree;
But earth affords the wealth of lords for thy master and for thee.
Then fiercely neigh, my charger gray! -thy chest is proud and
ample;
Thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of her
heroes trample!
Europe is weak - she hath grown old-her bulwarks are laid low;
She is loath to hear the blast of war- she shrinketh from a foe!
Come, in our turn, let us sojourn in her goodly haunts of joy
In the pillared porch to wave the torch, and her palaces destroy!
Proud as when first thou slack'dst thy thirst in the flow of conquered
Seine,
Aye shalt thou lave, within that wave, thy blood-red flanks again.
Then fiercely neigh, my gallant gray! -thy chest is strong and
ample!
Thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of her
heroes trample!


## p. 10856 (#64) ###########################################

10856
FRANCIS SYLVESTER O'MAHONY
Kings are beleaguered on their thrones by their own vassal crew;
And in their den quake noblemen, and priests are bearded too;
And loud they yelp for the Cossack's help to keep their bondsmen
down,
And they think it meet, while they kiss our feet, to wear a tyrant's
crown!
The sceptre now to my lance shall bow, and the crosier and the
cross
Shall bend alike when I lift my pike, and aloft THAT SCEPTRE toss!
Then proudly neigh, my gallant gray! -thy chest is broad and
ample;
Thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of her
heroes trample!
In a night of storm I have seen a form! - and the figure was a
GIANT,
And his eye was bent on the Cossack's tent, and his look was all
defiant;
Kingly his crest-and towards the West with his battle-axe he
pointed;
And the "form" I saw was ATTILA! of this earth the Scourge
Anointed.
From the Cossack's camp let the horseman's tramp the coming crash
announce;
Let the vulture whet his beak sharp set, on the carrion field to
pounce;
And proudly neigh, my charger gray! -Oh, thy chest is broad and
ample;
Thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of her
heroes trample!
What boots old Europe's boasted fame, on which she builds reliance,
When the North shall launch its avalanche on her works of art and
science?
Hath she not wept, her cities swept by our hordes of trampling
stallions?
And tower and arch crushed in the march of our barbarous battal-
ions?
Can we not wield our father's shield? the same war-hatchet handle?
Do our blades want length, or the reaper's strength, for the harvest
of the Vandal?
Then proudly neigh, my gallant gray, for thy chest is strong and
ample;
And thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of
her heroes trample!


## p. 10857 (#65) ###########################################

10857
JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY
(1844-1890)
BY MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN
Ew men had a more romantic or picturesque life than John
Boyle O'Reilly; and few men have lived more consistent
lives, though consistency is not generally looked upon as an
attribute of romance. From the beginning to the end of his career
he showed high qualities, illumined by that glow which not even the
poet Wordsworth could describe, when he called it the "light that
never was on sea or land. " And at no time
did the actor in so many thrilling incidents
fall below the elevation that one expects
in a hero of romance. His thoughts, his
moods, his quality, his temperament,-all
are thoroughly expressed in the pages of
his poetry. If the essence of literature is
personality and the exact expression of it,
Boyle O'Reilly's work will live when the old
wrongs that wrung his heart are gone, and
the liberty he loved blesses the spots which
to his eyes were made desolate by tyranny.
The effects of that work can never be esti-
mated; they were felt by youth and age, by
men of every religious opinion and none;
they made for righteousness, for peace with honor, for toleration,
sympathy, and the highest patriotism.

BOYLE O'REILLY
He was born June 28th, 1844, at Dowth Castle, near the town of
Drogheda, in Ireland. Mr. James Jeffrey Roche, the closest friend of
the poet, who understood him by experience and intuition, gives in
his Life, Poems, and Speeches of John Boyle O'Reilly' (New York:
Cassell Publishing Co. ), a description of the traditions and surround-
ings of this beautiful spot. They helped to develop the passionate,
chivalrous love of his native country and of liberty in the boy. He
was brought up in an atmosphere of legend and story; and his father,
a schoolmaster of the higher type, joined with a clever mother in
laying the foundation of his literary success. He began his life work
as a compositor in a printing-office in Ireland; and continued it in the


## p. 10858 (#66) ###########################################

10858
JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY
same vocation at Preston, in Lancashire, where he made many warm
friends. His experience in the British army, his connection with the
Fenian movement, his imprisonment, his Australian exile, the thrilling
details of his escape, supplied material for his romance of 'Moondyne,'
and helped to add riches to an imagination which turned all that it
touched into new and rare forms. If there were space here for a
detailed biography, one could not do better than to quote from Mr.
Roche's 'Life'; but this paper must concern itself with the reflection
of that life as expressed in literary form. In the United States, after
adventures by sea and land, and tortures and suffering borne with a
heroism that was both Greek and Christian, he found the spirit of
freedom in concrete form. Our country satisfied his aspirations for
liberty; he loved Ireland not less, but America more; he was exiled
from the land of his birth, yet he found ample consolation in the
country he had chosen. An Irishman and a Catholic, he made an
epoch in the history of his people in the United States; and he was,
as editor of the Boston Pilot, enabled to do this through the support
and encouragement of one of the most eminent prelates of his church,
Archbishop Williams.
In the hundreds of paragraphs and leaders that came from his pen
during his connection with the Pilot (1870-90), there is the plasticity
and strength which show in 'Moondyne' (1878), and in his part of
'The King's Men' (1884).
'The King's Men' was written by him in collaboration with Rob-
ert Grant, "J. S. of Dale," and John F. Wheelwright.
It had as a
precedent Six of One and Half a Dozen of the Other,' done by six
writers, marshaled by the author of The Man Without a Country. '
It appeared in the Boston Globe, and achieved great success. The
plan of the book was a "projection" into the reign of George V.
George, during a revolution of his subjects, had found an asylum in
America, in the thirty-third year of the German Republic and in the
seventieth of the French. O'Reilly's part in this romance is not diffi-
cult to discover in the picture of life in Dartmouth Prison, and in
those luminous touches which the writer's love of liberty and heart-
breaking experience enabled him to give. All O'Reilly's prose, even
in its most careless form, shows the gift of the writer born with the
power of so welding impression and expression that thought and style
become as closely united as soul and body. And as he grew older,
his power as a prose writer increased. As with most poets, his prose
shows qualities entirely different from his verse. In his verse his
forte is not in description; in his prose he describes minutely and
with the keenness of an etcher. His poetry is especially transparent:
the man is plain; he scarcely needs a biographer who can give him-
self as he is to the world.


