Ah, Exiles,
wandering
over many lands!
Yeats - Poems
(_They rush out. _ ALEEL _crawls into the middle of the room_. _The
twilight has fallen and gradually darkens as the scene goes on. There is
a distant muttering of thunder and a sound of rising storm. _)
ALEEL
The brazen door stands wide, and Balor comes
Borne in his heavy car, and demons have lifted
The age-weary eyelids from the eyes that of old
Turned gods to stone; Barach, the traitor, comes
And the lascivious race, Cailitin,
That cast a druid weakness and decay
Over Sualtem's and old Dectera's child;
And that great king Hell first took hold upon
When he killed Naisi and broke Deirdre's heart
And all their heads are twisted to one side,
For when they lived they warred on beauty and peace
With obstinate, crafty, sidelong bitterness.
(_He moves about as though the air above him was full of spirits_. OONA
_enters_. )
Crouch down, old heron, out of the blind storm.
OONA
Where is the Countess Cathleen? All this day
Her eyes were full of tears, and when for a moment
Her hand was laid upon my hand it trembled,
And now I do not know where she is gone.
ALEEL
Cathleen has chosen other friends than us,
And they are rising through the hollow world.
Demons are out, old heron.
OONA
God guard her soul.
ALEEL
She's bartered it away this very hour,
As though we two were never in the world.
(_He points downward. _)
First, Orchill, her pale, beautiful head
Her body shadowy as vapour drifting
Under the dawn, for she who awoke desire
Has but a heart of blood when others die;
About her is a vapoury multitude
Of women alluring devils with soft laughter;
Behind her a host heat of the blood made sin,
But all the little pink-white nails have grown
To be great talons.
(_He seizes_ OONA _and drags her into the middle of the room and points
downward with vehement gestures_. _The wind roars. _)
They begin a song
And there is still some music on their tongues.
OONA (_casting herself face downwards on the floor_)
O, Maker of all, protect her from the demons,
And if a soul must need be lost, take mine.
(ALEEL _kneels beside her, but does not seem to hear her words_. _The_
PEASANTS _return_. _They carry the_ COUNTESS CATHLEEN _and lay her upon
the ground before_ OONA _and_ ALEEL. _She lies there as if dead. _)
OONA
O, that so many pitchers of rough clay
Should prosper and the porcelain break in two!
(_She kisses the hands of_ CATHLEEN. )
A PEASANT
We were under the tree where the path turns,
When she grew pale as death and fainted away.
And while we bore her hither cloudy gusts
Blackened the world and shook us on our feet;
Draw the great bolt, for no man has beheld
So black, bitter, blinding, and sudden a storm.
(_One who is near the door draws the bolt. _)
CATHLEEN
O, hold me, and hold me tightly, for the storm
Is dragging me away.
(OONA _takes her in her arms_. A WOMAN _begins to wail_. )
PEASANT
Hush!
PEASANTS
Hush!
PEASANT WOMEN
Hush!
OTHER PEASANT WOMEN
Hush!
CATHLEEN (_half rising_)
Lay all the bags of money in a heap,
And when I am gone, old Oona, share them out
To every man and woman: judge, and give
According to their needs.
A PEASANT WOMAN
And will she give
Enough to keep my children through the dearth?
ANOTHER PEASANT WOMAN
O, Queen of Heaven, and all you blessed saints,
Let us and ours be lost so she be shriven.
CATHLEEN
Bend down your faces, Oona and Aleel;
I gaze upon them as the swallow gazes
Upon the nest under the eave, before
She wander the loud waters. Do not weep
Too great a while, for there is many a candle
On the High Altar though one fall. Aleel,
Who sang about the dancers of the woods,
That know not the hard burden of the world,
Having but breath in their kind bodies, farewell!
And farewell, Oona, you who played with me,
And bore me in your arms about the house
When I was but a child and therefore happy,
Therefore happy, even like those that dance.
The storm is in my hair and I must go.
(_She dies. _)
OONA
Bring me the looking-glass.
(A WOMAN _brings it to her out of the inner room_. OONA _holds it over
the lips of_ CATHLEEN. _All is silent for a moment. And then she speaks
in a half scream_:)
O, she is dead!
A PEASANT
She was the great white lily of the world.
A PEASANT
She was more beautiful than the pale stars.
AN OLD PEASANT WOMAN
The little plant I love is broken in two.
(ALEEL _takes looking-glass from_ OONA _and flings it upon the floor so
that it is broken in many pieces_. )
ALEEL
I shatter you in fragments, for the face
That brimmed you up with beauty is no more:
And die, dull heart, for she whose mournful words
Made you a living spirit has passed away
And left you but a ball of passionate dust.
And you, proud earth and plumy sea, fade out!
For you may hear no more her faltering feet,
But are left lonely amid the clamorous war
Of angels upon devils.
(_He stands up; almost every one is kneeling, but it has grown so dark
that only confused forms can be seen. _)
And I who weep
Call curses on you, Time and Fate and Change,
And have no excellent hope but the great hour
When you shall plunge headlong through bottomless space.
(_A flash of lightning followed immediately by thunder. _)
A PEASANT WOMAN
Pull him upon his knees before his curses
Have plucked thunder and lightning on our heads.
ALEEL
Angels and devils clash in the middle air,
And brazen swords clang upon brazen helms.
