The Quest.(Dublin University Press.)

GORDON BOTTOMLEY

The bird in my heart’s a-calling through a far-fled, tear-grey seaTo the soft slow hills that cherish dim waters weary for me,Where the folk of rath and dun trail homeward silentlyIn the mist of the early night-fall that drips from their hair like rain.The bird in my heart’s a-flutter, for the bitter wind of the seaShivers with thyme and woodbine as my body with memory;I feel their perfumes ooze in my ears like melody—The scent of the mead at the harping I shall not hear again.The bird in my heart’s a-sinking to a hushed vale hid in the sea,Where the moonlit dew o’er dead fighters is stirred by the feet of the Shee,Who are lovely and old as the earth but younger than I an beWho have known the forgetting of dying to a life one lonely pain.

The bird in my heart’s a-flutter, for the bitter wind of the seaShivers with thyme and woodbine as my body with memory;I feel their perfumes ooze in my ears like melody—The scent of the mead at the harping I shall not hear again.

The bird in my heart’s a-sinking to a hushed vale hid in the sea,Where the moonlit dew o’er dead fighters is stirred by the feet of the Shee,Who are lovely and old as the earth but younger than I an beWho have known the forgetting of dying to a life one lonely pain.

They said: “She dwelleth in some place apart,Immortal Truth, within whose eyesWho looks may find the secret of the skiesAnd healing for life’s smart.”I sought Her in loud caverns underground—On heights where lightnings flashed and fell;I scaled high Heaven; I stormed the gates of Hell,But Her I never found.Till thro’ the tumults of my Quest I caughtA whisper: “Here, within thy heart,I dwell; for I am thou: behold thou artThe Seeker—and the Sought.”

They said: “She dwelleth in some place apart,Immortal Truth, within whose eyesWho looks may find the secret of the skiesAnd healing for life’s smart.”

I sought Her in loud caverns underground—On heights where lightnings flashed and fell;I scaled high Heaven; I stormed the gates of Hell,But Her I never found.

Till thro’ the tumults of my Quest I caughtA whisper: “Here, within thy heart,I dwell; for I am thou: behold thou artThe Seeker—and the Sought.”

PADRAIC H. PEARSE

Since the wise men have not spoken, I speak that am only a fool;A fool that hath loved his folly,Yea, more than the wise men their books or their counting houses, or their quiet homes,Or their fame in men’s mouths;A fool that in all his days hath done never a prudent thing,Never hath counted the cost, nor recked if another reapedThe fruit of his mighty sowing, content to scatter the seed;A fool that is unrepentant, and that soon at the end of allShall laugh in his lonely heart as the ripe ears fall to the reaping-hooksAnd the poor are filled that were empty,Tho’ he go hungry.I have squandered the splendid years that the Lord God gave to my youthIn attempting impossible things, deeming them alone worth the toil.Was it folly or grace? Not men shall judge me, but God.I have squandered the splendid years:Lord, if I had the years I would squander them over again,Aye, fling them from me!For this I have heard in my heart, that a man shall scatter, not hoard,Shall do the deed of to-day, nor take thought of to-morrow’s teen,Shall not bargain or huxter with God; or was it a jest of Christ’sAnd is this my sin before men, to have taken Him at His word?The lawyers have sat in council, the men with the keen, long faces,And said, “This man is a fool,” and others have said, “He blasphemeth”;And the wise have pitied the fool that hath striven to give a lifeIn the world of time and space among the bulks of actual things,To a dream that was dreamed in the heart, and that only the heart could hold.O wise men, riddle me this: what if the dream come true?What if the dream come true? and if millions unborn shall dwellIn the house that I shaped in my heart, the noble house of my thought?Lord, I have staked my soul, I have staked the lives of my kinOn the truth of Thy dreadful word. Do not remember my failures,But remember this my faith.And so I speak.Yea, ere my hot youth pass, I speak to my people and say:Ye shall be foolish as I; ye shall scatter, not save;Ye shall venture your all, lest ye lose what is more than all;Ye shall call for a miracle, taking Christ at His word.And for this I will answer, O people, answer here and hereafter,O people that I have loved, shall we not answer together?

I have squandered the splendid years that the Lord God gave to my youthIn attempting impossible things, deeming them alone worth the toil.Was it folly or grace? Not men shall judge me, but God.

I have squandered the splendid years:Lord, if I had the years I would squander them over again,Aye, fling them from me!For this I have heard in my heart, that a man shall scatter, not hoard,Shall do the deed of to-day, nor take thought of to-morrow’s teen,Shall not bargain or huxter with God; or was it a jest of Christ’sAnd is this my sin before men, to have taken Him at His word?