## p. 10859 (#67) ###########################################

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY
10859
'Moondyne' has glowing pages; there are things in it that remind
us of the fervor of Victor Hugo. It is not as a writer of prose that
O'Reilly lives, however, but by that lyrical force which obliges us to
retain in our memories the song of the singer, whether we will or
not. He was more than what we call a lyrist; he was a bard in the
Celtic sense, a prophet, a seer, the denouncer of wrong, the inter-
preter of love, the inspirer of valor, of awe, of hope. And he had
the respect of the bard for a mission that was his as his heart was
his; no poet was ever less self-conscious and no poet more personal.
His lines written under a bust of Keats interpret the thought of many
that remember him:
--
"A godlike face, with human love and will
And tender fancy traced in every line;
A godlike face, but oh, how human still!
Dear Keats, who love the gods their love is thine. "
O'Reilly's first volume, 'Songs of the Southern Seas,' was made
up of narrative poems; it appeared in 1873. Songs, Legends, and
Ballads' (1878) contained the 'Songs' with additions. There was a
new flavor in the ballads,- for they were veritable ballads. The
taste of the public for color and the fundamental emotions in stir-
ring musical narrative was fully gratified in these poems. Above all,
they were original in the sense that they contained impressions taken
from a personal view of life. They had the pathos of the mind that
had possessed only itself for years, and the nobility which comes to
a great soul which prison walls help to larger freedom. Critics and
readers recognized the strength and beauty of The Amber Whale,'
'The King of the Vasse,' and 'Ensign Epps'; and though lacking
the depth of thought of his later song, they have kept their place in
the hearts of the people. In remote towns and villages, in places the
most unexpected, the family scrap-book has these swinging poems;
and there are few anthologies arranged for the popular taste without
at least 'The Dukite Snake' or 'The Day Guard. '
Of his lyrics, the singing poems, expressing a reflection, a thought,
a mood,-'In Bohemia' is probably the general favorite. But the
place of a poet is not settled by the one poem read and re-read,
quoted and re-quoted. The surface indications do not manifest the
strength or the grasp of the poet; there are depths into which his
nobler thought sinks. In a time of crisis, if freedom were threatened,
there are poems of O'Reilly's which would serve to fire the hearts in
which they live with the fervor that came at the sound of Julia
Ward Howe's 'Battle Hymn of the Republic' or Father Ryan's 'Con-
quered Banner. ' 'The Cry of the Dreamer,' clinging to the heart
and memory, is not one of these, but it has virility in it,--and this


## p. 10860 (#68) ###########################################

10860
JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY
quality is never lacking in the slightest of his lyrics. O'Reilly's lines
'An Art Master' express his view of merely technical skill in verse:
"He gathered cherry-stones and carved them quaintly
Into fine semblances of flies and flowers;
With subtle skill he even imaged faintly
The forms of tiny maids and ivied towers.
"His little blocks he loved to file and polish;
An ampler means he asked not, but despised.
All art but cherry-stones he would abolish,
For then his genius would be highly prized.
"For such rude hands as dealt with wrongs and passions
And throbbing hearts, he had a pitying smile;
Serene his way through surging years and fashions,
While Heaven gave him his cherry-stones to file. "
His genius and manliness had been recognized by America when
he was cut off from this life, August 10th, 1890. It seemed to him
and his friends that there was much to do in the sunlight of kindli-
ness which shone about him; but to use his own words in The Dead
Singer,
«The singer who lived is always alive: we hearken and always hear. ”
It is too early to estimate O'Reilly's place among the poets of his
chosen land,—if indeed a poet's place can be settled by the rough
comparisons of the critic. All that can be done is to indicate certain
pieces of his that have acquired the approval of the critics and the
enthusiasm of the people.
W
une Francis Egan
The following poems are copyrighted, and are reprinted by permission of
the Cassell Publishing Co. , publishers.
ENSIGN EPPS, THE COLOR-BEARER
Ε
NSIGN EPPS, at the battle of Flanders,
Sowed a seed of glory and duty,
That flowers and flames in height and beauty
Like a crimson lily with heart of gold,
To-day, when the wars of Ghent are old,
And buried as deep as their dead commanders.
1