(_A flash of lightning followed immediately by thunder. _)
Yonder a bright spear, cast out of a sling,
Has torn through Balor's eye, and the dark clans
Fly screaming as they fled Moytura of old.
(_Everything is lost in darkness. _)
AN OLD MAN
The Almighty wrath at our great weakness and sin
Has blotted out the world and we must die.
(_The darkness is broken by a visionary light. The_ PEASANTS _seem to be
kneeling upon the_ _rocky slope of a mountain, and vapour full of storm
and ever-changing light is sweeping above them and behind them. Half in
the light, half in the shadow, stand armed angels. Their armour is old
and worn, and their drawn swords dim and dinted. They stand as if upon
the air in formation of battle and look downward with stern faces. The_
PEASANTS _cast themselves on the ground_. )
ALEEL
Look no more on the half-closed gates of Hell,
But speak to me, whose mind is smitten of God,
That it may be no more with mortal things,
And tell of her who lies there.
(_He seizes one of the angels. _)
Till you speak
You shall not drift into eternity.
THE ANGEL
The light beats down; the gates of pearl are wide
And she is passing to the floor of peace,
And Mary of the seven times wounded heart
Has kissed her lips, and the long blessed hair
Has fallen on her face; The Light of Lights
Looks always on the motive, not the deed,
The Shadow of Shadows on the deed alone.
(ALEEL _releases the_ ANGEL _and kneels_. )
OONA
Tell them who walk upon the floor of peace
That I would die and go to her I love;
The years like great black oxen tread the world,
And God the herdsman goads them on behind
And I am broken by their passing feet.
(_A sound of far-off horns seems to come from the heart of the Light.
The vision melts away, and the forms of the kneeling_ PEASANTS _appear
faintly in the darkness_. )
THE ROSE
"_Sero te amavi, Pulchritudo tam antiqua et tam nova! Sero te
amavi. _"
S. AUGUSTINE.
TO LIONEL JOHNSON
TO THE ROSE UPON THE ROOD OF TIME
_Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days!
Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways:
Cuchulain battling with the bitter tide;
The Druid, gray, wood-nurtured, quiet-eyed,
Who cast round Fergus dreams, and ruin untold;
And thine own sadness, whereof stars, grown old
In dancing silver sandalled on the sea,
Sing in their high and lonely melody.
Come near, that no more blinded by man's fate,
I find under the boughs of love and hate,
In all poor foolish things that live a day,
Eternal beauty wandering on her way. _
_Come near, come near, come near--Ah, leave me still
A little space for the rose-breath to fill!
Lest I no more hear common things that crave;
The weak worm hiding down in its small cave,_
_The field mouse running by me in the grass,
And heavy mortal hopes that toil and pass;
But seek alone to hear the strange things said
By God to the bright hearts of those long dead,
And learn to chaunt a tongue men do not know.
Come near; I would, before my time to go,
Sing of old Eire and the ancient ways:
Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days. _
FERGUS AND THE DRUID
FERGUS
The whole day have I followed in the rocks,
And you have changed and flowed from shape to shape.
First as a raven on whose ancient wings
Scarcely a feather lingered, then you seemed
A weasel moving on from stone to stone,
And now at last you wear a human shape,
A thin gray man half lost in gathering night.
DRUID
What would you, king of the proud Red Branch kings?
FERGUS
This would I say, most wise of living souls:
Young subtle Concobar sat close by me
When I gave judgment, and his words were wise,
And what to me was burden without end,
To him seemed easy, so I laid the crown
Upon his head to cast away my care.
DRUID
What would you, king of the proud Red Branch kings?
FERGUS
I feast amid my people on the hill,
And pace the woods, and drive my chariot wheels
In the white border of the murmuring sea;
And still I feel the crown upon my head.
DRUID
What would you?
FERGUS
I would be no more a king
But learn the dreaming wisdom that is yours.
DRUID
Look on my thin gray hair and hollow cheeks
And on these hands that may not lift the sword
This body trembling like a wind-blown reed.
No woman loves me, no man seeks my help,
Because I be not of the things I dream.
FERGUS
A wild and foolish labourer is a king,
To do and do and do, and never dream.
DRUID
Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams;
Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.
FERGUS
I see my life go dripping like a stream
From change to change; I have been many things,
A green drop in the surge, a gleam of light
Upon a sword, a fir-tree on a hill,
An old slave grinding at a heavy quern,
A king sitting upon a chair of gold,
And all these things were wonderful and great;
But now I have grown nothing, being all,
And the whole world weighs down upon my heart:
Ah! Druid, Druid, how great webs of sorrow
Lay hidden in the small slate-coloured bag!
THE DEATH OF CUCHULAIN
A man came slowly from the setting sun,
To Forgail's daughter, Emer, in her dun,
And found her dyeing cloth with subtle care,
And said, casting aside his draggled hair:
"I am Aleel, the swineherd, whom you bid
"Go dwell upon the sea cliffs, vapour hid;
"But now my years of watching are no more. "
Then Emer cast the web upon the floor,
And stretching out her arms, red with the dye,
Parted her lips with a loud sudden cry.
