CANTO IV.

Straightway into the council-room of chiefsAnd sages was the limp-limbed body borne.Then spake Muëna: “Lo! a grief of griefs,Ultonia’s hearts are kingless and forlorn,For know ye not how spake the wiseman, bornTo wisdom?—‘Ne’er shall King with blemish marredReign’: and behold! alas! since this sad mornKing Fergus, from Ambition evil-starred,Lies now before your eyes in visage sorely scarred.

“Choose ye a King, to reign within his stead.”He ceased, but answer came not; rather, roundThe silent throng flew questioning glance that saidUnstable vacillation. Not a soundBroke cover till one bolder spirit woundThe trumpet-horn of speech; then left and right,Leapt forth the hounds of thought, and roof and groundEchoed impassioned tongues, and feet bedightWith thong and sandal, plied with each loud speaker’s might.

Then spake the sons of wisdom, they who stoodApart in silent conclave, while the dinOf ineffectual babblings drew no roodMore near conclusion: “Hear, Ultonian kin!What arm so strong Ultonia’s wars to win,Foster the strength of strong, inspire the weak?Lives there a soul full fit to stand withinThe Monarch’s room? What worthier do you seekTo guide the reins of peace, or would ye other? Speak!”

“None! none!” the multitudinous answer rangUnanimous. (King Fergus, with a sigh,Turned in his sleep. Perchance he dreamed there sangSome bard of deeds their fathers did.) The cryThrilled through the chamber’s walls, and far and nighFound answer in a thousand throats, that gaveTheir yet unmeaning plaudits to the sky;And as, in sound like shoreward-shrieking waveThey shout, the secret they in others’ faces crave.

Without, the crowd swayed back and forth, with dinLow-muffled, as the sea doth surge and swayIn silken swell, from storm gone past. WithinWas calm, and brows determined sought a wayThrough that old law to write emphatic “Nay!”Then quoth the wisemen’s chief: “Our path is plain.Our hearts upon our tongues have said their say,And Fergus o’er Ultonia’s host shall reign,If but to meet our thoughts your constant strength ye strain.

“Let fools and babblers take their journey far,And silent sit as sent’nel to your speech.What wots the King of that which him doth marIf but the knowledge in the breast of eachBe locked beyond a thought’s long-arméd reachTill forced forgetfulness doth rust the keyOr haply lose it. E’en your art let teachThe water to forget his form to seeOr give it back, when to ablution cometh he.”

Approval shone within their eyes. Their tonguesIn loud assent gave forth: “Fergus is King!”And once again without, untutored lungsCaught up the cry, nor knew what meant the thing,’Till, like a mighty bird, on fresh-plumed wing,The Royal chariot once again did shakeRampart and roof, as champing steeds did flingTheir heads on high, and sped by mount and brakeTo scenes of less surprise when Fergus should awake.. . . . . .

. . . . . .

What need to sing of deeds within the scopeOf thrice a dozen moons? What need to tellHow fared the King when, by the sanded slopeWhere twice a day the sea-waves fret and swell,He woke? Or devious deeds that oft befellClansman and chief in those high-sounding daysOf war-girt peace—a Heaven ringed round with Hell—Or battle’s loud-lunged shout, or conquest’s blaze,Or how the blemished King ne’er on his fault did gaze.

’Twas thus—and thus, when thrice a year had spedKing Fergus of his blemish happed to know:—“I go to mine ablutions (so he saidUnto his bond-maid), girl, the task you knowOf preparation. Haste you, for I goOn mighty mission!” P’r’aps ’twas Fate’s decreeThe maiden’s arm in service seemed full slow,And Fergus, strained of nerve, was swift to seeIn microscopic faults, some slight of majesty.

Howbeit,—the fire to firelike will give blaze,And progeny of one small word or deedCount thousand-thousand. Half in wide amaze,And half in wild vexation that slow heedThe maiden gave to that his will decreed,He strode into her presence: then on highHe raised the stinging lash his stout-skinned steedOft felt, and flinched, and, drawing swiftly nigh,Its serpent hiss was drowned in the smit’ maiden’s cry.

