Sweet is the voice in the land of gold,And sweeter the music of birds that soar,When the cry of the heron is heard on the wold,And the waves break softly on Bundatrore.Down floats on the murmuring of the breezeThe call of the cuckoo from Cossahun,The blackbird is warbling among the trees,And soft is the kiss of the warming sun.The cry of the eagle of AssaroeO’er the court of Mac Morne to me is sweet,And sweet is the cry of the bird belowWhere the wave and the wind and the tall cliff meet.Finn mac Cool is the father of me,Whom seven battalions of Fenians fear:When he launches his hounds on the open leaGrand is their cry as they rouse the deer.
Sweet is the voice in the land of gold,And sweeter the music of birds that soar,When the cry of the heron is heard on the wold,And the waves break softly on Bundatrore.Down floats on the murmuring of the breezeThe call of the cuckoo from Cossahun,The blackbird is warbling among the trees,And soft is the kiss of the warming sun.The cry of the eagle of AssaroeO’er the court of Mac Morne to me is sweet,And sweet is the cry of the bird belowWhere the wave and the wind and the tall cliff meet.Finn mac Cool is the father of me,Whom seven battalions of Fenians fear:When he launches his hounds on the open leaGrand is their cry as they rouse the deer.
Sweet is the voice in the land of gold,And sweeter the music of birds that soar,When the cry of the heron is heard on the wold,And the waves break softly on Bundatrore.
Down floats on the murmuring of the breezeThe call of the cuckoo from Cossahun,The blackbird is warbling among the trees,And soft is the kiss of the warming sun.
The cry of the eagle of AssaroeO’er the court of Mac Morne to me is sweet,And sweet is the cry of the bird belowWhere the wave and the wind and the tall cliff meet.
Finn mac Cool is the father of me,Whom seven battalions of Fenians fear:When he launches his hounds on the open leaGrand is their cry as they rouse the deer.
OLD GAELIC
ROS-CRANA.
By night, came a dream to Ros-crana! I feel my beating soul. No vision of the forms of the dead came to the blue eyes of Erin. But, rising from the wave of the north, I beheld him bright in his locks. I beheld the son of the king. My beating soul is high. I laid my head down in night: again ascended the form. Why delayest thou thy coming, young rider of stormy waves!
But, there, far-distant, he comes; where seas roll their green ridges in mist! Young dweller of my soul; why dost thou delay——
FINGAL.
It was the soft voice of Moi-lena! the pleasant breeze of the valley of roes! But why dost thou hide thee in shades? Young love of heroes, rise. Are not thy steps covered with light? In thy groves thou appearest, Ros-crana, like the sun in the gathering of clouds. Why dost thou hide thee in shades? Young love of heroes, rise.
ROS-CRANA.
My fluttering soul is high! Let me turn from steps of the king. He has heard my secret voice, and shall my blue eyes roll in his presence? Roe of the hill of moss, toward thy dwelling I move. Meet me, ye breezes of Mora! as I move through the valley of the winds. But why should he ascend his ocean? Son of heroes, my soul is thine! my steps shall not move to the desert; the light of Ros-crana is here.
FINGAL.
It was the light tread of a ghost, the fair dweller of eddying winds. Why deceivest thou me with thy voice?Here let me rest in shades. Shouldst thou stretch thy white arm from thy grove, thou sunbeam of Cormac of Erin——
ROS-CRANA.
He is gone; and my blue eyes are dim; faint-rolling, in all my tears. But, there, I behold him, alone; king of Selma, my soul is thine. Ah me! what clanging of armour! Colc-ulla of Atha is near!
OLD GAELIC
[Five bards passing the night in the house of a chief, who was a poet himself, went severally to make their observations on, and returned with an extempore description of, night.]
FIRST BARD.
Night is dull and dark. The clouds rest on the hills. No star with green trembling beam; no moon looks from the sky. I hear the blast in the wood, but I hear it distant far. The stream of the valley murmurs; but its murmur is sullen and sad. From the tree at the grave of the dead the long-howling owl is heard. I see a dim form on the plain! It is a ghost! it fades, it flies. Some funeral shall pass this way: the meteor marks the path.
The distant dog is howling from the hut of the hill. The stag lies on the mountain moss: the hind is at his side. She hears the wind in his branchy horns. She starts, but lies again.
The roe is in the cleft of the rock; the heath-cock’s head is beneath his wing. No beast, no bird is abroad, but the owl and the howling fox: she on a leafless tree; he in a cloud on the hill.
Dark, panting, trembling, sad, the traveller has lost his way. Through shrubs, through thorns, he goes, along the gurgling rill. He fears the rock and the fen. He fears the ghost of night. The old tree groans to the blast; the falling branch resounds. The wind drives the withered burrs, clung together, along the grass. It is the light tread of a ghost! He trembles amidst the night.
Dark, dusky, howling, is night, cloudy, windy, and full of ghosts! The dead are abroad! my friends, receive me from the night.
SECOND BARD.
The wind is up, the shower descends. The spirit of the mountain shrieks. Woods fall from high. Windowsflap.[10]The growing river roars. The traveller attempts the ford. Hark! that shriek! he dies! The storm drives the horse from the hill, the goat, the lowing cow. They tremble as drives the shower, beside the shouldering bank.