Looking on her, Aleel, the swineherd, said:
"Not any god alive, nor mortal dead,
"Has slain so mighty armies, so great kings,
"Nor won the gold that now Cuchulain brings. "
"Why do you tremble thus from feet to crown? "
Aleel, the swineherd, wept and cast him down
Upon the web-heaped floor, and thus his word:
"With him is one sweet-throated like a bird. "
"Who bade you tell these things? " and then she cried
To those about, "Beat him with thongs of hide
"And drive him from the door. "
And thus it was:
And where her son, Finmole, on the smooth grass
Was driving cattle, came she with swift feet,
And called out to him, "Son, it is not meet
"That you stay idling here with flocks and herds. "
"I have long waited, mother, for those words:
"But wherefore now? "
"There is a man to die;
"You have the heaviest arm under the sky. "
"My father dwells among the sea-worn bands,
"And breaks the ridge of battle with his hands. "
"Nay, you are taller than Cuchulain, son. "
"He is the mightiest man in ship or dun. "
"Nay, he is old and sad with many wars,
"And weary of the crash of battle cars. "
"I only ask what way my journey lies,
"For God, who made you bitter, made you wise. "
"The Red Branch kings a tireless banquet keep,
"Where the sun falls into the Western deep.
"Go there, and dwell on the green forest rim;
"But tell alone your name and house to him
"Whose blade compels, and bid them send you one
"Who has a like vow from their triple dun. "
Between the lavish shelter of a wood
And the gray tide, the Red Branch multitude
Feasted, and with them old Cuchulain dwelt,
And his young dear one close beside him knelt,
And gazed upon the wisdom of his eyes,
More mournful than the depth of starry skies,
And pondered on the wonder of his days;
And all around the harp-string told his praise,
And Concobar, the Red Branch king of kings,
With his own fingers touched the brazen strings.
At last Cuchulain spake, "A young man strays
"Driving the deer along the woody ways.
"I often hear him singing to and fro,
"I often hear the sweet sound of his bow,
"Seek out what man he is. "
One went and came.
"He bade me let all know he gives his name
"At the sword point, and bade me bring him one
"Who had a like vow from our triple dun. "
"I only of the Red Branch hosted now,"
Cuchulain cried, "have made and keep that vow. "
After short fighting in the leafy shade,
He spake to the young man, "Is there no maid
"Who loves you, no white arms to wrap you round,
"Or do you long for the dim sleepy ground,
"That you come here to meet this ancient sword? "
"The dooms of men are in God's hidden hoard. "
"Your head a while seemed like a woman's head
"That I loved once. "
Again the fighting sped,
But now the war rage in Cuchulain woke,
And through the other's shield his long blade broke,
And pierced him.
"Speak before your breath is done. "
"I am Finmole, mighty Cuchulain's son. "
"I put you from your pain. I can no more. "
While day its burden on to evening bore,
With head bowed on his knees Cuchulain stayed;
Then Concobar sent that sweet-throated maid,
And she, to win him, his gray hair caressed;
In vain her arms, in vain her soft white breast.
Then Concobar, the subtlest of all men,
Ranking his Druids round him ten by ten,
Spake thus, "Cuchulain will dwell there and brood,
"For three days more in dreadful quietude,
"And then arise, and raving slay us all.
"Go, cast on him delusions magical,
"That he might fight the waves of the loud sea. "
And ten by ten under a quicken tree,
The Druids chaunted, swaying in their hands
Tall wands of alder, and white quicken wands.
In three days' time, Cuchulain with a moan
Stood up, and came to the long sands alone:
For four days warred he with the bitter tide;
And the waves flowed above him, and he died.
THE ROSE OF THE WORLD
Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?
For these red lips, with all their mournful pride,
Mournful that no new wonder may betide,
Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam,
And Usna's children died.
We and the labouring world are passing by:
Amid men's souls, that waver and give place,
Like the pale waters in their wintry race,
Under the passing stars, foam of the sky,
Lives on this lonely face.
Bow down, archangels, in your dim abode:
Before you were, or any hearts to beat,
Weary and kind one lingered by His seat;
He made the world to be a grassy road
Before her wandering feet.
THE ROSE OF PEACE
If Michael, leader of God's host
When Heaven and Hell are met,
Looked down on you from Heaven's door-post
He would his deeds forget.
Brooding no more upon God's wars
In his Divine homestead,
He would go weave out of the stars
A chaplet for your head.
And all folk seeing him bow down,
And white stars tell your praise,
Would come at last to God's great town,
Led on by gentle ways;
And God would bid His warfare cease.
Saying all things were well;
And softly make a rosy peace,
A peace of Heaven with Hell.
THE ROSE OF BATTLE
Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World!
The tall thought-woven sails, that flap unfurled
Above the tide of hours, trouble the air,
And God's bell buoyed to be the water's care;
While hushed from fear, or loud with hope, a band
With blown, spray-dabbled hair gather at hand.
_Turn if you may from battles never done_,
I call, as they go by me one by one,
_Danger no refuge holds; and war no peace,
For him who hears love sing and never cease,
Beside her clean-swept hearth, her quiet shade:
But gather all for whom no love hath made
A woven silence, or but came to cast
A song into the air, and singing past
To smile on the pale dawn; and gather you
Who have sought more than is in rain or dew
Or in the sun and moon, or on the earth,_
_Or sighs amid the wandering, starry mirth,
Or comes in laughter from the sea's sad lips
And wage God's battles in the long gray ships.
The sad, the lonely, the insatiable,
To these Old Night shall all her mystery tell;
God's bell has claimed them by the little cry
Of their sad hearts, that may not live nor die. _
Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World!