The lawyers have sat in council, the men with the keen, long faces,

And said, “This man is a fool,” and others have said, “He blasphemeth”;And the wise have pitied the fool that hath striven to give a lifeIn the world of time and space among the bulks of actual things,To a dream that was dreamed in the heart, and that only the heart could hold.

O wise men, riddle me this: what if the dream come true?What if the dream come true? and if millions unborn shall dwellIn the house that I shaped in my heart, the noble house of my thought?Lord, I have staked my soul, I have staked the lives of my kinOn the truth of Thy dreadful word. Do not remember my failures,But remember this my faith.

And so I speak.Yea, ere my hot youth pass, I speak to my people and say:Ye shall be foolish as I; ye shall scatter, not save;Ye shall venture your all, lest ye lose what is more than all;Ye shall call for a miracle, taking Christ at His word.And for this I will answer, O people, answer here and hereafter,O people that I have loved, shall we not answer together?

(By permission of Messrs. Maunsel & Roberts, Dublin.)

LORD DUNSANY

“The swans are singing again,” said to one another the gods. And looking downwards, for my dreams had taken me to some fair and far Valhalla, I saw below me an iridescent bubble not greatly larger than a star shine beautifully but faintly, and up and up from it looking larger and larger came a flock of white, innumerable swans, singing and singing and singing, till it seemed as though even the gods were wild ships swimming in music.

“What is it?” I said to one that was humble among the gods.

“Only a world has ended,” he said to me, “and the swans are coming back to the gods returning the gift of song.”

“A whole world dead!” I said.

“Dead,” said he that was humble among the gods. “The worlds are not for ever; only song is immortal.”

“Look! look!” he said. “There will be a new one soon.”

And I looked and saw the larks, going down from the gods.

KENNETH MACLEOD

Dance to your shadow when it’s good to be living, lad,Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you.Dance to your shadow when it’s fine to be living, lad,Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you.Ho ro haradal, hind[34]ye haradal,Ho ro haradal, hind ye han dan.Dance to your shadow when it’s hard to be living, lad,Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you.Dance to your shadow when it’s sore to be living, lad,Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you.Ho ro haradal, etc.Dance to your shadow, letting Fate to her fiddle, lad,Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you.Dance to your shadow, for it’s fine to be living, lad,Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you.Ho ro haradal, etc.

Dance to your shadow when it’s hard to be living, lad,Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you.Dance to your shadow when it’s sore to be living, lad,Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you.Ho ro haradal, etc.

Dance to your shadow, letting Fate to her fiddle, lad,Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you.Dance to your shadow, for it’s fine to be living, lad,Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you.Ho ro haradal, etc.

Sore sea-longing in my heart,Blue deep Barra waves are calling,Sore sea-longing in my heart.Glides the sun, but ah! how slowly,Far away to luring seas!Sore sea-longing in my heart,Blue deep Barra waves are calling,Sore sea-longing in my heart.Hear’st, O Sun, the roll of waters,Breaking, calling by yon Isle?Sore sea-longing in my heart,Blue deep Barra waves are calling,Sore sea-longing in my heart.Sun on high, ere falls the gloamin’,Heart to heart, thou’lt greet yon waves.Mary Mother, how I yearn,Blue deep Barra waves are calling,Mary Mother, how I yearn.

KENNETH MACLEOD

A ho hi! hirrum bo!Early sails she to the reiving,A ho hi! Hirrum bo!Flashing by the frowning headlands.A ho hi! Hirrum bo!Early sails she to the reiving.A ho hi! Hirrum bo!Grinds beneath her, gray-blue limpets,A ho hi! hirrum bo!Crunches curving whelks to sand-drift.A ho hi! hirrum bo!Early sails she to the reiving.Sweeps she gaily[35]Moola’s waters, Kyles and Moyles to fair green Isla,Leaps her way to Isles of daring, gleaming Isles of blades and laughter.A ho hi! hirrum bo!Early sails she to the reiving.

A ho hi! hirrum bo!Early sails she to the reiving,A ho hi! Hirrum bo!Flashing by the frowning headlands.A ho hi! Hirrum bo!Early sails she to the reiving.

A ho hi! Hirrum bo!Grinds beneath her, gray-blue limpets,A ho hi! hirrum bo!Crunches curving whelks to sand-drift.A ho hi! hirrum bo!Early sails she to the reiving.

Sweeps she gaily[35]Moola’s waters, Kyles and Moyles to fair green Isla,Leaps her way to Isles of daring, gleaming Isles of blades and laughter.A ho hi! hirrum bo!Early sails she to the reiving.