The hunter starts from sleep, in his lonely hut; he wakes the fire decayed. His wet dogs smoke around him. He fills the chinks with heath. Loud roar two mountain streams which meet beside his booth.[11]
Sad on the side of a hill the wandering shepherd sits. The tree resounds above him. The stream roars down the rock. He waits for the rising moon to guide him to his home.
Ghosts ride on the storm to-night. Sweet is their voice between the squalls of wind. Their songs are of other worlds.
The rain is past. The dry wind blows. Streams roar, and windows flap. Cold drops fall from the roof. I see the starry sky. But the shower gathers again. The west is gloomy and dark. Night is stormy and dismal; receive me, my friends, from night.
THIRD BARD.
The wind still sounds between the hills, and whistles through the grass of the rock. The firs fall from their place. The turfy hut is torn. The clouds, divided, fly over the sky, and show the burning stars. The meteor, token of death! flies sparkling through the gloom. It rests on the hill. I see the withered fern, the dark-browed rock, the fallen oak. Who is that in his shroud beneath the tree, by the stream?
The waves dark-tumble on the lake, and lash its rocky sides. The boat is brimful in the cove; the oars on the rocking tide. A maid sits sad beside the rock,and eyes the rolling stream. Her lover promised to come. She saw his boat, when yet it was light, on the lake. Is this his broken boat on the shore? Are these his groans on the wind?
Hark! the hail rattles around. The flaky snow descends. The tops of the hills are white. The stormy winds abate. Various is the night and cold; receive me, my friends, from night.
FOURTH BARD.
Night is calm and fair; blue, starry, settled is night. The winds, with the clouds, are gone. They sink behind the hill. The moon is up on the mountain. Trees glister, streams shine on the rock. Bright rolls the settled lake; bright the stream of the vale.
I see the trees overturned; the shocks of corn on the plain. The wakeful hind rebuilds the shocks, and whistles on the distant field.
Calm, settled, fair is night! Who comes from the place of the dead? That form with the robe of snow, white arms, and dark-brown hair! It is the daughter of the chief of the people: she that lately fell! Come, let us view thee, O maid! Thou that hast been the delight of heroes! The blast drives the phantom away; white, without form, it ascends the hill.
The breezes drive the blue mist, slowly, over the narrow vale. It rises on the hill, and joins its head to heaven. Night is settled, calm, blue, starry, bright with the moon. Receive me not, my friends, for lovely is the night.
FIFTH BARD.
Night is calm, but dreary. The moon is in a cloud in the west. Slow moves that pale beam along the shaded hill. The distant wave is heard. The torrent murmurs on the rock. The cock is heard from the booth.[12]More than half the night is past. The house-wife, groping inthe gloom, re-kindles the settled fire. The hunter thinks that day approaches, and calls his bounding dogs. He ascends the hill, and whistles on his way. A blast removes the cloud. He sees the starry plough of the north. Much of the night is to pass. He nods by the mossy rock.
Hark! the whirlwind is in the wood! A low murmur in the vale! It is the mighty army of the dead returning from the air.
The moon rests behind the hill. The beam is still on that lofty rock. Long are the shadows of the trees. Now it is dark over all. Night is dreary, silent, and dark; receive me, my friends, from night.
THE CHIEF.
Let clouds rest on the hills: spirits fly, and travellers fear. Let the winds of the woods arise, the sounding storms descend. Roar streams and windows flap, and green-winged meteors fly! Rise the pale moon from behind her hills, or inclose her head in clouds! Night is alike to me, blue, stormy, or gloomy the sky. Night flies before the beam, when it is poured on the hill. The young day returns from his clouds, but we return no more.
Where are our chiefs of old? Where are our kings of mighty name? The fields of their battles are silent. Scarce their mossy tombs remain. We shall also be forgot. This lofty house shall fall. Our sons shall not behold the ruins in grass. They shall ask of the aged, “Where stood the walls of our fathers?”
Raise the song, and strike the harp; send round the shells of joy. Suspend a hundred tapers on high. Youths and maids begin the dance. Let some grey bard be near me, to tell the deeds of other times; of kings renowned in our land, of chiefs we behold no more. Thus let the night pass until morning shall appear in our halls. Then let the bow be at hand, the dogs, the youths of the chase. We shall ascend the hill with day, and awake the deer.
OSSIAN
DERSAGRENA.
The chase is over. No noise on Ardven but the torrent’s roar! Daughter of Morni, come from Crona’s banks. Lay down the bow and take the harp. Let the night come on with songs, let our joy be great on Ardven.
MELILCOMA.
Night comes apace, thou blue-eyed maid! Grey night grows dim along the plain. I saw a deer at Crona’s stream; a mossy bank he seemed through the gloom, but soon he bounded away. A meteor played round his branching horns! The awful faces of other times looked from the clouds of Crona!
DERSAGRENA.
These are the signs of Fingal’s death. The king of shields is fallen! and Caracul prevails. Rise, Comala, from thy rock: daughter of Sarno, rise in tears! The youth of thy love is low; his ghost is on our hills.
MELILCOMA.
There Comala sits forlorn! two grey dogs near shake their rough ears, and catch the flying breeze. Her red cheek rests upon her arm, the mountain-wind is in her hair. She turns her blue eyes toward the fields of his promise. Where art thou, O Fingal? The night is gathering around!