You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled
Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring
The bell that calls us on; the sweet far thing.
Beauty grown sad with its eternity
Made you of us, and of the dim gray sea.
Our long ships loose thought-woven sails and wait,
For God has bid them share an equal fate;
And when at last defeated in His wars,
They have gone down under the same white stars,
We shall no longer hear the little cry
Of our sad hearts, that may not live nor die.
A FAERY SONG
_Sung by the people of faery over Diarmuid and Grania, who lay in
their bridal sleep under a Cromlech. _
We who are old, old and gay,
O so old!
Thousands of years, thousands of years,
If all were told:
Give to these children, new from the world,
Silence and love;
And the long dew-dropping hours of the night,
And the stars above:
Give to these children, new from the world,
Rest far from men.
Is anything better, anything better?
Tell us it then:
Us who are old, old and gay,
O so old!
Thousands of years, thousands of years,
If all were told.
THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
A CRADLE SONG
"_Coth yani me von gilli beg,
'N heur ve thu more a creena_. "
The angels are stooping
Above your bed;
They weary of trooping
With the whimpering dead.
God's laughing in heaven
To see you so good;
The Shining Seven
Are gay with His mood.
I kiss you and kiss you,
My pigeon, my own;
Ah, how I shall miss you
When you have grown.
THE PITY OF LOVE
A pity beyond all telling
Is hid in the heart of love:
The folk who are buying and selling
The clouds on their journey above
The cold wet winds ever blowing
And the shadowy hazel grove
Where mouse-gray waters are flowing
Threaten the head that I love.
THE SORROW OF LOVE
The quarrel of the sparrows in the eaves,
The full round moon and the star-laden sky,
And the loud song of the ever-singing leaves,
Had hid away earth's old and weary cry.
And then you came with those red mournful lips,
And with you came the whole of the world's tears
And all the trouble of her labouring ships,
And all the trouble of her myriad years.
And now the sparrows warring in the eaves,
The curd-pale moon, the white stars in the sky,
And the loud chaunting of the unquiet leaves,
Are shaken with earth's old and weary cry.
WHEN YOU ARE OLD
When you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty will love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
And bending down beside the glowing bars
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
THE WHITE BIRDS
I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea!
We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can fade and flee;
And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low
on the rim of the sky,
Has awaked in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that may not die.
A weariness comes from those dreamers, dew dabbled, the lily and rose;
Ah, dream not of them, my beloved, the flame of the meteor that goes,
Or the flame of the blue star that lingers hung low
in the fall of the dew:
For I would we were changed to white birds on the
wandering foam: I and you!
I am haunted by numberless islands, and many a Danaan shore,
Where Time would surely forget us, and Sorrow come near us no more;
Soon far from the rose and the lily, and fret of the flames would we be,
Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoyed out on the foam of the sea!
A DREAM OF DEATH
I dreamed that one had died in a strange place
Near no accustomed hand;
And they had nailed the boards above her face
The peasants of that land,
Wondering to lay her in that solitude,
And raised above her mound
A cross they had made out of two bits of wood,
And planted cypress round;
And left her to the indifferent stars above
Until I carved these words:
_She was more beautiful than thy first love,
But now lies under boards_.
A DREAM OF A BLESSED SPIRIT
All the heavy days are over;
Leave the body's coloured pride
Underneath the grass and clover,
With the feet laid side by side.
One with her are mirth and duty,
Bear the gold embroidered dress,
For she needs not her sad beauty,
To the scented oaken press.
Hers the kiss of Mother Mary,
The long hair is on her face;
Still she goes with footsteps wary,
Full of earth's old timid grace.
With white feet of angels seven
Her white feet go glimmering
And above the deep of heaven,
Flame on flame and wing on wing.
WHO GOES WITH FERGUS?
Who will go drive with Fergus now,
And pierce the deep wood's woven shade,
And dance upon the level shore?
Young man, lift up your russet brow,
And lift your tender eyelids, maid,
And brood on hopes and fears no more.
And no more turn aside and brood
Upon Love's bitter mystery;
For Fergus rules the brazen cars,
And rules the shadows of the wood,
And the white breast of the dim sea
And all dishevelled wandering stars.
THE MAN WHO DREAMED OF FAERYLAND
He stood among a crowd at Drumahair;
His heart hung all upon a silken dress,
And he had known at last some tenderness,
Before earth made of him her sleepy care;
But when a man poured fish into a pile,
It seemed they raised their little silver heads,
And sang how day a Druid twilight sheds
Upon a dim, green, well-beloved isle,
Where people love beside star-laden seas;
How Time may never mar their faery vows
Under the woven roofs of quicken boughs:
The singing shook him out of his new ease.
He wandered by the sands of Lisadill;
His mind ran all on money cares and fears,
And he had known at last some prudent years
Before they heaped his grave under the hill;
But while he passed before a plashy place,
A lug-worm with its gray and muddy mouth
Sang how somewhere to north or west or south
There dwelt a gay, exulting, gentle race;
And how beneath those three times blessed skies
A Danaan fruitage makes a shower of moons,
And as it falls awakens leafy tunes:
And at that singing he was no more wise.
He mused beside the well of Scanavin,
He mused upon his mockers: without fail
His sudden vengeance were a country tale,
Now that deep earth has drunk his body in;
But one small knot-grass growing by the pool
Told where, ah, little, all-unneeded voice!