## p. 10861 (#69) ###########################################

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY
10861
Ensign Epps was the color-bearer, -
No matter on which side, Philip or Earl;
Their cause was the shell — his deed was the pearl.
Scarce more than a lad, he had been a sharer
That day in the wildest work of the field.
He was wounded and spent, and the fight was lost;
His comrades were slain, or a scattered host.
But stainless and scatheless, out of the strife,
He had carried his colors safer than life.
By the river's brink, without weapon or shield,
He faced the victors. The thick heart-mist
He dashed from his eyes, and the silk he kissed
Ere he held it aloft in the setting sun,
As proudly as if the fight were won;
And he smiled when they ordered him to yield.
Ensign Epps, with his broken blade,
Cut the silk from the gilded staff,
Which he poised like a spear till the charge was made,
And hurled at the leader with a laugh.
Then round his breast, like the scarf of his love,
He tied the colors his heart above,
And plunged in his armor into the tide,
And there, in his dress of honor, died.
Where are the lessons your kinglings teach?
And what is the text of your proud commanders?
Out of the centuries, heroes reach
With the scroll of a deed, with the word of a story,
Of one man's truth and of all men's glory,
Like Ensign Epps at the battle of Flanders.
THE CRY OF THE DREAMER
AM tired of planning and toiling.
In the crowded hives of men;
Heart-weary of building and spoiling,
And spoiling and building again.
And I long for the dear old river,
Where I dreamed my youth away;
For a dreamer lives forever,
And a toiler dies in a day.


## p. 10862 (#70) ###########################################

10862
JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY
I am sick of the showy seeming,
Of a life that is half a lie;
Of the faces lined with scheming
In the throng that hurries by.
From the sleepless thoughts' endeavor,
I would go where the children play;
For a dreamer lives forever,
And a thinker dies in a day. .
I can feel no pride, but pity
For the burdens the rich endure;
There is nothing sweet in the city
But the patient lives of the poor.
Oh, the little hands too skillful,
And the child-mind choked with weeds!
The daughter's heart grown willful,
And the father's heart that bleeds!
No, no! from the street's rude bustle,
From trophies of mart and tage,
I would fly to the woods' low rustle
And the meadows' kindly page.
Let me dream as of old by the river,
And be loved for the dream alway;
For a dreamer lives forever,
And a toiler dies in a day.
A DEAD MAN
THE
HE Trapper died-our hero-and we grieved;
In every heart in camp the sorrow stirred.
"His soul was red! " the Indian cried, bereaved;
"A white man, he! " the grim old Yankee's word.
So, brief and strong, each mourner gave his best. —
How kind he was, how brave, how keen to track;
And as we laid him by the pines to rest,
A negro spoke, with tears: "His heart was black! "
MY TROUBLES!
WROTE down my troubles every day;
And after a few short years,
When I turned to the heart-aches passed away,
I read them with smiles, not tears.


## p. 10863 (#71) ###########################################

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY
10863
THE RAINBOW'S TREASURE
HERE the foot of the rainbow meets the field,
And the grass resplendent glows,
The earth will a precious treasure yield,
So the olden story goes.
WHE
In a crystal cup are the diamonds piled,
For him who can swiftly chase
Over torrent and desert and precipice wild,
To the rainbow's wandering base.
There were two in the field at work one day,
Two brothers, who blithely sung,
When across their valley's deep-winding way
The glorious arch was flung!
And one saw naught but a sign of rain,
And feared for his sheaves unbound;
And one is away, over mountain and plain,
Till the mystical treasure is found!
Through forest and stream, in a blissful dream,
The rainbow lured him on;
With a siren's guile it loitered awhile,
Then leagues away was gone.
Over brake and brier he followed fleet;
The people scoffed as he passed;
But in thirst and heat, and with wounded feet,
He nears the prize at last.
It is closer and closer - he wins the race-
One strain for the goal in sight:
Its radiance falls on his yearning face-
The blended colors unite!
He laves his brow in the iris beam
He reaches - Ah woe! the sound
From the misty gulf where he ends his dream,
And the crystal cup is found!
'Tis the old, old story: one man will read
His lesson of toil in the sky;
While another is blind to the present need,
But sees with the spirit's eye.
You may grind their souls in the selfsame mill,
You may bind them heart and brow;
But the poet will follow the rainbow still,
And his brother will follow the plow.


## p. 10864 (#72) ###########################################

10864
JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY
YESTERDAY AND TO-MORROW
OYS have three stages, Hoping, Having, and Had;
J
The hands of Hope are empty, and the heart of Having is sad:
For the joy we take, in the taking dies; and the joy we Had is
its ghost.
Now which is the better-the joy unknown, or the joy we have
clasped and lost?
THE
A WHITE ROSE
HE red rose whispers of passion,
And the white rose breathes of love;
Oh, the red rose is a falcon
And the white rose is a dove.
But I send you a cream-white rosebud
With a flush on its petal tips;
For the love that is purest and sweetest
Has a kiss of desire on the lips.
THE INFINITE
THE
HE Infinite always is silent:
It is only the Finite speaks.
Our words are the idle wave-caps
On the deep that never breaks.
We may question with wand of science,
Explain, decide, and discuss;
But only in meditation
The Mystery speaks to us.