COMALA.
O Carun of the streams! Why do I behold thy waters rolling in blood? Has the noise of the battlebeen heard; and sleeps the King of Morven? Rise, moon, thou daughter of the sky! Look from between thy clouds, rise that I may behold the gleam of his steel, on the field of his promise. Or rather let the meteor, that lights our fathers through the night, come, with its red beam, to show me the way to my fallen hero. Who will defend me from sorrow? Who from the love of Hydallan? Long shall Comala look before she can behold Fingal in the midst of his host; bright as the coming forth of the morning, in the cloud of an early shower.
HYDALLAN.
Dwell, thou mist of gloomy Crona, dwell on the path of the king! Hide his steps from mine eyes, let me remember my friend no more. The bands of battle are scattered, no crowding tread is round the noise of his steel. O Carun! roll thy streams of blood, the chief of the people is low.
COMALA.
Who fell on Carun’s sounding banks, son of the cloudy night? Was he white as the snow of Ardven? Blooming as the bow of the shower? Was his hair like the mist of the hill, soft and curling in the day of the sun? Was he like the thunder of heaven in battle? Fleet as the roe of the desert?
HYDALLAN.
O that I might behold his love, fair leaning from her rock! Her red eye dim in tears, her blushing cheek half hid in her locks! Blow, O gentle breeze! Lift thou the heavy locks of the maid, that I may behold her white arm, her lovely cheek in her grief.
COMALA.
And is the son of Comhal fallen, chief of the mournful tale? The thunder rolls on the hill! The lightningflies on wings of fire! They frighten not Comala; for Fingal is low. Say, chief of the mournful tale, fell the breaker of the shields?
HYDALLAN.
The nations are scattered on their hills; they shall hear the voice of the king no more.
COMALA.
Confusion pursue thee over thy plains! Ruin overtake thee, thou king of the world! Few be thy steps to thy grave; and let one virgin mourn thee! Let her be like Comala, tearful in the days of her youth! Why hast thou told me, Hydallan, that my hero fell? I might have hoped a little while his return, I might have thought I saw him on the distant rock; a tree might have deceived me with his appearance; the wind of the hill might have been the sound of his horn in mine ear. O that I were on the banks of Carun! that my tears might be warm on his cheek!
HYDALLAN.
He lies not on the banks of Carun; on Ardven heroes raise his tomb. Look on them, O moon! from thy clouds; be thy beam bright on his breast, that Comala may behold him in the light of his armour!
COMALA.
Stop, ye sons of the grave, till I behold my love! He left me at the chase alone. I knew not that he went to war. He said he would return with the night; the King of Morven is returned! Why didst thou not tell me that he would fall, O trembling dweller of the rock? Thou sawest him in the blood of his youth; but thou didst not tell Comala!
MELILCOMA.
What sound is that on Ardven? Who is that, bright in the vale? Who comes like the strength of rivers, when their crowded waters glitter to the moon?
COMALA.
Who is it but the foe of Comala, the son of the king of the world? Ghost of Fingal! Do thou from thy cloud direct Comala’s bow. Let him fall like the hart of the desert. It is Fingal in the crowd of his ghosts. Why dost thou come, my love, to frighten and please my soul?
FINGAL.
Raise, ye bards, the song; raise the wars of the streamy Carun! Caracul has fled from our arms along the fields of his pride. He sets far distant like a meteor, that incloses a spirit of night, when the winds drive it over the heath, and the dark woods are gleaming around. I heard a voice, or was it the breeze of my hills? Is it the huntress of Ardven, the white-handed daughter of Sarno? Look from thy rocks, my love; let me hear the voice of Comala!
COMALA.
Take me to the cave of my rest, O lovely son of death!
FINGAL.
Come to the cave of my rest. The storm is past, the sun is on our fields. Come to the cave of my rest, huntress of echoing Ardven!
COMALA.
He is returned with his fame. I feel the right hand of his wars. But I must rest beside the rock till my soul returns from my fear. O let the harp be near! Raise the song, ye daughters of Morni!
OSSIAN
DERSAGRENA.
Comala has slain three deer on Ardven, the fire ascends on the rock; go to the feast of Comala, king of the woody Morven!
FINGAL.
Raise, ye sons of song, the wars of the streamy Carun; that my white-handed maid may rejoice: while I behold the feast of my love.
BARDS.
Roll, streamy Carun, roll in joy, the sons of battle are fled! The steed is not seen on our fields; the wings of their pride spread in other lands. The sun will now rise in peace, and the shadows descend in joy. The voice of the chase will be heard; the shields hang in the hall. Our delight will be in the war of the ocean, our hands shall grow red in the blood of Lochlin. Roll, streamy Carun, roll in joy, the sons of battle fled!
MELILCOMA.
Descend, ye light mists from high! Ye moonbeams, lift her soul! Pale lies the maid at the rock. Comala is no more!
FINGAL.
Is the daughter of Sarno dead, the white-bosomed maid of my love? Meet me, Comala, on my heaths, when I sit alone at the streams of my hills!
HYDALLAN.
Ceased the voice of the huntress of Ardven? Why did I trouble the soul of the maid? When shall I see thee, with joy, in the chase of the dark-brown hinds?
FINGAL.