Old Silence bids a lonely folk rejoice,
And chaplet their calm brows with leafage cool,
And how, when fades the sea-strewn rose of day,
A gentle feeling wraps them like a fleece,
And all their trouble dies into its peace:
The tale drove his fine angry mood away.
He slept under the hill of Lugnagall;
And might have known at last unhaunted sleep
Under that cold and vapour-turbaned steep,
Now that old earth had taken man and all:
Were not the worms that spired about his bones
A-telling with their low and reedy cry,
Of how God leans His hands out of the sky,
To bless that isle with honey in His tones;
That none may feel the power of squall and wave
And no one any leaf-crowned dancer miss
Until He burn up Nature with a kiss:
The man has found no comfort in the grave.
THE DEDICATION TO A BOOK OF STORIES SELECTED FROM THE IRISH NOVELISTS
There was a green branch hung with many a bell
When her own people ruled in wave-worn Eire;
And from its murmuring greenness, calm of faery,
A Druid kindness, on all hearers fell.
It charmed away the merchant from his guile,
And turned the farmer's memory from his cattle,
And hushed in sleep the roaring ranks of battle,
For all who heard it dreamed a little while.
Ah, Exiles wandering over many seas,
Spinning at all times Eire's good to-morrow!
Ah, worldwide Nation, always growing Sorrow!
I also bear a bell branch full of ease.
I tore it from green boughs winds tossed and hurled,
Green boughs of tossing always, weary, weary!
I tore it from the green boughs of old Eire,
The willow of the many-sorrowed world.
Ah, Exiles, wandering over many lands!
My bell branch murmurs: the gay bells bring laughter,
Leaping to shake a cobweb from the rafter;
The sad bells bow the forehead on the hands.
A honeyed ringing: under the new skies
They bring you memories of old village faces,
Cabins gone now, old well-sides, old dear places;
And men who loved the cause that never dies.
THE LAMENTATION OF THE OLD PENSIONER
I had a chair at every hearth,
When no one turned to see,
With "Look at that old fellow there,
"And who may he be? "
And therefore do I wander now,
And the fret lies on me.
The road-side trees keep murmuring
Ah, wherefore murmur ye,
As in the old days long gone by,
Green oak and poplar tree?
The well-known faces are all gone
And the fret lies on me.
THE BALLAD OF FATHER GILLIGAN
The old priest Peter Gilligan
Was weary night and day;
For half his flock were in their beds,
Or under green sods lay.
Once, while he nodded on a chair,
At the moth-hour of eve,
Another poor man sent for him,
And he began to grieve.
"I have no rest, nor joy, nor peace,
"For people die and die";
And after cried he, "God forgive!
"My body spake, not I! "
He knelt, and leaning on the chair
He prayed and fell asleep;
And the moth-hour went from the fields,
And stars began to peep.
They slowly into millions grew,
And leaves shook in the wind;
And God covered the world with shade,
And whispered to mankind.
Upon the time of sparrow chirp
When the moths came once more,
The old priest Peter Gilligan
Stood upright on the floor.
"Mavrone, mavrone! the man has died,
"While I slept on the chair";
He roused his horse out of its sleep,
And rode with little care.
He rode now as he never rode,
By rocky lane and fen;
The sick man's wife opened the door:
"Father! you come again! "
"And is the poor man dead? " he cried,
"He died an hour ago,"
The old priest Peter Gilligan
In grief swayed to and fro.
"When you were gone, he turned and died
"As merry as a bird. "
The old priest Peter Gilligan
He knelt him at that word.
"He who hath made the night of stars
"For souls, who tire and bleed,
"Sent one of His great angels down
"To help me in my need.
"He who is wrapped in purple robes,
"With planets in His care,
"Had pity on the least of things
"Asleep upon a chair. "
THE TWO TREES
Beloved, gaze in thine own heart,
The holy tree is growing there;
From joy the holy branches start,
And all the trembling flowers they bear.
The changing colours of its fruit
Have dowered the stars with merry light;
The surety of its hidden root
Has planted quiet in the night;
The shaking of its leafy head
Has given the waves their melody,
And made my lips and music wed,
Murmuring a wizard song for thee.
There, through bewildered branches, go
Winged Loves borne on in gentle strife,
Tossing and tossing to and fro
The flaming circle of our life.
When looking on their shaken hair,
And dreaming how they dance and dart,
Thine eyes grow full of tender care:
Beloved, gaze in thine own heart.
Gaze no more in the bitter glass
The demons, with their subtle guile,
Lift up before us when they pass,
Or only gaze a little while;
For there a fatal image grows,
With broken boughs, and blackened leaves,
And roots half hidden under snows
Driven by a storm that ever grieves.
For all things turn to barrenness
In the dim glass the demons hold,
The glass of outer weariness,
Made when God slept in times of old.
There, through the broken branches, go
The ravens of unresting thought;
Peering and flying to and fro
To see men's souls bartered and bought.
When they are heard upon the wind,
And when they shake their wings; alas!
Thy tender eyes grow all unkind:
Gaze no more in the bitter glass.