MARJORY KENNEDY-FRASER

Land of Heart’s Desire, Isle of Youth,Dear Western Isle, gleaming in sunlight!Land of Heart’s Desire, Isle of Youth!Far the cloudless sky stretches blueAcross the isle, green in the sunlight,—Far the cloudless sky stretches blue.There shall thou and I wander free,On sheen-white sands, dreaming in starlight.Land of Heart’s Desire, Isle of Youth!

Land of Heart’s Desire, Isle of Youth,Dear Western Isle, gleaming in sunlight!Land of Heart’s Desire, Isle of Youth!

Far the cloudless sky stretches blueAcross the isle, green in the sunlight,—Far the cloudless sky stretches blue.

There shall thou and I wander free,On sheen-white sands, dreaming in starlight.Land of Heart’s Desire, Isle of Youth!

(After Thos. Pattison’s translation from Ossian—“The sweet voice of Cona.”)

MARJORY KENNEDY-FRASER

Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky,While bright the sun shines on Cona’s steep.Sweet sounds the note of the lonely heron,Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky.Bright the sun shines on Cona’s steep,While hounds for chase all on fire are straining.Their deep-mouthed bay sweet as bardic music,Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky.Sweet the winds softly murmuring,Of eagle sweet is the far-heard cry.As sails she o’er Morven’s mighty sea-board,Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky.

Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky,While bright the sun shines on Cona’s steep.Sweet sounds the note of the lonely heron,Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky.

Bright the sun shines on Cona’s steep,While hounds for chase all on fire are straining.Their deep-mouthed bay sweet as bardic music,Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky.

Sweet the winds softly murmuring,Of eagle sweet is the far-heard cry.As sails she o’er Morven’s mighty sea-board,Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky.

MARJORY KENNEDY-FRASER

High from the Ben a HayichOn a day of daysSeaward I gaz’d,Watching Kishmul’s galley sailing.O hio huo faluo!Homeward she bravely battles’Gainst the hurtling wavesNor hoop nor yards,Anchor, cable, nor tackle has she.O hio huo faluo!Now at last ’gainst wind and tideThey’ve brought her to’Neath Kishmul’s walls,Kishmul Castle our ancient glory.O hio huo faluo!Here’s red wine and feast for heroesAnd harping too,O hio hu!Sweet harping too!O hio huo faluo!

High from the Ben a HayichOn a day of daysSeaward I gaz’d,Watching Kishmul’s galley sailing.O hio huo faluo!

Homeward she bravely battles’Gainst the hurtling wavesNor hoop nor yards,Anchor, cable, nor tackle has she.O hio huo faluo!

Now at last ’gainst wind and tideThey’ve brought her to’Neath Kishmul’s walls,Kishmul Castle our ancient glory.O hio huo faluo!

Here’s red wine and feast for heroesAnd harping too,O hio hu!Sweet harping too!O hio huo faluo!

AGNES MURE MACKENZIE

When day and night are over,And the World is done with me,Oh carry me West and lay meIn Aignish by the Sea.And never heed me lyingAmong the ancient dead,Beside the white sea breakersAnd sand-drift overhead.The grey gulls wheeling ever,And the wide arch of sky,On Aignish on the Machair,And quiet there to lie.

When day and night are over,And the World is done with me,Oh carry me West and lay meIn Aignish by the Sea.

And never heed me lyingAmong the ancient dead,Beside the white sea breakersAnd sand-drift overhead.

The grey gulls wheeling ever,And the wide arch of sky,On Aignish on the Machair,And quiet there to lie.

NEIL MUNRO

Because they were so brave and youngWho now are sleeping,His old heart wrung, his harp unstrung,Fingal’s a-weeping.There’s warble of waters at morning in Etive glen,And the mists are flying;Chuckle of Spring in the wood, on the moor, on the ben,No heed for their dying!So Fingal’s weeping the young brave sleeping,Fingal’s weeping.They’ll be forgot in Time,—forgot!Time that goes sweeping;The wars they fought remembered not,And Fingal’s weeping.Hearken for voices of sorrow for them in the forest denWhere once they were rovers—Only the birds of the wild at their building again,Whispering of lovers!So Fingal’s weeping, his old grief keeping,Fingal’s weeping.They should be mourned by the ocean waveRound lone isles creeping,But the laughing wave laments no grave,And Fingal’s weeping.Morven and Moidart, glad, gallant and gay in the sun,Rue naught departed;The moon and the stars shine out when the day is done,Cold, stony-hearted,And Fingal’s weeping war’s red reaping,Fingal’s weeping!

Because they were so brave and youngWho now are sleeping,His old heart wrung, his harp unstrung,Fingal’s a-weeping.

There’s warble of waters at morning in Etive glen,And the mists are flying;Chuckle of Spring in the wood, on the moor, on the ben,No heed for their dying!So Fingal’s weeping the young brave sleeping,Fingal’s weeping.