Youth of the gloomy brow! No more shalt thou feast in my halls. Thou shalt not pursue my chase, myfoes shall not fall by thy sword. Lead me to the place of her rest that I may behold her beauty. Pale she lies at the rock, cold winds lift her hair. Her bow-string sounds in the blast, her arrow was broken in her fall. Raise the praise of the daughter of Sarno! Give her name to the winds of Heaven!
BARDS.
See! Meteors gleam around the maid! See! Moonbeams lift her soul! Around her, from their clouds, bend the awful faces of her fathers; Sarno of the gloomy brow! The red-rolling eyes of Fidallan! When shall thy white hand arise? When shall thy voice be heard on our rocks? The maids shall seek thee on the heath but they shall not find thee. Thou shalt come, at times, to their dreams, to settle peace in their soul. Thy voice shall remain in their ears, they shall think with joy on the dreams of their rest. Meteors gleam around the maid, and moon-beams lift her soul.
OSSIAN
Such were the words of the bards in the days of song; when the king heard the music of harps, the tales of other times! The chiefs gathered from all their hills, and heard the lovely sound. They praised the Voice of Cona! The first among a thousand bards! But age is now on my tongue; my soul has failed! I hear, at times, the ghosts of the bards, and learn their pleasant song. But memory fails on my mind. I hear the call of years! They say, as they pass along, why does Ossian sing? Soon shall he lie in the narrow house, and no bard shall raise his fame! Roll on, ye dark-brown years; ye bring no joy on your course! Let the tomb open to Ossian, for his strength has failed. The sons of song are gone to rest. My voice remains, like a blast, that roars, lonely, on a sea-surrounded rock, after the winds are laid. The dark moss whistles there; the distant mariner sees the waving trees!
[Wayfarer loq.
[Wayfarer loq.
[Wayfarer loq.
Guel yv thy’mmo vy may femos the wolhy ow dulea Thesempesme a vyn omma yn dourmay fons y guyn ha glan loura vostethes. . . . . .Ellas pan fema gynysancow sur yw dynythysScon thy’mmo vyny’m bus bywe na fellaan dour re wruk thy’m hennayn pur deffry.
Guel yv thy’mmo vy may femos the wolhy ow dulea Thesempesme a vyn omma yn dourmay fons y guyn ha glan loura vostethes. . . . . .Ellas pan fema gynysancow sur yw dynythysScon thy’mmo vyny’m bus bywe na fellaan dour re wruk thy’m hennayn pur deffry.
Guel yv thy’mmo vy may femos the wolhy ow dulea Thesempesme a vyn omma yn dourmay fons y guyn ha glan loura vostethes. . . . . .Ellas pan fema gynysancow sur yw dynythysScon thy’mmo vyny’m bus bywe na fellaan dour re wruk thy’m hennayn pur deffry.
ANCIENT CORNISH
[Wayfarer loq.
[Wayfarer loq.
[Wayfarer loq.
It is best to me that it be soGo to wash my handsImmediatelyI will, here in the water,That they may be white, and clean enoughFrom dirt.
It is best to me that it be soGo to wash my handsImmediatelyI will, here in the water,That they may be white, and clean enoughFrom dirt.
It is best to me that it be soGo to wash my handsImmediatelyI will, here in the water,That they may be white, and clean enoughFrom dirt.
[He washes his hands in the water and dies immediately.]
Alas that I was born!Death surely is comeSoon to me.Life is no longer for me,The water has done that to meVery clearly.
Alas that I was born!Death surely is comeSoon to me.Life is no longer for me,The water has done that to meVery clearly.
Alas that I was born!Death surely is comeSoon to me.Life is no longer for me,The water has done that to meVery clearly.
Merlin! Merlin! where art thou goingSo early in the day, with thy black dog?Oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi!Oi! oi! oi! ioi! oi!I have come here to search the way,To find the red egg;The red egg of the marine serpent,By the sea-side in the hollow of the stone.I am going to seek in the valleyThe green water-cress, and the golden grass,And the top branch of the oak,In the wood by the side of the fountain.Merlin! Merlin! retrace your steps;Leave the branch on the oak,And the green water-cress in the valley,As well as the golden grass;And leave the red egg of the marine serpent,In the foam by the hollow of the stone.Merlin! Merlin! retrace thy steps,There is no diviner but God.
Merlin! Merlin! where art thou goingSo early in the day, with thy black dog?Oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi!Oi! oi! oi! ioi! oi!I have come here to search the way,To find the red egg;The red egg of the marine serpent,By the sea-side in the hollow of the stone.I am going to seek in the valleyThe green water-cress, and the golden grass,And the top branch of the oak,In the wood by the side of the fountain.Merlin! Merlin! retrace your steps;Leave the branch on the oak,And the green water-cress in the valley,As well as the golden grass;And leave the red egg of the marine serpent,In the foam by the hollow of the stone.Merlin! Merlin! retrace thy steps,There is no diviner but God.
Merlin! Merlin! where art thou goingSo early in the day, with thy black dog?Oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi!Oi! oi! oi! ioi! oi!
I have come here to search the way,To find the red egg;The red egg of the marine serpent,By the sea-side in the hollow of the stone.I am going to seek in the valleyThe green water-cress, and the golden grass,And the top branch of the oak,In the wood by the side of the fountain.