TO IRELAND IN THE COMING TIMES
_Know, that I would accounted be
True brother of that company,
Who sang to sweeten Ireland's wrong,
Ballad and story, rann and song;
Nor be I any less of them,
Because the red-rose-bordered hem
Of her, whose history began
Before God made the angelic clan,
Trails all about the written page;
For in the world's first blossoming age
The light fall of her flying feet
Made Ireland's heart begin to beat;
And still the starry candles flare
To help her light foot here and there;
And still the thoughts of Ireland brood
Upon her holy quietude. _
_Nor may I less be counted one
With Davis, Mangan, Ferguson,
Because to him, who ponders well,
My rhymes more than their rhyming tell
Of the dim wisdoms old and deep,
That God gives unto man in sleep.
For the elemental beings go
About my table to and fro.
In flood and fire and clay and wind,
They huddle from man's pondering mind;
Yet he who treads in austere ways
May surely meet their ancient gaze.
Man ever journeys on with them
After the red-rose-bordered hem.
Ah, faeries, dancing under the moon,
A Druid land, a Druid tune! _
_While still I may, I write for you
The love I lived, the dream I knew.
From our birthday, until we die,
Is but the winking of an eye;
And we, our singing and our love,
The mariners of night above,
And all the wizard things that go
About my table to and fro.
Are passing on to where may be,
In truth's consuming ecstasy
No place for love and dream at all;
For God goes by with white foot-fall.
I cast my heart into my rhymes,
That you, in the dim coming times,
May know how my heart went with them
After the red-rose-bordered hem. _
THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE
_O Rose, thou art sick. _
WILLIAM BLAKE.
TO
FLORENCE FARR
MAURTEEN BRUIN
BRIDGET BRUIN
SHAWN BRUIN
MARY BRUIN
FATHER HART
A FAERY CHILD
_The Scene is laid in the Barony of Kilmacowen, in the County of
Sligo, and at a remote time. _
SCENE. --_A room with a hearth on the floor in the middle of a deep
alcove to the Right. There are benches in the alcove and a table;
and a crucifix on the wall. The alcove is full of a glow of light
from the fire. There is an open door facing the audience to the
Left, and to the left of this a bench. Through the door one can see
the forest. It is night, but the moon or a late sunset glimmers
through the trees and carries the eye far off into a vague,
mysterious world. _ MAURTEEN BRUIN, SHAWN BRUIN, _and_ BRIDGET BRUIN
_sit in the alcove at the table or about the fire. They are dressed
in the costume of some remote time, and near them sits an old
priest_, FATHER HART. _He may be dressed as a friar. There is food
and drink upon the table_. MARY BRUIN _stands by the door reading a
book. If she looks up she can see through the door into the wood. _
BRIDGET
Because I bid her clean the pots for supper
She took that old book down out of the thatch;
She has been doubled over it ever since.
We should be deafened by her groans and moans
Had she to work as some do, Father Hart;
Get up at dawn like me and mend and scour
Or ride abroad in the boisterous night like you,
The pyx and blessed bread under your arm.
SHAWN
Mother, you are too cross.
BRIDGET
You've married her,
And fear to vex her and so take her part.
MAURTEEN (_to_ FATHER HART)
It is but right that youth should side with youth;
She quarrels with my wife a bit at times,
And is too deep just now in the old book!
But do not blame her greatly; she will grow
As quiet as a puff-ball in a tree
When but the moons of marriage dawn and die
For half a score of times.
FATHER HART
Their hearts are wild,
As be the hearts of birds, till children come.
BRIDGET
She would not mind the kettle, milk the cow,
Or even lay the knives and spread the cloth.
SHAWN
Mother, if only----
MAURTEEN
Shawn, this is half empty;
Go, bring up the best bottle that we have.
FATHER HART
I never saw her read a book before,
What can it be?
MAURTEEN (_to_ SHAWN)
What are you waiting for?
You must not shake it when you draw the cork;
It's precious wine, so take your time about it.
(_To Priest. _) (SHAWN _goes_. )
There was a Spaniard wrecked at Ocris Head,
When I was young, and I have still some bottles.
He cannot bear to hear her blamed; the book
Has lain up in the thatch these fifty years;
My father told me my grandfather wrote it,
And killed a heifer for the binding of it--
But supper's spread, and we can talk and eat
It was little good he got out of the book,
Because it filled his house with rambling fiddlers,
And rambling ballad-makers and the like.
The griddle-bread is there in front of you.
Colleen, what is the wonder in that book,
That you must leave the bread to cool? Had I
Or had my father read or written books
There were no stocking stuffed with yellow guineas
To come when I am dead to Shawn and you.
FATHER HART
You should not fill your head with foolish dreams.
What are you reading?
MARY
How a Princess Edane,
A daughter of a King of Ireland, heard
A voice singing on a May Eve like this,
And followed half awake and half asleep,
Until she came into the Land of Faery,
Where nobody gets old and godly and grave,
Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise,
Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue.
And she is still there, busied with a dance
Deep in the dewy shadow of a wood,
Or where stars walk upon a mountain-top.
MAURTEEN
Persuade the colleen to put down the book;
My grandfather would mutter just such things,
And he was no judge of a dog or a horse,
And any idle boy could blarney him;
Just speak your mind.
FATHER HART
Put it away, my colleen;
God spreads the heavens above us like great wings
And gives a little round of deeds and days,
And then come the wrecked angels and set snares,
And bait them with light hopes and heavy dreams,
Until the heart is puffed with pride and goes
Half shuddering and half joyous from God's peace;
And it was some wrecked angel, blind with tears,
Who flattered Edane's heart with merry words.