## p. 10865 (#73) ###########################################

10865
OSSIAN
AND OSSIANIC POETRY
BY WILLIAM SHARP AND ERNEST RHYS
HE old controversy over "Ossian," which once engaged so
many famous disputants from Dr. Samuel Johnson to Mat-
thew Arnold, need no longer trouble the reader on his way.
through the world's literature. Celtic research and the modern sense
of our ancient poetry have changed the venue. We have a whole
cycle of Gaelic tales and poems now on the subject, which have been
gradually unearthed, affording new clues and a clearer outlook. Out
of these fuller materials we may still construct, if we will, an ideal
Ossian, just as Macpherson did. But we must remember, if we do,
that there is no corresponding real Ossian, the actual and undenia-
ble author of these Gaelic sagas or any part of them. Indeed, to be
at all precise in choosing their typical hero, we should have to admit
that a better name than Ossian's for our label would be Finn's*;
while the whole cycle is wider than the names of either Finn or
Ossian would fully suggest.
It is Ossian, however, to whom. by force of habit and by popu-
lar suffrage, we still look and probably shall ever look as the king
in this haunted realm. And Ossian's name, no doubt, will still best
serve to characterize the poetry which fragmentarily but none the
less potently long ago fascinated Macpherson, and through him.
caught the ear of Europe.
Who then was Ossian? †
Ossian, or Oisin, was traditionally the son of Finn; that Finn mac
Cumhool (Cool) whose name is in Celtic literature the beacon round
which all other lesser lights congregate. Oisin may be roughly
assigned in history to the Ireland of the end of the third century.
According to Scottish tradition, Finn, however, was the son of a
Scottish king who came over from Ireland, and of a Scandinavian
* Finn, Fionn, Fin. The Scottish or rather Macphersonian equivalent, Fin-
gal, is not ancient.
Ossian is the Scottish variant, and that most familiar to non-Celtic peo-
ples. Osh-shin is the common pronunciation in the Highlands. The proper
spelling is Oisin; but even in Ireland the name is never so pronounced, but
variably as Usheen, Isheen, Useen, Washeen, and otherwise.
XIX-680


## p. 10866 (#74) ###########################################

10866
OSSIAN
princess; and we may say at once that this mixed Celtic and Norse
origin is significant, not only for the personal history of the hero
himself, but for that of the whole heroic literature to which he and
his son Ossian lend characteristic life, color, and antique circumstance.
It is to the fine fusion of certain Norse with certain Gaelic elements,
in the Aryan past, that we owe the particular genre, at any rate,
which was produced in the Scottish region associated with Ossian.
Some difference is to be found if we turn to the more purely Irish
of our Gaelic originals, and seek in Ireland for the old battle which
is almost always, in Celtic tradition, the beginning of what we may
call epic balladry.
In this case it is the battle of Cnucha (Castleknock), ten miles
from the present city of Dublin, which sets the war-music going.
Here it was that Conn of the Hundred Battles warred with Cool
(Cumhool) Finn's father, and Cool was slain by Aedh, afterwards
known as "Goll," or the Blind, because he lost an eye in the battle.
This gives a leitmotiv to the dramatic episodes that follow, in Finn's
desire for revenge on his father's enemies. Here begins a sort of
tribal warfare between Munster and Connaught, which ends in the
destruction of the followers of Finn, the "Fianna," -a name, by the
way, which, although it so closely resembles Finn's, has no connection
with it; meaning simply the tribal militia, or "Fenians," to use the
modern equivalent that has been too long removed from its original
context to be successfully replaced there. The battle of Gowra is the
last great event of this war. At Gowra, Ossian and his son Oscar
fought disastrously against the descendants of Conn of the Hundred
Battles, and the power of the Fianna was finally broken.
In these battles and their allied and sequent episodes and disas-
ters and tribal intrigues, we arrive at the basis of the Irish tradi-
tions of the Ossianic cycle. And though there is endless variation in
the names and dates and places involved, according as these tradi-
tions were retailed in one country-side, or one century, or another, we
still find that behind them lurks a real fragment of heroic history,
colored perhaps by some earlier Celtic myth, and in any case full
of potential romance, heroic imagination, and a crude but splendid
poetry. It is not only that the subject-matter behind it is so full and
rich, but that the manner and turn of its expression is also so indi-
vidual and sonorous and effective. As for its subject-matter, it may
be said to range over something like thirteen or fourteen centuries,
from first to last. We have already referred to its quasi-historical
first beginnings in the third century, when Fionn's father fought
Conn of the Hundred Battles, and fell by the hand of Goll; and many
critics are content to accept this as the extreme starting-point. But
if we accept the conclusions of such authorities in Celtic folk-lore as