They’ll be forgot in Time,—forgot!Time that goes sweeping;The wars they fought remembered not,And Fingal’s weeping.

Hearken for voices of sorrow for them in the forest denWhere once they were rovers—Only the birds of the wild at their building again,Whispering of lovers!So Fingal’s weeping, his old grief keeping,Fingal’s weeping.

They should be mourned by the ocean waveRound lone isles creeping,But the laughing wave laments no grave,And Fingal’s weeping.

Morven and Moidart, glad, gallant and gay in the sun,Rue naught departed;The moon and the stars shine out when the day is done,Cold, stony-hearted,And Fingal’s weeping war’s red reaping,Fingal’s weeping!

THE MYSTERY OF AMERGIN.PAGE 3

Of this strange pantheistical fragment, Dr Douglas Hyde writes:—“The first poem written in Ireland is said to have been the work of Amergin, who was brother of Evir, Ir, and Eremon, the first Milesian princes who colonised Ireland many hundred of years before Christ. The three short pieces of verse ascribed to Amergin are certainly very ancient and very strange. But, as the whole story of the Milesian invasion is wrapped in mystery and is quite possibly only a rationalised account of early Irish mythology (in which the Tuatha De Danann, Firbolgs, and possibly Milesians, are nothing but the gods of the early Irish euhemerised into men), no faith can be placed in the alleged date or genuineness of Amergin’s verses. They are, however, of interest, because as Irish tradition has always represented them as being the first verses made in Ireland, so it may very well be that they actually do present the oldest surviving lines in any vernacular tongue in Europe except Greek.”

THE SONG OF FIONN.PAGE 4

“The Song of Finn MacCool, composed after his eating of the Salmon of Knowledge.” This, if not the earliest, is almost the earliest authentic fragment of Erse poetry. The translation is after O’Donovan and Dr Douglas Hyde.

CREDHE’S LAMENT.PAGE 5

FromThe Colloquy of the Ancients(called also “The Dialogue of the Sages,” and by other analogues), translated by Standish Hayes O’Grady (videThe Book of Lismore;Silva Gadelica; etc.). See specific mention in Introduction.

CUCHULLIN IN HIS CHARIOT.PAGE 6

(Source: Hector MacLean’sUltonian Hero Ballads. See Introduction.)

DEIRDRE’S LAMENT FOR THE SONS OF USNACH.PAGE 8

Of the many Irish-Gaelic and Scottish-Gaelic and English translations and paraphrases, I have selected the rendering of Sir Samuel Ferguson. The original Erse is of unknown antiquity. (See Introduction.)

THE LAMENT OF QUEEN MAEV.PAGE 10

This admirable translation is by Mr T. W. Rolleston (videNote to p. 166), after the original inThe Book of Leinster.

THE MARCH OF THE FAERIE HOST.PAGE 12

This striking poem is given as translated by Professor Kuno Meyer. It and other verses are to be found, in the original, inThe Book of Lismore(15th century). The particular narrative therein deals with the visit of Laegaire mac Crimthainn to the land of Faerie. The episodic portion of this narrative has been translated and edited by Mr Standish Hayes O’Grady (seeSilva Gadelica); but the general reader may be more interested in the brief and lucid commentary of Professor Kuno Meyer (seeThe Voyage of Bran—with Essay on the Celtic Elysium, by Mr Alfred Nutt—recently published by D. Nutt). Professor Meyer considers this and the other verses of “Laegaire mac Crimthainn” to be as old as the 10th century period. “The Faerie Host,” as here given, is fragmentary, being part of an episode; but I have further curtailed it by three lines, for the sake of effect and unity of impression. The other three lines are—

“At all times melodious are they,Quick-witted in song-making,Skilled at playingfiachell.”

VISION OF A FAIR WOMAN.PAGE 13

This characteristic Scoto-Celtic poem is supposed by some scholars to be very ancient. The Gaelic version permits of some doubt on the conjecture, but the text is not in this instance conclusive. The “Aisling” will be found in Smith’sCollection of Ancient Poems, from the Gaelic of Ossian, Ullin, Orran, and others(1780)—the reputed originals of which were published in 1787. See, for easier reference, Nigel MacNeil’sLiterature of the Highlanders, p. 218.

THE FIAN BANNERS.PAGE 14

This paraphrase of an ancient poem is modern. The original is supposed to relate to the Scoto-Celtic and Vikingwars of the 11th century. (See Nigel MacNeil’sLiterature of the Highlanders, p. 117.)

THE RUNE OF ST PATRICK (“THE FAEDH; OR, THE CRY OF THE DEER”).PAGE 17

This translation of the “Faedh,” fromThe Book of Hymns(11th century), is by Charles Mangan.