Merlin! Merlin! retrace your steps;Leave the branch on the oak,And the green water-cress in the valley,As well as the golden grass;And leave the red egg of the marine serpent,In the foam by the hollow of the stone.Merlin! Merlin! retrace thy steps,There is no diviner but God.
ANCIENT CORNISH DRAMA
[Adam bids Seth journey to the Gate of Paradise—the way to be known to him because of the burnt imprints of the feet of himself and Eve on the day they were driven forth, sere marks never grass-grown since—and, after telling him to ask for the oil of mercy, blesses him, and sees him go.]
CHERUBIN.
Seth, what is thy errand,That thou wouldst come so long a way?Tell me soon.
Seth, what is thy errand,That thou wouldst come so long a way?Tell me soon.
Seth, what is thy errand,That thou wouldst come so long a way?Tell me soon.
SETH.
O angel, I will tell thee:My father is old and weary,He would not wish to live longer;And through me he prayed theeTo tell the truthOf the oil promised to himOf mercy in the last day.
O angel, I will tell thee:My father is old and weary,He would not wish to live longer;And through me he prayed theeTo tell the truthOf the oil promised to himOf mercy in the last day.
O angel, I will tell thee:My father is old and weary,He would not wish to live longer;
And through me he prayed theeTo tell the truthOf the oil promised to himOf mercy in the last day.
CHERUBIN.
Within the gate put thy head,And behold it all, nor fear,Whatever thou seest,And look on all sides;Examine well every particular;Search out everything diligently.
Within the gate put thy head,And behold it all, nor fear,Whatever thou seest,And look on all sides;Examine well every particular;Search out everything diligently.
Within the gate put thy head,And behold it all, nor fear,Whatever thou seest,And look on all sides;Examine well every particular;Search out everything diligently.
SETH.
Very joyfully I will do it;I am glad to have permissionTo know what is there,To tell it to my father.
Very joyfully I will do it;I am glad to have permissionTo know what is there,To tell it to my father.
Very joyfully I will do it;I am glad to have permissionTo know what is there,To tell it to my father.
[And he looks, and turns round, saying:—]
Fair field is this;Unhappy he who lost the country:And the tree, it is to meA great wonder that it is dry;But I believe that it is dry,And all made bare, for the sinWhich my father and mother sinned.Like the prints of their feet,They are all dry, like herbs.Alas, that the morsel was eaten.
Fair field is this;Unhappy he who lost the country:And the tree, it is to meA great wonder that it is dry;But I believe that it is dry,And all made bare, for the sinWhich my father and mother sinned.Like the prints of their feet,They are all dry, like herbs.Alas, that the morsel was eaten.
Fair field is this;Unhappy he who lost the country:And the tree, it is to meA great wonder that it is dry;But I believe that it is dry,And all made bare, for the sinWhich my father and mother sinned.Like the prints of their feet,They are all dry, like herbs.Alas, that the morsel was eaten.
CHERUBIN.
O Seth, thou art comeWithin the Gate of Paradise;Tell me what thou sawest.
O Seth, thou art comeWithin the Gate of Paradise;Tell me what thou sawest.
O Seth, thou art comeWithin the Gate of Paradise;Tell me what thou sawest.
SETH.
All the beauty that I sawThe tongue of no man in the world canTell it ever.Of good fruit, and fair flowers,Minstrels and sweet song,A fountain bright as silver;And four springs, large indeed,Flowing from it,That there is a desire to look at them.In it there is a tree,High with many boughs;But they are all bare, without leaves.And around it, barkThere was none, from the stem to the headAll its boughs are bare.And at the bottom, when I looked,I saw its rootsEven into hell descending,In the midst of great darkness.And its branches growing up,Even to heaven high in light;And it was without bark altogether,Both the head and the boughs.
All the beauty that I sawThe tongue of no man in the world canTell it ever.Of good fruit, and fair flowers,Minstrels and sweet song,A fountain bright as silver;And four springs, large indeed,Flowing from it,That there is a desire to look at them.In it there is a tree,High with many boughs;But they are all bare, without leaves.And around it, barkThere was none, from the stem to the headAll its boughs are bare.And at the bottom, when I looked,I saw its rootsEven into hell descending,In the midst of great darkness.And its branches growing up,Even to heaven high in light;And it was without bark altogether,Both the head and the boughs.
All the beauty that I sawThe tongue of no man in the world canTell it ever.Of good fruit, and fair flowers,Minstrels and sweet song,A fountain bright as silver;And four springs, large indeed,Flowing from it,That there is a desire to look at them.
In it there is a tree,High with many boughs;But they are all bare, without leaves.And around it, barkThere was none, from the stem to the headAll its boughs are bare.
And at the bottom, when I looked,I saw its rootsEven into hell descending,In the midst of great darkness.And its branches growing up,Even to heaven high in light;And it was without bark altogether,Both the head and the boughs.
CHERUBIN.
Look yet again within,And all else thou shalt seeBefore thou come from it.
Look yet again within,And all else thou shalt seeBefore thou come from it.
Look yet again within,And all else thou shalt seeBefore thou come from it.
SETH.
I am happy that I have permission;I will go to the gate immediately,That I may see further good.[He goes, and looks, and returns.
I am happy that I have permission;I will go to the gate immediately,That I may see further good.[He goes, and looks, and returns.
I am happy that I have permission;I will go to the gate immediately,That I may see further good.[He goes, and looks, and returns.