## p. 10867 (#75) ###########################################

OSSIAN
10867
<<
Professor Kuno Meyer and his collaborator Mr. Alfred Nutt, we shall
have to travel much further back into time. Mr. Nutt has stated
very ingeniously and carefully the claim for a mythical prehistoric
origin for the Ossianic cycle. "Every Celtic tribe," he writes, pos-
sessed traditions both mythical and historical.
Myth and his-
tory acted and reacted upon each other, and produced heroic saga,
which may be defined as myth tinged and distorted by history. The
largest element is as a rule suggested by myth, so that the varying
heroic sagas of a race have always a great deal in common. »
Whether we quite accept this or not, in its entirety, we cannot
ignore the distinct mythical coloring of many parts of the Ossianic
cycle; and admitting it to exist, we are at once carried to the remote
pre-Gaelic antiquity of the Aryan peoples, who personified sun, stars,
earth, sea, air, fire, and water, and told the folk-tales which were to
grow into Homeric epics, Norse sagas, and Ossianic ballads, as races
and languages grew and took on a local habitation and a name.
These wild-birds of old tradition found in their flight through
time a congenial resting-place in the mountain regions which we
associate with Ossian, whether in Scotland or Ireland. There they
prospered and their broods grew and spread, century after century.
To drop the figure of speech, the descendants of these first folk-tales,
that grew and turned themselves into little heroic histories, multi-
plied wherever the Gaelic imagination worked on the memories of
the people, and the Gaelic tongue gave it characteristic expression.
Thus we have, in the immense number of MSS. dealing with Ossianic
materials, ballads and stories which date from almost every century
from the tenth to the eighteenth. Successive bards and tale-tellers
shaped them and colored them anew time after time, fitting them to
the need of the period; using them now as a thinly veiled fable of
recent events, now as an allegory of war, and now as a localized and
modified narrative of some Norse invasion or some lingering tribal
feud.
There is nothing more interesting in the whole history of the
world's literature than this passage of the Ossianic tradition through
the centuries until it arrived in the eighteenth at Macpherson, whose
genius gave it new effect and a new set of disguises that still puzzle
many people. At this late hour in our own day it has had a strange
and significant re-birth, though in the spirit rather than in the letter.
We wish here to pursue the tradition in its adventures, and as
much for the entertainment to be had by the way as for its curious
historical and severely literary interest. One or two of its earlier
phases have already been touched upon; but we have said nothing
yet of the exceedingly characteristic way in which the early conflict
in Gaeldom between the old pagan and the new Christian cult is


## p. 10868 (#76) ###########################################

10868
OSSIAN
given dramatic expression in the cycle. One of the richest of its
sections is that devoted to the series of ballad-colloquies between St.
Patrick and Ossian, as the special pleaders respectively of the new
and the old order.
"The spirit of banter," says Dr. Hyde, "with which St. Patrick and the
Church are treated, and in which the fun just stops short of irreverence, is
a mediæval, not a primitive trait;
we all remember the inimitable
felicity with which that great English-speaking Gael, Sir Walter Scott, has
caught this Ossianic tone in the lines which Hector McIntyre repeats for the
Antiquary:-
-
"To which the saint replies:-
ST.
T. PATRICK -
Ossian-
With this grotesque echo we may compare the real text of one of
the actual 'Dialogues' or 'Colloquies,' which we owe to the Irish
Ossianic Society's good offices. The MS. in this case was a com-
paratively modern copy, but the faithfulness of the copy may be
guaranteed from ancient sources:-
«Patrick the psalm-singer,
Since you will not listen to one of my stories
Though you never heard it before,
I am sorry to tell you
You are little better than an ass. '
St. Patrick-
«Upon my word, son of Fingal,
While I am warbling the psalms,
The clamor of your old-woman's tales
Disturbs my devotional exercises. >>>
COLLOQUY OF OSSIAN AND ST. PATRICK
Ossian, long and late thy sleep!
Rise up, and hear the psalm!
Thy strength is gone, thy swiftness flown,
That made thee known,- and thy fierce right arm!
My swiftness and my strength are flown
Since Fionn's swords are swept away!
And no holy priest, since his song has ceased,
Has ever pleased me with his lay.
Thou hast not heard such hymns as mine,
Since the world began until this day!
But your dream is still of the host on the hill,
Though thou art ill and worn and gray!


## p. 10869 (#77) ###########################################

OSSIAN
10869
Ossian-I used to join the host on the hill,
O Patrick of the sombre brow!
And it fits not thee to cast at me
My misery, as thou didst now.
I have heard songs more sweet than these
In praise of priests. At Letterlee
How long I heard the rare blackbird,
Or the Fiann Dord* and its melody.
And the sweet song-thrush of Glenasgael,
And the rush of the boats upon the shore,
And the hounds full-cry, when the deer sweep by,
Than thy psalmody I love much more.
It must be admitted that in these strange 'Colloquies,' it is to
Ossian that all the most lovely lyrical passages are allocated. He de-
feats again and again the solemn monitions of his saintly co-disputant,
by the most tender and impassioned recall of the old delights of the
land he so loved. Now it is the plaintive whistle of the sea-mews,
now the bellow of the oxen and the low of the calves of Glen-
d'-mhael, or the soft, swift gallop of the fawns in the forest glade,
or the murmur of the falling mountain streams. Above all, the
song of the blackbird haunts him; reviving in his old-man's heart all
that was sweetest in the youth and joyous springtime of the Fiann
era, when it was at its most auspicious period. Ossian's ode to the
'Blackbird of Derrycarn,' which is generally found in the Gaelic
MSS. , printed apart from the current Patrick-cum-Ossian text, is one
of the most sweet and haunting of all his lyrical recountings of that
joyous past. Fortunately, it is accompanied as printed first in the
transactions of the Gaelic Society of Dublin by an excellent trans-
lation by William Leahy; which however, excellent as it is, as
excellent as any foreign tongue can make it seem,-yet can render
no full account of the charm and melancholy sweetness and music
of the Gaelic. We have adopted, with some slight modifications, this
version of Leahy's:-
TO THE BLACKBIRD OF DERRYCARN
Ossian Sang
SWEE
WEET bird and bard of sable wing,
Sweet warbler, hid in Carna grove,
No lays so haunting shall I hear
Again, though round the earth I rove.
*The Dord was a hunting or war horn.
-