COLUMCILLE CECENIT.PAGE 18

The version of Colum’s Hymn here given is the translation of Dr Douglas Hyde, himself a poet, and one of the foremost living Irish folk-lorists. All students of Celtic literature should see his fascinating volume of metrical renderings of the old Erse,The Three Sorrows of Story-Telling. (VideNotes to p. 126.)

COLUMCILLE FECIT.PAGE 20

This well-known poem is given as translated by Michael O’Curry, from an Irish MS. in the Burgundian Library of Brussels.

THE SONG OF MURDOCH THE MONK.PAGE 22

This “Monastic Shaving Song” is the version of Professor Blackie, as translated fromBishop Ewing’s Book.

DOMHNULL MAC FHIONNLAIDH. “THE AGED BARD’S WISH.”PAGE 23

Although this undoubtedly old Gaelic poem is attributed by its translators, Charles Edward Stuart and John Sobieski, to the early bard Domhnull Mac Fhionnlaidh, there is no certainty (as they admit) either as to authorship or date. This version is taken fromBallads and Songsby Charles Edward Stuart and John Sobieski.

“OSSIAN SANG.”PAGE 28

The original was jotted down in phonetic Gaelic by Dean Macgregor some 380 years ago.

FINGAL AND ROS-CRANA.PAGE 29

This is not part of the text of Macpherson’sOssianthough the Englishing is by Macpherson, who attributes the original to Colgan, an ancient Scoto-Irish bard. It will be found in the Notes toTemora. (See Introduction.)

THE NIGHT-SONG OF THE BARDS.PAGE 31

Macpherson “translated” this, he avers, from an old Gaelic original. His version is to be found in the Notes toCroma.

OSSIAN. “COMALA.”PAGE 35

I have selected this short poem as representative ofthe semi-mythical Ossian of Macpherson. It is undoubtedly ancient substantially.

THE DEATH-SONG OF OSSIAN.PAGE 41

The close of “The Songs of Selma.” (See foregoing Note.)

THE POOL OF PILATE.PAGE 45

From the ancient Cornish drama,The Resurrection of Christ(videsection: “The Death of Pilate”). See the volume on the subject by Mr Edwin Norris, referred to in Note to “The Vision of Seth.”

MERLIN THE DIVINER.PAGE 46

(VideIntroduction.) This, though it exists in the old Cornish dialect, is really an ancient Breton incantation. The Cornish variant is to be found in that invaluable depository of Armorican legendary lore, theBarzaz Breiz. The translation here given is by Thos. Stephens. (VideThos. Stephens: a Memoir. Wm. Rees, Llandovery, 1849.)

THE VISION OF SETH.PAGE 47

This dramatic fragment is fromThe Ancient Cornish Drama, edited and translated by Edwin Norris, Sec. R.A.S. (Oxford, 1859).

THE DANCE OF THE SWORD.PAGE 53

(VideIntroduction.) In Armorican,Gwin ar C‘ Hallaoued: Ha Korol or C‘ Hlezf—i.e.The Wine of the Gauls, and the Dance of the Sword. Supposed to be the fragment of a Song that accompanied the old Celtic sword-dance in honour of the Sun. [This and the following translation by the late Tom Taylor are, by courteous permission of Messrs Macmillan, quoted fromBallads and Songs of Brittany(selections from theBarzaz Breizof the Vicomte Hersart de la Villemarqué).]

THE LORD NANN AND THE FAIRY.PAGE 55

(By the same, and from the same source.) The “Korrigan” of Breton superstition has his familiar congeners in Celtic Scotland and Ireland; and is identical with the “elf” of Scandinavian mythology and of the Danish ballads. In this English version of “The Lord Nann” the metre and divisions into stanzas of the original Armorican have beenadhered to. The triplet indicates antiquity in Cambrian and Armorican compositions.

ALAIN THE FOX.PAGE 58

This and the following poem are from the same Franco-Breton source as their two predecessors, but are translated by Mr F. G. Fleay, M.A. (The Masterpieces of Breton Ballads.Printed for Private Circulation. Halifax, 1870).

BRAN (THE CROW).PAGE 60

See foregoing Note.

THE SOUL.PAGE 67

This strange fragment is of unknown antiquity, and may well be, as affirmed, of as remote a date as the 6th or even 5th century. It is from that remarkable depository of early Cymric lore,The Black Book of Caermarthen(1154-1189).