My colleen, I have seen some other girls
Restless and ill at ease, but years went by
And they grew like their neighbours and were glad
In minding children, working at the churn,
And gossiping of weddings and of wakes;
For life moves out of a red flare of dreams
Into a common light of common hours,
Until old age bring the red flare again.
MAURTEEN
That's true--but she's too young to know it's true.
BRIDGET
She's old enough to know that it is wrong
To mope and idle.
MAURTEEN
I've little blame for her;
She's dull when my big son is in the fields,
And that and maybe this good woman's tongue
Have driven her to hide among her dreams
Like children from the dark under the bed-clothes.
BRIDGET
She'd never do a turn if I were silent.
MAURTEEN
And maybe it is natural upon May Eve
To dream of the good people. But tell me, girl,
If you've the branch of blessed quicken wood
That women hang upon the post of the door
That they may send good luck into the house?
Remember they may steal new-married brides
After the fall of twilight on May Eve,
Or what old women mutter at the fire
Is but a pack of lies.
FATHER HART
It may be truth.
We do not know the limit of those powers
God has permitted to the evil spirits
For some mysterious end. You have done right (_to_ MARY);
It's well to keep old innocent customs up.
(MARY BRUIN _has taken a bough of quicken wood from a seat and hung it
on a nail in the door-post. A girl child strangely dressed, perhaps in
faery green, comes out of the wood and takes it away_. )
MARY
I had no sooner hung it on the nail
Before a child ran up out of the wind;
She has caught it in her hand and fondled it;
Her face is pale as water before dawn.
FATHER HART
Whose child can this be?
MAURTEEN
No one's child at all.
She often dreams that some one has gone by,
When there was nothing but a puff of wind.
MARY
They have taken away the blessed quicken wood,
They will not bring good luck into the house;
Yet I am glad that I was courteous to them,
For are not they, likewise, children of God?
FATHER HART
Colleen, they are the children of the fiend,
And they have power until the end of Time,
When God shall fight with them a great pitched battle
And hack them into pieces.
MARY
He will smile,
Father, perhaps, and open His great door.
FATHER HART
Did but the lawless angels see that door
They would fall, slain by everlasting peace;
And when such angels knock upon our doors,
Who goes with them must drive through the same storm.
(_A thin old arm comes round the door-post and knocks and beckons. It is
clearly seen in the silvery light. _ MARY BRUIN _goes to door and stands
in it for a moment_. MAURTEEN BRUIN _is busy filling_ FATHER HART'S
_plate_. BRIDGET BRUIN _stirs the fire_. )
MARY (_coming to table_)
There's somebody out there that beckoned me
And raised her hand as though it held a cup,
And she was drinking from it, so it may be
That she is thirsty.
(_She takes milk from the table and carries it to the door. _)
FATHER HART
That will be the child
That you would have it was no child at all.
BRIDGET
And maybe, Father, what he said was true;
For there is not another night in the year
So wicked as to-night.
MAURTEEN
Nothing can harm us
While the good Father's underneath our roof.
MARY
A little queer old woman dressed in green.
BRIDGET
The good people beg for milk and fire
Upon May Eve--woe to the house that gives,
For they have power upon it for a year.
MAURTEEN
Hush, woman, hush!
BRIDGET
She's given milk away.
I knew she would bring evil on the house.
MAURTEEN
Who was it?
MARY
Both the tongue and face were strange.
MAURTEEN
Some strangers came last week to Clover Hill;
She must be one of them.
BRIDGET
I am afraid.
FATHER HART
The Cross will keep all evil from the house
While it hangs there.
MAURTEEN
Come, sit beside me, colleen,
And put away your dreams of discontent,
For I would have you light up my last days,
Like the good glow of the turf; and when I die
You'll be the wealthiest hereabout, for, colleen,
I have a stocking full of yellow guineas
Hidden away where nobody can find it.
BRIDGET
You are the fool of every pretty face,
And I must spare and pinch that my son's wife
May have all kinds of ribbons for her head.
MAURTEEN
Do not be cross; she is a right good girl!
The butter is by your elbow, Father Hart.
My colleen, have not Fate and Time and Change
Done well for me and for old Bridget there?
We have a hundred acres of good land,
And sit beside each other at the fire.
I have this reverend Father for my friend,
I look upon your face and my son's face--
We've put his plate by yours--and here he comes,
And brings with him the only thing we have lacked,
Abundance of good wine. (SHAWN _comes in_. ) Stir up the fire,
And put new turf upon it till it blaze;
To watch the turf-smoke coiling from the fire,
And feel content and wisdom in your heart,
This is the best of life; when we are young
We long to tread a way none trod before,
But find the excellent old way through love,
And through the care of children, to the hour
For bidding Fate and Time and Change goodbye.
(MARY _takes a sod of turf from the fire and goes out through the door_.
SHAWN _follows her and meets her coming in_. )
SHAWN
What is it draws you to the chill o' the wood?
There is a light among the stems of the trees
That makes one shiver.
MARY
A little queer old man
Made me a sign to show he wanted fire
To light his pipe.
BRIDGET
You've given milk and fire
Upon the unluckiest night of the year and brought,
For all you know, evil upon the house.