## p. 10870 (#78) ###########################################

10870
OSSIAN
Cease, son of Alphron, cease thy bells,
That call sick men to church again!
In Carna wood now hark awhile,
And hear my blackbird's magic strain.
Ah, if its plaint thou truly heard,
Its melancholy song of old,
Thou wouldst forget thy psalms awhile,
As down thy cheeks the tears were rolled.
For where it sings, in Carna wood,
That westward throws its sombre shade,
There, listening to its strain too long,
The Fians-noble race- delayed.
That note it was, from Carna wood,
That woke the hind on Cora steep;
That note it was, in the wakeful dawn,
Lulled Fionn yet to sweeter sleep.
It sang beside the weedy pool
That into triple rills divides,
Where, cooling in the crystal wave,
The. bird of silvery feather glides.
It sang again by Croan's heath,
And from yon water-girded hill,
A deeper note, a cry of woe,
-
That lingers— tender, pensive — still.
It sang so once to Fionn's host,
And pleased the heroes with its plaint:
More lore, they deemed, the blackbird knew,
Than lurks in penances, O Saint!
So far we have been drawing chiefly upon the rich Irish store
of these things; but the Fianna of Albin were as rich in saga as
the Fianna of Erin, and the Scottish Ossianic or Fiannic ballads and
stories are fully as interesting. They show certain differences, local
and temporal, from the purely Irish corresponding versions of the
same events in the Fian tribal warfare; but there is no doubt that
the early basis of tradition is the same in both countries. The Norse
coloring is more marked, and much sooner felt, in the Scottish than
in the Irish Ossianic material. We soon come, in fact, as we ransack
the Scottish MSS. , upon the signs of the third stage in the history
of the cycle. Of these stages, it may be well to remind the reader
here that the first is, roughly speaking, the passage of Aryan myth


## p. 10871 (#79) ###########################################

OSSIAN
10871
into definite heroic forms of tradition,-in this case forms which
carry the radiant colors of Fian heroes; the second stage is the use of
the tradition to express the early dramatic conflict between Christian
and pagan Celtdom; the third stage is the vigorous adaptation again
of the same tradition to the moving bardic narrative of the strug-
gle with the Norse invaders; the fourth stage is the slow process
through centuries of comparative peace, by which the bards and
chroniclers, falling back upon the past, spent their art, memory, and
imagination upon the accumulated materials,- selecting from them,
modifying them, inventing too on occasion, or coloring anew the
parts that had become worn, but yet through all this preserving a
certain fidelity to the essentials of the cycle. The fifth stage is that
of the deliberate literary use of the materials, by men of genius
like Macpherson, who are of course fully justified in their doings if
only they make it quite clear what their relation to their original
materials is. There is yet another stage which we might add: that
of the modern patient critical investigation of such a cycle, so as to
clear the ground for its future uses both by science and by poetry.
In tracing these stages, one may find it convenient to treat both
the Irish and Scottish Gaelic contributions to the subject as one;
but in the third which we mentioned, where it is a question of the
Norse invader, we certainly get our best popular illustrations from the
Scottish side. Take for example the ballad of The Fian Banners,'
which shows in so striking a light the combination of archaic and
later material. There is a heroic ring about it which must suffice
here to suggest the fine old Gaelic tune to which it was sung tradi-
tionally as the Gaelic tribes marched to war against the invading
Vikings.
THE
THE FIAN BANNERS
HE Norland King stood on the height
And scanned the rolling sea;
He proudly eyed his gallant ships.
That rode triumphantly.
And then he looked where lay his camp,
Along the rocky coast,
And where were seen the heroes brave
Of Lochlin's famous host.
Then to the land he turned, and there
A fierce-like hero came;
Above him was a flag of gold,
That waved and shone like flame.


## p. 10872 (#80) ###########################################

10872
OSSIAN
*Goll.
"Sweet bard," thus spoke the Norland King,
"What banner comes in sight?
The valiant chief that leads the host,
Who is that man of might ? »
"That," said the bard, "is young MacDoon;
His is that banner bright;
When forth the Féinn to battle go,
He's foremost in the fight. "
"Sweet bard, another comes; I see
A blood-red banner tossed
Above a mighty hero's head
Who waves it o'er a host. "
"That banner," quoth the bard, "belongs
To good and valiant Rayne;
Beneath it, feet are bathed in blood
And heads are cleft in twain. "
"Sweet bard, what banner now I see?
A leader fierce and strong
Behind it moves with heroes brave
Who furious round him throng. "
"That is the banner of Great Gaul:*
That silken shred of gold
Is first to march and last to turn,
And flight ne'er stained its fold. "
"Sweet bard, another now I see,-
High o'er a host it glows:
Tell whether it has ever shone
O'er fields of slaughtered foes? "
―――――
"That gory flag is Cailt's,t" quoth he:
"It proudly peers in sight;
It won its fame on many a field
In fierce and bloody fight. "
"Sweet bard, another still I see;
A host it flutters o'er,
Like bird above the roaring surge
That laves the storm-swept shore. "
+ Cailte.