LLYWARC’H HEN.PAGE 68

The “Gorwynion” of Llywarc’h Hên, “Prince of the Cambrian Britons” (if it is really the work of that poet), is one of the most famous productions of early Cymric literature. Llywarc’h Hên’sfloreatis by some authorities placed in the middle of the 7th century, by others so early as the beginning of the 6th, and by others as really extending from early in the 6th till the middle of the 7th: the drift of evidence indicates the remoter date as the more probable. The translation here given was made about a hundred years ago by William Owen. It is not easy to find an English equivalent for “Gorwynion,” a plural word which signifies objects that have a very bright whiteness or glare. Perhaps the word glitterings might serve, though, as has been suggested, the nearest term would beCoruscants. The last line of these verses generally contains some moral maxim, unconnected with the preceding lines, except in the metre. It is said that the custom arose through the desire of the bards to assist the memory in the conveyance of instruction by oral means. In the translation the rhymed or assonantal unity of the tercets is lost, with the result that the third-line maxim generally comes in with almost ludicrous inappositeness. According to theTriads of the Isle of Britain, Llywarc’h Hên passed his younger days at the Court of Arthur. Inone triad he is alluded to as one of the three free guests at the Arthurian Court; in another, as one of the three counselling warriors. According to tradition, the bones of this princely bard lie beneath the Church of Llanvor, where, as averred, he was interred at the patriarchal age of 150 years. He was not one of the Sacred Bards, because of his military profession as a prince and knight; for these might not carry arms, and in their presence a naked sword even might not be held. TheBeirddwere not poets and sages only, but were accounted and accepted as missioners of peace.

LLYWARC’H HEN.PAGE 71

This is another series of “Gorwynion,” attributed to Llywarc’h Hên by Mr Skene, who has translated it fromThe Red Book of Hergest(MS. compiled in 14th and 15th centuries). The English rendering ofThe Red Bookwas issued through Messrs Edmonston & Douglas of Edinburgh in 1868.

TALIESIN.PAGE 73

“Song to the Wind” (VideIntroduction). “The Song about the Wind,” of which only a section is given here, will be found in full in Skene’sFour Ancient Books of Wales, Vol. I., page 535, and is the most famous poem by the most famous of Cymric bards. It was first translated, some forty-five years ago, by Lady Charlotte Guest, whose Englished renderings of the “Mabinogion” attracted the attention of scholars throughout the whole Western world. (Longmans, 1849 and later.) Emerson delighted in the “Song,” and declared it to be one of the finest pieces of its kind extant in any literature. See also theMyvyrian Archaiology.

ANEURIN.PAGE 75

Aneurin was one of the famous warrior bards of ancient Wales. His birth is noted asCirca500A.D., and in any case he flourished during the first half of the 6th century. Aneurin—like Taliesin, called “the monarch of the bards”—was a Briton of Manau Gododin, a principality or province of Cymric Scotland, now Mid-Lothian and Linlithgowshire. Manau Gododin stretched from the Carron of to-day (the Carun of Ossian), some miles to the north-west of Falkirk to the river Esk, that now divides Mid-Lothian and East Lothian. Manau Gododin was then much more Celtic (Pictish) than Gododin. “Breatan Cymru” (i.e.the country of the Welsh Britons) then comprised thelarger part of southern Scotland—that is, from the north end of Loch Lomond, and from the upper reaches of the Gwruid (the Forth), to the Mull of Galloway on the south-west; eastward to a line drawn from the western Lammermuirs, by Melrose, Kelso, and Jedburgh, and so down by the Cheviots to Hexham, and thence southwesterly by Cumberland. The exception was the Pictish or Celtic province of Galloway—bounded on the west by Carrawg (that part of Ayrshire known as Carrick); on the north by Coel (Kyle); on the east by a line drawn from Sanquhar through Nithsdale and by Dumfries to Locharmoss and the Solway; on the south-west, by Novant (Mull of Galloway); and on the south by the Solway Firth.

Aneurin was a contemporary of the princely poet, Llywarc’h Hên. He was called Aneurin y Coed Awr ap Caw o Gwm Cawlwyd—or, again, Aneurin Gwadrydd—both designations indicative of his greatness. It has been maintained that Aneurin is identical with the celebrated Gildas, “the author of the Latin epistle which Bede so blindly copied,” both Aneurin and Gildas having been sons of Caw. He is supposed to be alluded to as the seventh bard, in a curious fragment preserved in theMyvyrian Archaiology(Vol. III.), which I excerpt here.

“The seven questions put by Catwg the Wise, to the Seven Wise Men of the College of Llanvuthan, and the answers of these men:

1. “What is the greatest wisdom of man?” “To be able to do evil and not to do it,” answeredSt Tedio.

2. “What is the highest goodness of man?” “Justice,” answeredTahaiarn.

3. “What is the worst principle of man?” “Falsehood,” answeredTaliesin, chief of Bards.

4. “What is the noblest action of man?” “Correctness,” answeredCynan, son of Clydno Eddin.