“A curse upon your laggard form!” he hissed.The smitten girl swift raised her flashing eyesIn scarlet indignation, nor was missedThe blemish on the Monarch’s face. She cries:“King Fergus, heartless coward! I loathe, despiseYour craven hand, nor e’en a word would deign,But that I deem your spirit’s shape and sizeMust match your brute-like visage.” Purpling plainWith rage, he drew his sword and cut the maid in twain.

A maddened moment’s deed! And when the stormWas past, the King in calm the wreck surveyedOf his own making. Towering o’er the formProstrate and purple, holding still the bladeWet with her life, he stood as sore dismayed,Muttering: “Visage! Visage!” still the wordBeat inward on his ’wildered brain, nor stayedTill that grim truth, long hid, to sight restored,Burst on his mind. He turned, still clasping tight the sword.

Three steps beyond the portal of the roomWhere lay the maid, he stopped and cast a lookBackward,—a look portentous of dark doomTo all beneath its ban. Aloft he shookThe bleeding blade; then cried, till every nook,E’en to the farthest of the farthest halls,Trembled; and, as he called, his way he tookDown corridors that held his foot’s swift fallsTill cry and footfall blent without the castle walls.

The cry was: “Visage! Visage! Death and bloodTo what has wrought the ruin of yon maid,—That hideous habitant of Rory’s floodWho plies—mayhap not long—his secret trade;And mine ambition that such depths essayedAs strained the strength of me. Yet, not for noughtThe fiend was found, tho’ fled I sore dismayed:Some lesson yet is there, tho’ anguish-taught;Some profit yet remains, tho’ it in blood be bought.

One falleth—that foul spirit: then is pastTemptation of ambition; but, perchanceMine arm may fail: sobeit, then is castAway the secret.” On did he advance.And one who saw his eyeballs’ lightning glance,And marked his mood and manner, thro’ the crowdSpread rumouring words, keen, swift as strong-threwn lance,That drew them forth, a multitude, all browedWith wonderment that grew with each swift stride, till, loud

And deep before them, Rory swells and swings.Behold! the King nor pauses, nor asideTurns in his track.—Not mine to tell of thingsRun riot in those minds that edged the tide,Where late the billows did King Fergus hide,Nor gave of him a token, save the swellOf giant strivings in the waters wide,And one wild wave that, as from heart of Hell,Leaped for the shore and ’mong the wondering warriors fell.

And thereupon arose confusion, suchAs ne’er was seen before, and ne’er againShall e’er be seen. With tops that seemed to touchThe heights of Heaven arose the strenuous mainIn wild tumultuous strivings, till the brainOf those beholders whirled, and they that spakeIn terror seemed all voiceless, for in vainSpeech called at its own ears. All heaven did makeSound at whose dreadful voice all earth did seem to shake.

And far across the world a tempest boreSounds of a conflict such as never yetMan’s eyes beheld,—e’en to the cloudy shoreOf distant Britain: there did they begetVague words of wonder. Ere the sun had setWithin a stormy west nor man nor maidOf all Ultonia but with spray was wetAs, lo! from each far hill, each distant gladeLong thousands shoreward drew with wide-eyed wonder swayed.

And when it seemed as if the heavens swamIn wild bewilderment,—each starry sphereWould topple earthward, straightway fell a calmThat laid a hush upon the heart of fear,And soothed both sea and sky, till softest tearWould drop with sound of cataracts in the glen.And thus they waited what should next appear,Uncounted thousands of full-armëd men,Bards, chieftans, clansmen, women, maids, youths, children:—then

As if the sea had stolen half the glowOf the sunk sun, the quiet Loch flushed red,And lengthened day, e’en tho’ the day did goTo other lands. “Some portent this,” they said,“Of the fight’s finish: one hath joined the dead—Which, shall appear full soon.”—Lo! on the seaWhat form is yon that waves a hideous headWithin its hand? They gaze, they shout: “’Tis he,Fergus, Ultonia’s King. Fergus hath victory!”