## p. 10873 (#81) ###########################################

OSSIAN
10873
"The Broom of Peril," quoth the bard,
"Young Oscar's banner, see:
Amidst the conflict of dread chiefs
The proudest name has he. "
The banner of great Finn we raised;
The Sunbeam gleaming far,
With golden spangles of renown
From many a field of war.
The flag was fastened to its staff
With nine strong chains of gold,
With nine times nine chiefs for each chain;
Before it foes oft rolled.
"Redeem your pledge to me," said Finn:
"Uplift your deeds of might,
To Lochlin as you did before
In many a blood-stained fight! "
Like torrents from the mountain heights,
That roll resistless on,
So down upon the foe we rushed,
And victory won.
"The Lochlins," or "the people of Lochlin," was the usual name
given to the Norse invaders by the old Gaels. In fact, the name still
survives in many current proverbs, as well as in Fian fragments of
rhyme and balladry.
The whole history of the Ossianic saga-cycle affords, through all
the five stages we have roughly assigned to it, a curious study of
primitive tradition enriching itself by constant accretions, and adapt-
ing itself to new conditions. The cycle does not even confine itself, in
this process, to purely Celtic colors and heroic devices. It carries us
on occasion back into the far East, where its mythic first beginnings
were, as the late J. F. Campbell pointed out in his 'Popular Tales
of the West Highlands. ' There are suggestions, and very strong
ones, not only of Aryan folk-lore but of Arabian romance. It is true,
one does not find to the same degree as in the Welsh 'Mabino-
gion' the infusion of the medieval chivalric sentiment, turned to
such delightful account by the Latin races. But there are instances
in plenty to be cited of chivalric devices, from the Ossianic sagas,
which seem to connect themselves with more southern chivalries.
Some of the customs of the ancient Celtic chivalry bear a curi-
ous resemblance to the more finished code of medieval Europe. If a
lady put geasa (obligation) on a knight or chief, he must obey her,
matter what she asked of him. Thus when the great Finn
no


## p. 10874 (#82) ###########################################

10874
OSSIAN
was still in his barbaric youth, and clad in the skins of wild animals,
he met one day with a highly romantic adventure. Approaching a
stream that ran between steep banks, he descried on one side a party
of damsels, and on the other a party of knights. One who was
clearly the princess among these maidens was, on Finn's approach,
loudly declaring that he who should desire her hand must first leap
the deep, swift stream betwixt them. On the other bank stood the
unfortunate lover, clapping his arms, without courage for the deed.
Thereat Finn came boldly forward, and asked the lady if her hand
should be his on his accomplishing the feat? She answered that
he looked a handsome youth, though so marvelously ill clad; and
that he might have her if he showed himself man enough for the
deed. So Finn took the leap; but then she laid geasa on him that he
should do the like every year. Another princess laid geasa upon him
that he should leap over a dallan as high as his chin, with another
stone of the same size borne upward on the palm of his hand.
Another and tragic instance of the geasa is to be found in the
fate of the beautiful but unfortunate Diarmud MacDoon: one of the
most unforgetable figures in all Ossianic literature. Diarmud pos-
sessed one fatal gift, the ball-seirce,- the power of kindling love in
all the women he met. He was said to have the magic "spot of
beauty" on his forehead, which drew the hearts of all who looked
on him. He was a nephew of Finn, who rejoiced in his bold feats.
The beginning of his misfortune was the wedding feast of Finn with
Grainne, the daughter of King Cormac. At the feast the bride laid
geasa on Diarmud that he should carry her off from her people; and
though this was against his own feeling and his oath of chivalry,
he was obliged to obey. The well-known beautiful ballad 'The Lay
of Diarmud' tells the story of this tragic episode, and Diarmud's
death. The story has been told again and again by Gaelic and
Anglo-Celtic poets; and in its many different versions affords a key
of many wards to the Ossianic entrance-gate. We have references
to it in eleventh-century MSS. , as well as in nineteenth-century re-
prints; and in its most recent reincarnation in modern Irish poetry,
we have a suggestive instance to compare with the literary method
of a very different school of poetr in the last century,- Macpher-
son's, to wit.
Before we turn now, and finally, to the consideration of Mac-
pherson's Ossiana, as resuming in another form and under other
colors the old heroic spirit of the cycle, let us remind the reader
that its whole extent, from the old primitive Fionn and Diarmud
and Ossian to their mediæval or modern counterpart, is simply
immense. We can only pretend here to show the way into this
enchanted realm, and to give a clue to the best and most picturesque
parts of it. But it must be remembered that there is a great deal of


## p. 10875 (#83) ###########################################

OSSIAN
10875
rough ground to get over, and many a thorny thicket to be struggled
through, and many a tiring monotonous road to be traversed. These
are the risks of the adventure; but such risks did not frighten away
Ossian and his fellowship of old, and ought not to frighten the Ossi-
anic student to-day who reads, as they fought, with some spirit and
mother-wit.
Fianna, or Faerie Host,* as sure as old Celtic history can
make them, or as tenuous as the myths of the elements personified
by primitive man ere the Gael reached Britain, they leave one at
last haunted by a music that is only to be found in Celtic poetry.
For a last echo of its melody we must fall back on an unrhymed
version, as affording a fairer point of departure into the long dithy-
rambic rhymeless Ossiana of Macpherson.
IN WELL-DEVISED battle array,
Ahead of their fair chieftain
They march amidst blue spears,
White, curly-headed bands.
They scatter the forces of their foes,
They ravage every hostile land,
Splendidly they march, they march,-
Impetuous, avenging host!
No wonder if their strength be great:
Sons of kings and queens, each one!
On all their heads are
Beautiful golden-yellow manes;
With smooth, comely bodies,
With bright blue-starred eyes,
With pure crystal teeth,
With thin red lips:
Splendidly they march, they march:
Good they are at man-slaying.
In these lines of the 'Fairy Host' we have a color, a life, that is
indicative of old Celtic poetry, and that we miss in the Ossianic
poetry of Macpherson. Broadly, the gloom which characterizes so
much modern Celtic and Anglo-Celtic poetry is not to be found in
the ancient ballads and narratives. True, a genuinely indicative sense
of fatality, of the inevitableness of tragic doom, is often to be found
there. To this day, 'The Lay of Diarmud and Grainne,' or the story
*This is a common interpretation: but the real Fairy Host of tradition is
the mythical Dedannan folk, the Tuatha dé Danann,-"the proudly secure,
beautiful, song-loving, peaceful, hunting people» who inhabited Ireland before
it was invaded by the Milesians; i. e. , the Iberian-Celtic immigration from
Spain under Mil (Mil, Miledh, or Miles).