CHERUBIN.
Dost thou see more now,Than what there was just now?
Dost thou see more now,Than what there was just now?
Dost thou see more now,Than what there was just now?
SETH.
There is a serpent in the tree;An ugly beast, without fail.
There is a serpent in the tree;An ugly beast, without fail.
There is a serpent in the tree;An ugly beast, without fail.
CHERUBIN.
Go yet a third time to it,And look better at the tree.Look, what you can see in it,Besides roots and branches.[Again he goes up.
Go yet a third time to it,And look better at the tree.Look, what you can see in it,Besides roots and branches.[Again he goes up.
Go yet a third time to it,And look better at the tree.Look, what you can see in it,Besides roots and branches.[Again he goes up.
SETH.
Cherub, angel of the God of grace,In the tree I saw,High up on the branches,A little child newly born;And he was swathed in cloths,And bound fast with napkins.
Cherub, angel of the God of grace,In the tree I saw,High up on the branches,A little child newly born;And he was swathed in cloths,And bound fast with napkins.
Cherub, angel of the God of grace,In the tree I saw,High up on the branches,A little child newly born;And he was swathed in cloths,And bound fast with napkins.
CHERUBIN.
The Son of God it was whom thou sawest,Like a little child swathed.He will redeem Adam, thy father,With his flesh and blood too,When the time is come,And thy mother, and all the good people.He is the oil of mercy,Which was promised to thy father;Through his death, clearly,All the world will be saved.
The Son of God it was whom thou sawest,Like a little child swathed.He will redeem Adam, thy father,With his flesh and blood too,When the time is come,And thy mother, and all the good people.He is the oil of mercy,Which was promised to thy father;Through his death, clearly,All the world will be saved.
The Son of God it was whom thou sawest,Like a little child swathed.He will redeem Adam, thy father,With his flesh and blood too,When the time is come,And thy mother, and all the good people.
He is the oil of mercy,Which was promised to thy father;Through his death, clearly,All the world will be saved.
SETH.
Blessed be he:O God, now I am happy;Knowing the truth all plainly,I will go from thee.
Blessed be he:O God, now I am happy;Knowing the truth all plainly,I will go from thee.
Blessed be he:O God, now I am happy;Knowing the truth all plainly,I will go from thee.
CHERUBIN.
Take three kernels of the apple,Which Adam, thy father, ate.When he dies, put them, without fail,Between his teeth and tongue.From them thou wilt seeThree trees grow presently;For he will not live more than three daysAfter thou reachest home.
Take three kernels of the apple,Which Adam, thy father, ate.When he dies, put them, without fail,Between his teeth and tongue.From them thou wilt seeThree trees grow presently;For he will not live more than three daysAfter thou reachest home.
Take three kernels of the apple,Which Adam, thy father, ate.When he dies, put them, without fail,Between his teeth and tongue.From them thou wilt seeThree trees grow presently;For he will not live more than three daysAfter thou reachest home.
SETH.
Blessed be thou every day;I honour thee ever very truly:My father will be very joyful,If he soon passes from life.
Blessed be thou every day;I honour thee ever very truly:My father will be very joyful,If he soon passes from life.
Blessed be thou every day;I honour thee ever very truly:My father will be very joyful,If he soon passes from life.
ANCIENT BRETON
Blood, wine, and glee,Sun, to thee,—Blood, wine, and glee!Fire! fire! steel, Oh! steel!Fire, fire! steel and fire!Oak! oak, earth, and waves!Waves, oak, earth and oak!Glee of dance and song,And battle-throng,—Battle, dance, and song!Fire! fire! steel, etc.Let the sword blades swingIn a ring,—Let the sword blades swing!Fire! fire! steel, etc.Song of the blue steel,Death to feel,—Song of the blue steel!Fire! fire! steel, etc.Fight, whereof the swordIs the Lord,—Fight of the fell sword!Fire! fire! steel, etc.Sword, thou mighty kingOf battle’s ring,—Sword thou mighty king!Fire! fire! steel, etc.With the rainbow’s lightBe thou bright,—With the rainbow’s light!Fire! fire! steel, Oh! steel!Fire, fire! steel and fire!Oak! oak, earth and waves!Waves, oak, earth, and oak!
Blood, wine, and glee,Sun, to thee,—Blood, wine, and glee!Fire! fire! steel, Oh! steel!Fire, fire! steel and fire!Oak! oak, earth, and waves!Waves, oak, earth and oak!Glee of dance and song,And battle-throng,—Battle, dance, and song!Fire! fire! steel, etc.Let the sword blades swingIn a ring,—Let the sword blades swing!Fire! fire! steel, etc.Song of the blue steel,Death to feel,—Song of the blue steel!Fire! fire! steel, etc.Fight, whereof the swordIs the Lord,—Fight of the fell sword!Fire! fire! steel, etc.Sword, thou mighty kingOf battle’s ring,—Sword thou mighty king!Fire! fire! steel, etc.With the rainbow’s lightBe thou bright,—With the rainbow’s light!Fire! fire! steel, Oh! steel!Fire, fire! steel and fire!Oak! oak, earth and waves!Waves, oak, earth, and oak!