5. “What is the greatest folly of man?” “To desire a common evil, which he cannot do,” answeredYstyvan, the Bard of Teilo.

6. “Who is the poorest man?” “He who is not contented with his own property,” answeredArawn, son of Cynvarch.

7. “Who is the richest man?” “He who does not covet anything belonging to others,” answeredGildasof Coed Awr.

“The Ode to the Months” is given in the translation of William Probert (1820), according to whom the Ode contains moral maxims and observations which were known and repeated long before Aneurin lived, and were put into verse by him as an aid to the memory: “valuable, because they show the modes of thinking and expression which the primitive inhabitants of Britain used nearly 2000 years ago.”

DAFYDD AP GWILYM.PAGE 78

(Fl. 14th century.) In his love of Nature, and in the richness of his poetic imagination (as well, so say those who can read Welsh fluently, as in his poetry), Dafydd ap Gwilym is the Keats of Wales. The romance of his life and wild-wood experiences has yet to be written: and we still await an adequate translator—though, to judge from some recent renderings by Mr Ernest Rhys, in an interesting short study of Dafydd, recently published inThe Chap Book(Stone & Kimball, Chicago) we may not have to wait much longer. He was a love-child: of noble parentage, though born under a hedge at Llandaff. His mother wedded after his birth; but he remained the “wilding” throughout his life. He became the favourite of Ivor Hael of Emlyn, with whose daughter Morvydd he fell in love. He wooed and won her “under the greenwood tree,” but only to lose her shortly afterward, when she was forcibly married to a man called Bwa Bach. Dafydd stole her from her legitimate husband, but was captured and imprisoned. His ultimate release was due to the payment of the imposed fine, the sum having been got together by the men of Glamorgan. His most ardent love-poetry is addressed to this fair Morvydd.

RHYS GOCH OF ERYRI.PAGE 82

There are two famous poets of the name of Rhys Goch; probably both belong to the 14th century (and Wilkins certainly disputes the claim of Rhys Goch ap Rhiccart to be of the 12th century). This Ode is an illustration of the sound answering the sense. Rhys was in love with the fair Gwen of Dol, and sent a peacock to her. His rival, also a bard, composed a poem to the Fox, beseeching it to kill his rival’s present, and, singularly enough, the bird was destroyed by a fox, and the rival bard was happy. Stung by this misadventure, Rhys composed the above, which, in the original, so teems with gutturals that SionTudor called it the “Shibboleth of Sobriety, because no man, when drunk, could possibly pronounce it.”

RHYS GOCH AP RHICCART.PAGE 83

See foregoing Note.

A.E.PAGES 87-91

FromHomeward Songs by the Way(Whaley, Dublin).

This little book, published in paper covers, and apparently with every effort to avoid rather than court publicity, almost immediately attracted the notice of the few who watch contemporary poetry with scrupulously close attention. The author, who is well known in Dublin literary society, prefers to disguise his identity in public under the initials A.E., though it is no longer a secret that Mr G. W. Russell is the name of this poet-dreamer, who, like Blake, of whom he is a student and interpreter, has also a faculty of pictorial expression of a rare and distinctive kind.

WM. ALLINGHAM. (1824-1889.)PAGES 92-94

Every lover of Irish poetry is familiar with “The Fairies” of the late William Allingham. He is an Irish rather than distinctively a Celtic poet in the strict sense of the word; but every now and again he strikes the genuine Celtic note, as in his well-known “Fairies,” and the little poem called the “Æolian Harp,” by which he is also represented here. Much the best critical summary of his life-work is to be found in the brief memoir by Mr W. B. Yeats in Miles’Poets and Poetry of the Century, Vol. V., p. 209. Among the innumerable love songs of the Irish peasantry there are few more beautiful than Allingham’s “Mary Donnelly.” As Mr Yeats says, he was “the poet of little things and little moments, and neither his emotions nor his thoughts took any wide sweep over the world of Man and Nature.” His “Laurence Bloomfield” is already practically forgotten; but many of the lighter and often exquisitely deft lyrics of his early life will remain in the memory of the Irish people, and one or two at least in English literature.

THOMAS BOYD.PAGE 95

So far as I know, Mr Thomas Boyd has not published any volume of verse. Some of his poems have appeared inUnited Ireland, among them the beautiful lines, “To the Lianhaun Shee.”

EMILY BRONTË. (1818-1848.)PAGE 97

It may be as well to explain to those readers who take it for granted that Emily Brontë is to be accounted an English poet, that she was of Irish nationality and birth. The name Brontë, so familiar now through the genius of herself and her sister, was originally Prunty. Everything from her pen has a note of singular distinction; but perhaps she could hardly be more characteristically represented than by the poem called “Remembrance.” The, in quantity, meagre poetic legacy of the author ofWuthering Heightsis comprised (under her pseudonym, Ellis Bell) in the volumePoems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell.