## p. 10876 (#84) ###########################################

10876
OSSIAN
of 'The Children of Lir,' whether accepted as they have come to
us, or (as in the latter instance) disengaged from early monkish or
mediæval embroidering, remain typical Celtic productions; as, on
another side, may be said of the relatively little known but remark-
able 'Lay of the Amadan Mor,' or 'The Great Fool,' a Gaelic type
after the manner of a Sir Galahad crossed with Don Quixote. *
In Macpherson's 'Ossian-much of which is mere rhetoric, much
of which is arbitrary, and of the eighteenth rather than of the third
century- the abiding charm is that of the lament of a perishing
people; the abiding spell, that of the passing of an ancient and irrev-
ocable order of things. We read it now, not as an authentic chron-
icle of the doings of Finn and his cycle, not even as an authentic
patchwork of old ballads and narratives, but as an imaginary record
based upon fragmentary and fugitive survivals, told not according to
the letter but according to the spirit,― told too in the manner of the
sombre imagination of the Highland Gael, an individual distinct in
many respects from his Irish congener. But we touch the bed-rock
of Celtic emotion here too, again and again.
But first let us see how the rhythmic prose of some of the ancient
poets runs; for it is often ignorance that makes English critics speak
of Macpherson's prose as wholly arbitrary and unnatural to the Celtic
genius. Here is a very ancient Ossianic production known as
CREDHE'S LAMENT
THE
HE haven roars, and O the haven roars, over the rushing race
of Rinn-dá-bharc! The drowning of the warrior of loch dá
chonn - that is what the wave impinging on the strand
laments. Melodious is the crane, and O melodious is the crane,
in the marshlands of Druim-dá-thrén! 'Tis she that may not save
her brood alive: the wild dog of two colors is intent upon her
nestlings. A woeful note, and O a woeful note, is that which the
thrush in Drumqueen emits! but not more cheerful is the wail
that the blackbird makes in Letterlee. A woeful sound, and O a
woeful sound, is that the deer utters in Drumdaleish! Dead lies
the doe of Druim Silenn: the mighty stag bells after her. Sore
suffering to me, and O suffering sore, is the hero's death-his
death, that used to lie with me!
Sore suffering to me is
Cael, and O Cael is a suffering sore, that by my side he is in
dead man's form! That the wave should have swept over his
white body, that is what hath distracted me, so great was his
* It is interesting to note that he has an equivalent in the Peronik of
Breton-Celtic legend, as well as in Cymric and Arthurian romance.


## p. 10877 (#85) ###########################################

OSSIAN
10877
delightfulness. A dismal roar, and O a dismal roar, is that the
shore-surf makes upon the strand! seeing that the same hath
drowned the comely noble man; to me it is an affliction that Cael
ever sought to encounter it. A woeful booming, and O a boom
of woe, is that which the wave makes upon the northward beach!
beating as it does against the polished rock, lamenting for Cael,
now that he is gone. A woeful fight, and O a fight of woe, is
that the wave wages against the southern shore! As for me, my
span is determined!
A woeful melody, and O a melody
of woe, is that which the heavy surge of Tullachleish emits! As
for me, the calamity that is fallen upon me having shattered me,
for me prosperity exists no more. Since now Crimthann's son is
drowned, one that I may love after him there is not in being.
Many a chief is fallen by his hand, and in the battle his shield
never uttered outcry!
There are some who prefer these old Celtic productions literally
translated, while others can take no pleasure in them unless they
are rendered anew in prose narrative or in rhymed verse. 'Credhe's
Lament' exemplifies one kind; the following Ossianic ballad the
other. It is an extended and less simple but otherwise faithful
version of the lament of Deirdrê (Macpherson's Darthula-for the
Irish Deirdre is in the Highlands Dearduil, which is pronounced Dar-
thool), the Helen of Gaeldom.
DEIRDRE'S LAMENT FOR THE SONS OF USNACH
HE lions of the hill are gone,
And I am left alone- alone:
THE
Dig the grave both wide and deep,
For I am sick, and fain would sleep!
The falcons of the wood are flown,
And I am left alone - alone:
Dig the grave both deep and wide,
And let us slumber side by side.
The dragons of the rock are sleeping,
Sleep that wakes not for our weeping:
Dig the grave, and make it ready,
Lay me on my true-love's body.
Lay their spears and bucklers bright
By the warriors' sides aright:
Many a day the three before me
On their linkèd bucklers bore me.


## p. 10878 (#86) ###########################################

10878
OSSIAN
Lay upon the low grave floor,
'Neath each head, the blue claymore:
Many a time the noble three
Reddened their blue blades for me.
Lay the collars, as is meet,
Of the greyhounds at their feet:
Many a time for me have they
Brought the tall red deer to bay.
In the falcon's jesses throw,
Hook and arrow, line and bow:
Never again, by stream or plain,
Shall the gentle woodsmen go.
Sweet companions were ye ever,—
Harsh to me, your sister, never;
Woods and wilds, and misty valleys,
Were with you as good's a palace.