Blood, wine, and glee,Sun, to thee,—Blood, wine, and glee!Fire! fire! steel, Oh! steel!Fire, fire! steel and fire!Oak! oak, earth, and waves!Waves, oak, earth and oak!
Glee of dance and song,And battle-throng,—Battle, dance, and song!Fire! fire! steel, etc.
Let the sword blades swingIn a ring,—Let the sword blades swing!Fire! fire! steel, etc.
Song of the blue steel,Death to feel,—Song of the blue steel!Fire! fire! steel, etc.
Fight, whereof the swordIs the Lord,—Fight of the fell sword!Fire! fire! steel, etc.
Sword, thou mighty kingOf battle’s ring,—Sword thou mighty king!Fire! fire! steel, etc.
With the rainbow’s lightBe thou bright,—With the rainbow’s light!Fire! fire! steel, Oh! steel!Fire, fire! steel and fire!Oak! oak, earth and waves!Waves, oak, earth, and oak!
ANCIENT BRETON
The good Lord Nann and his fair brideWere young when wedlock’s knot was tied—Were young when death did them divide.But yesterday that lady fairTwo babes as white as snow did bear;A man-child and a girl they were.“Now, say what is thy heart’s desire,For making me a man-child’s sire?’Tis thine, whate’er thou may’st require,—“What food soe’er thee lists to take,Meat of the woodcock from the lake,Meat of the wild deer from the brake.”“Oh, the meat of the deer is dainty food!To eat thereof would do me good,But I grudge to send thee to the wood.”The Lord of Nann, when this he heard,Hath gripp’d his oak spear with never a word;His bonny black horse he hath leap’d upon,And forth to the greenwood hath he gone.By the skirts of the wood as he did go,He was ware of a hind as white as snow.Oh, fast she ran, and fast he rode,That the earth it shook where his horse-hoofs trode.Oh, fast he rode, and fast she ran,That the sweat to drop from his brow began—That the sweat on his horse’s flank stood white;So he rode and rode till the fall o’ the night.When he came to a stream that fed a lawn,Hard by the grot of a Corrigaun.The grass grew thick by the streamlet’s brink,And he lighted down off his horse to drink.The Corrigaun sat by the fountain fair,A-combing her long and yellow hair.A-combing her hair with a comb of gold,—(Not poor, I trow, are those maidens cold).—“Now who’s the bold wight that dares come hereTo trouble my fairy fountain clear?“Either thou straight shall wed with me,Or pine for four long years and three;Or dead in three days’ space shall be.”“I will not wed with thee, I ween,For wedded man a year I’ve been;“Nor yet for seven years will I pine,Nor die in three days for spell of thine;“For spell of thine I will not die,But when it pleaseth God on high.“But here, and now, I’d leave my life,Ere take a Corrigaun to wife.. . . . . . . . . .“O mother, mother! for love of me,Now make my bed, and speedily,For I am sick as a man can be.“Oh, never the tale to my lady tell;Three days and ye’ll hear my passing bell;The Corrigaun hath cast her spell.”Three days they pass’d, three days were sped,To her mother-in-law the ladye said;“Now tell me, madam, now tell me, pray,Wherefore the death-bells toll to-day?“Why chaunt the priests in the street below,All clad in their vestments white as snow?”“A strange poor man, who harbour’d here,He died last night, my daughter dear.”“But tell me, madam, my lord, your son—My husband—whither is he gone?”“But to the town, my child, he’s gone;And at your side he’ll be back anon.”“What gown for my churching were’t best to wear,—My gown of grain, or of watchet fair?”“The fashion of late, my child, hath grown,That women for churching black should don.”As through the churchyard porch she stept,She saw the grave where her husband slept.“Who of our blood is lately dead,That our ground is new raked and spread?”“The truth I may no more forbear,My son—your own poor lord—lies there!”She threw herself on her knees amain,And from her knees ne’er rose again.That night they laid her, dead and cold,Beside her lord, beneath the mould;When, lo!—a marvel to behold!—Next morn from the grave two oak-trees fair,Shot lusty boughs high up in air;And in their boughs—oh wondrous sight!—Two happy doves, all snowy white—That sang, as ever the morn did rise,And then flew up—into the skies!