STOPFORD A. BROOKE.PAGE 98-100

“The Earth and Man” and “Song” (from the poem called “Six Days”) are from Mr Stopford Brooke’s volume,Poems(Macmillan & Co.). These seem to me fairly representative of the distinctive atmosphere which Mr Brooke conveys in all his poetry. See particularly hisRiquet of The Tuft(1880) andPoems(1888).

JOHN K. CASEY.PAGE 101-3

Most of Mr Casey’s poems appeared above the signature “Leo.” Born in 1846, the son of a peasant, his early efforts to make literature his profession were handicapped by inevitable disadvantages. In 1876 he was arrested as a Fenian conspirator, and imprisoned. This, combined with the influence of his unselfish patriotism and the popularity of many of his lyrics, gave him a recognised place in the Irish Brotherhood of Song.

GEORGE DARLEY. (1795-1846.)PAGE 104

This remarkable poet, who has so strangely lapsed from public remembrance, was in his own day greatly admired by his fellow-poets and the most discerning critics of the period. Mrs Browning, and Robert Browning still more, were deeply impressed by what is now his best known production—Sylvia: a Lyrical Drama(1836); and Alfred Tennyson was so struck by the quality of the young poet’s work that he volunteered to defray the cost of publishing his verse. Lord Tennyson frequently, in conversation, alluded to George Darley as one of the “hopelessly misapprehended men”; and we have Robert Browning’s own authority, says Darley’s latest biographer, Mr JohnH. Ingram, for stating thatSylviadid much to determine the form of his own early dramas.Sylvia, again, charmed Coleridge; and in 1836, Miss Mitford, whom Mr Ingram calls a leading spirit among theliteratiof her day, writes:—“I have just had a present of a most exquisite poem, which old Mr Carey (the translator of Dante and Pindar) thinks more highly of than any poem of the present day—‘Sylvia, or The May Queen,’ by George Darley. It is exquisite—something between the ‘Faithful Shepherdess’ and the ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream.’”

Darley was the eldest child of Arthur Darley, of the Scalp, County Wicklow. The poet, however, was not born there, but in Dublin, in the year 1795. While he was a child, his parents emigrated to the United States; and the boy spent the first ten years of his life at the family home in Wicklow. In due time, and subsequent to the return of his parents from America, he went through the usual scholastic routine, though he did not graduate at Trinity College, Dublin, till his twenty-fifth year—a delay in great part due to what, then and later, he considered a disastrous impediment of speech. From the loss of a scholarship to the social deprivations he underwent in London, this infirmity, he declared, was his evil fortune. His first book,The Errors of Ecstasie, was published (1822) in London, where he had settled. Needless to say, as this volume consists mainly of a dialogue between a Mystic and the Moon, the reading public remained in absolute ignorance of the new poet. His second book (1826) consisted of a series of prose tales and verses, collectively entitled—The Labours of Idleness; or, Seven Nights’ Entertainments—set forth as by “Guy Penseval.” Three years later appeared his chief work,Sylvia. Notwithstanding its divers shortcomings, some of them frankly acknowledged by the author himself,Sylviais a creation of genuine imagination, and possesses a haunting and quite distinctive charm. Both the merits and demerits of his too often uncontrolled style are adequately indicated in the criticism of Mr Ingram: “[frequently] his wild Celtic fancy breaks its curb and carries him into clouds of metaphor as marvellous as they are musical, although often the flight ends by a hasty and undignified descent to commonplace earth.” There is no commonplace, however, in his exquisite faëry verse, which, in the words of the same critic, “is amongthe loveliest in the language; at times is even sweeter than Drayton’s, and is as fantastic as Shakespeare’s own.”

For ten years the poet kept silence; but in 1839 he issued his fragmentary and extraordinaryNepenthe—a poem which, with all its brilliant quality and daring richness of imagery, might well be taken as an example of the Celtic geniusin extremis—so unreservedly does he give way to an uncontrolled imagination. Perhaps the best thing said aboutNepentheis in a letter from the author himself, wherein he writes:—“Does it not speak a heat of brain mentally Bacchic?”

Nothing that Darley published afterwards enhanced his reputation. Lovers of his best work, however, should read the posthumous volume of his “Poems” edited by R. and M. J. Livingstone—a rare volume, as it was printed for private circulation. It contains some of the songs from an unpublished lyrical drama calledThe Sea Bride; and it is from this that the “Dirge,” quoted at page 104 in this book, comes. In this posthumous collection also is included the following striking and characteristic lyric:—

THE FALLEN STAR.

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