Before you married you were idle and fine
And went about with ribbons on your head;
And now--no, Father, I will speak my mind--
She is not a fitting wife for any man----
SHAWN
Be quiet, Mother!
MAURTEEN
You are much too cross.
MARY
What do I care if I have given this house,
Where I must hear all day a bitter tongue,
Into the power of faeries!
BRIDGET
You know well
How calling the good people by that name,
Or talking of them over much at all,
May bring all kinds of evil on the house.
MARY
Come, faeries, take me out of this dull house!
Let me have all the freedom I have lost;
Work when I will and idle when I will!
Faeries, come take me out of this dull world,
For I would ride with you upon the wind.
Run on the top of the dishevelled tide,
And dance upon the mountains like a flame.
FATHER HART
You cannot know the meaning of your words.
MARY
Father, I am right weary of four tongues:
A tongue that is too crafty and too wise,
A tongue that is too godly and too grave,
A tongue that is more bitter than the tide,
And a kind tongue too full of drowsy love,
Of drowsy love and my captivity.
(SHAWN BRUIN _leads her to a seat at the left of the door_. )
SHAWN
Do not blame me; I often lie awake
Thinking that all things trouble your bright head.
How beautiful it is--your broad pale forehead
Under a cloudy blossoming of hair!
Sit down beside me here--these are too old,
And have forgotten they were ever young.
MARY
O, you are the great door-post of this house,
And I the branch of blessed quicken wood,
And if I could I'd hang upon the post,
Till I had brought good luck into the house.
(_She would put her arms about him, but looks shyly at the priest and
lets her arms fall. _)
FATHER HART
My daughter, take his hand--by love alone
God binds us to Himself and to the hearth,
That shuts us from the waste beyond His peace,
From maddening freedom and bewildering light.
SHAWN
Would that the world were mine to give it you,
And not its quiet hearths alone, but even
All that bewilderment of light and freedom,
If you would have it.
MARY
I would take the world
And break it into pieces in my hands
To see you smile watching it crumble away.
SHAWN
Then I would mould a world of fire and dew,
With no one bitter, grave or over wise,
And nothing marred or old to do you wrong,
And crowd the enraptured quiet of the sky
With candles burning to your lonely face.
MARY
Your looks are all the candles that I need.
SHAWN
Once a fly dancing in a beam of the sun,
Or the light wind blowing out of the dawn,
Could fill your heart with dreams none other knew,
But now the indissoluble sacrament
Has mixed your heart that was most proud and cold
With my warm heart for ever; the sun and moon
Must fade and heaven be rolled up like a scroll;
But your white spirit still walk by my spirit.
(_A Voice singing in the wood. _)
MAURTEEN
There's some one singing. Why, it's but a child.
It sang, "The lonely of heart is withered away. "
A strange song for a child, but she sings sweetly.
Listen, listen!
(_Goes to door. _)
MARY
O, cling close to me,
Because I have said wicked things to-night.
THE VOICE
The wind blows out of the gates of the day,
The wind blows over the lonely of heart,
And the lonely of heart is withered away.
While the faeries dance in a place apart,
Shaking their milk-white feet in a ring,
Tossing their milk-white arms in the air;
For they hear the wind laugh and murmur and sing
Of a land where even the old are fair,
And even the wise are merry of tongue;
But I heard a reed of Coolaney say,
"When the wind has laughed and murmured and sung
The lonely of heart is withered away! "
MAURTEEN
Being happy, I would have all others happy,
So I will bring her in out of the cold.
(_He brings in the faery child. _)
THE CHILD
I tire of winds and waters and pale lights.
MAURTEEN
And that's no wonder, for when night has fallen
The wood's a cold and a bewildering place,
But you are welcome here.
THE CHILD
I am welcome here.
For when I tire of this warm little house
There is one here that must away, away.
MAURTEEN
O, listen to her dreamy and strange talk.
Are you not cold?
THE CHILD
I will crouch down beside you,
For I have run a long, long way this night.
BRIDGET
You have a comely shape.
MAURTEEN
Your hair is wet.
BRIDGET
I'll warm your chilly feet.
MAURTEEN
You have come indeed
A long, long way--for I have never seen
Your pretty face--and must be tired and hungry,
Here is some bread and wine.
THE CHILD
The wine is bitter.
Old mother, have you no sweet food for me?
BRIDGET
I have some honey.
(_She goes into the next room. _)
MAURTEEN
You have coaxing ways,
The mother was quite cross before you came.
(BRIDGET _returns with the honey and fills a porringer with milk_. )
BRIDGET
She is the child of gentle people; look
At her white hands and at her pretty dress.
I've brought you some new milk, but wait a while
And I will put it to the fire to warm,
For things well fitted for poor folk like us
Would never please a high-born child like you.
THE CHILD
From dawn, when you must blow the fire ablaze,
You work your fingers to the bone, old mother.
The young may lie in bed and dream and hope,
But you must work your fingers to the bone
Because your heart is old.
BRIDGET
The young are idle.
THE CHILD
Your memories have made you wise, old father;
The young must sigh through many a dream and hope,
But you are wise because your heart is old.
(BRIDGET _gives her more bread and honey_. )
MAURTEEN
O, who would think to find so young a girl
Loving old age and wisdom?
THE CHILD
No more, mother.
MAURTEEN
What a small bite!