The good Lord Nann and his fair brideWere young when wedlock’s knot was tied—Were young when death did them divide.But yesterday that lady fairTwo babes as white as snow did bear;A man-child and a girl they were.“Now, say what is thy heart’s desire,For making me a man-child’s sire?’Tis thine, whate’er thou may’st require,—“What food soe’er thee lists to take,Meat of the woodcock from the lake,Meat of the wild deer from the brake.”“Oh, the meat of the deer is dainty food!To eat thereof would do me good,But I grudge to send thee to the wood.”The Lord of Nann, when this he heard,Hath gripp’d his oak spear with never a word;His bonny black horse he hath leap’d upon,And forth to the greenwood hath he gone.By the skirts of the wood as he did go,He was ware of a hind as white as snow.Oh, fast she ran, and fast he rode,That the earth it shook where his horse-hoofs trode.Oh, fast he rode, and fast she ran,That the sweat to drop from his brow began—That the sweat on his horse’s flank stood white;So he rode and rode till the fall o’ the night.When he came to a stream that fed a lawn,Hard by the grot of a Corrigaun.The grass grew thick by the streamlet’s brink,And he lighted down off his horse to drink.The Corrigaun sat by the fountain fair,A-combing her long and yellow hair.A-combing her hair with a comb of gold,—(Not poor, I trow, are those maidens cold).—“Now who’s the bold wight that dares come hereTo trouble my fairy fountain clear?“Either thou straight shall wed with me,Or pine for four long years and three;Or dead in three days’ space shall be.”“I will not wed with thee, I ween,For wedded man a year I’ve been;“Nor yet for seven years will I pine,Nor die in three days for spell of thine;“For spell of thine I will not die,But when it pleaseth God on high.“But here, and now, I’d leave my life,Ere take a Corrigaun to wife.. . . . . . . . . .“O mother, mother! for love of me,Now make my bed, and speedily,For I am sick as a man can be.“Oh, never the tale to my lady tell;Three days and ye’ll hear my passing bell;The Corrigaun hath cast her spell.”Three days they pass’d, three days were sped,To her mother-in-law the ladye said;“Now tell me, madam, now tell me, pray,Wherefore the death-bells toll to-day?“Why chaunt the priests in the street below,All clad in their vestments white as snow?”“A strange poor man, who harbour’d here,He died last night, my daughter dear.”“But tell me, madam, my lord, your son—My husband—whither is he gone?”“But to the town, my child, he’s gone;And at your side he’ll be back anon.”“What gown for my churching were’t best to wear,—My gown of grain, or of watchet fair?”“The fashion of late, my child, hath grown,That women for churching black should don.”As through the churchyard porch she stept,She saw the grave where her husband slept.“Who of our blood is lately dead,That our ground is new raked and spread?”“The truth I may no more forbear,My son—your own poor lord—lies there!”She threw herself on her knees amain,And from her knees ne’er rose again.That night they laid her, dead and cold,Beside her lord, beneath the mould;When, lo!—a marvel to behold!—Next morn from the grave two oak-trees fair,Shot lusty boughs high up in air;And in their boughs—oh wondrous sight!—Two happy doves, all snowy white—That sang, as ever the morn did rise,And then flew up—into the skies!
The good Lord Nann and his fair brideWere young when wedlock’s knot was tied—Were young when death did them divide.
But yesterday that lady fairTwo babes as white as snow did bear;A man-child and a girl they were.
“Now, say what is thy heart’s desire,For making me a man-child’s sire?’Tis thine, whate’er thou may’st require,—
“What food soe’er thee lists to take,Meat of the woodcock from the lake,Meat of the wild deer from the brake.”
“Oh, the meat of the deer is dainty food!To eat thereof would do me good,But I grudge to send thee to the wood.”
The Lord of Nann, when this he heard,Hath gripp’d his oak spear with never a word;His bonny black horse he hath leap’d upon,And forth to the greenwood hath he gone.
By the skirts of the wood as he did go,He was ware of a hind as white as snow.
Oh, fast she ran, and fast he rode,That the earth it shook where his horse-hoofs trode.
Oh, fast he rode, and fast she ran,That the sweat to drop from his brow began—
That the sweat on his horse’s flank stood white;So he rode and rode till the fall o’ the night.
When he came to a stream that fed a lawn,Hard by the grot of a Corrigaun.
The grass grew thick by the streamlet’s brink,And he lighted down off his horse to drink.
The Corrigaun sat by the fountain fair,A-combing her long and yellow hair.
A-combing her hair with a comb of gold,—(Not poor, I trow, are those maidens cold).—
“Now who’s the bold wight that dares come hereTo trouble my fairy fountain clear?
“Either thou straight shall wed with me,Or pine for four long years and three;Or dead in three days’ space shall be.”
“I will not wed with thee, I ween,For wedded man a year I’ve been;
“Nor yet for seven years will I pine,Nor die in three days for spell of thine;
“For spell of thine I will not die,But when it pleaseth God on high.
“But here, and now, I’d leave my life,Ere take a Corrigaun to wife.. . . . . . . . . .“O mother, mother! for love of me,Now make my bed, and speedily,For I am sick as a man can be.
“Oh, never the tale to my lady tell;Three days and ye’ll hear my passing bell;The Corrigaun hath cast her spell.”
Three days they pass’d, three days were sped,To her mother-in-law the ladye said;
“Now tell me, madam, now tell me, pray,Wherefore the death-bells toll to-day?
“Why chaunt the priests in the street below,All clad in their vestments white as snow?”
“A strange poor man, who harbour’d here,He died last night, my daughter dear.”
“But tell me, madam, my lord, your son—My husband—whither is he gone?”
“But to the town, my child, he’s gone;And at your side he’ll be back anon.”
“What gown for my churching were’t best to wear,—My gown of grain, or of watchet fair?”
“The fashion of late, my child, hath grown,That women for churching black should don.”
As through the churchyard porch she stept,She saw the grave where her husband slept.
“Who of our blood is lately dead,That our ground is new raked and spread?”
“The truth I may no more forbear,My son—your own poor lord—lies there!”
She threw herself on her knees amain,And from her knees ne’er rose again.
That night they laid her, dead and cold,Beside her lord, beneath the mould;When, lo!—a marvel to behold!—
Next morn from the grave two oak-trees fair,Shot lusty boughs high up in air;
And in their boughs—oh wondrous sight!—Two happy doves, all snowy white—
That sang, as ever the morn did rise,And then flew up—into the skies!