Then that red glory brightened, and they scannedThe King’s marred visage—marred?—nay, pure and brightAs erst in youth! He called: “With this right handNerved with the fury of revengeful might,I fought—and won! I’ve lived my day; now nightDoth wrap its blackness round me: I but payThe price of mine own deed.” And from their sightHe sank beneath the waters of the bayWhich rolled in waves of blood for many a devious day!

To J. A. Gregg.——

[Note.—Saint Mahee (Word in Gaelic) was born about 420A.D., founded the Abbey of Endrim (Word in Gaelic—the single ridge), on the beautiful island bearing that name, about 450, and died in the year 496 or 497. For several centuries the Abbey, in which education and religion were combined, occupied a prominent position, and turned out a number of subsequent founders of similar institutions. Between 974 and 1178 history is silent in regard to it, but it is certain that, from its position on Cuan (Word in Gaelic—a lough, now Strangford), which was infested by Danish marauders, it came in for a large share of their devastating attentions. From the date of its affiliation with an English educational establishment, 1178, it seems to have fallen on evil days, and in 1450 it is simply noted as a Parish Church in the charge of the Bishop of Down.

The Island of Endrim—or, as it is now called, in memory of its Patron Saint, Mahee—is situated most picturesquely on Strangford Lough, about seven miles from Comber, Co. Down, and is approachable on foot or car by a modern causeway-road, which crosses an intervening island. On the shoreward end of the island may be seen many remnants of the stone buildings which superseded the original wooden structures. These remnants include the stump of a round tower; traces of extensive foundations once laid bare by the late Bishop Reeves, but now almost entirely hidden from view; the site of the harbour where anchored “ships from Britain;” evidences of a hallowed God’s-acre, and a fairly complete castle of a later period. The circuit of the island can be made on foot leisurely in a couple of hours, and the walk affords a view of the extensive waters of the once Dane-infested lough, the distant hoary walls of Greyabbey, the haunts of Saint Patrick, the reputed scene of the deathof Ollav Fola (Word in Gaelic, the lawgiver of Erin), and the martial deeds of De Courcey.

Ballydrain, about half-way between Comber and Mahee Island, is so-called fromWord in Gaelic, a townland, andWord in Gaelic, a blackthorn tree; and the reader will observe the connection between this place and the Island of Mahee. No trace of a church has yet been discovered at Ballydrain.

The idea contained in the Legend has been variously rendered by several eminent authors. The incident in which it is here embodied may, however, be fairly claimed as the oldest version—the original, in fact.—The Author.]

Lo! right and left, in calm repose,Are spread unnumbered isles,Between whose shores the bluff breeze blows,And sungilt Strangford smiles.The shoreward way our feet have leftBelow, still winds alongWhere strenuous waves, in eddy and cleft,Croon low their iterant song.

Bright in the passionate, tremulous raysFrom cloudy towers of day,Yon crumbling castle seems to gazeAt castles far away,Like parted friends of other yearsWho meet, nor waste a word,But wondering stand, and smile thro’ tearsFrom depths unfathomed stirred.

Here may we rest, and make our seatOn this high rock-strewn mound,“Put off our shoes from off our feet”—We tread on holy groundThe haunts where many a sandalled soleTrod out life’s lust and woe,And, stedfast set to one high goal,Went down in dust below.

No stone is theirs engraven largeWith record born of strife,No gilded scroll, no carven marge,No legend loud with life.Far other deeds than men applaudTheir holy hands essayed,In life viceregent here of God,In death still undismayed.

No fluctuant favours—servile spouseOf princes’ transient smile—Did e’er bedeck their sacred brows,Their saintly souls defile:No life-warm lips their own had kissed(Earth’s hope-inspiring dove)—Their life was one long EucharistEternalised in love.

The workers went; the works remain.Time here small kingship owns.Thro’ ’whelming winds, thro’ sun and rain,Have lived these lichened stones,And that brief tower upreared by thoseWhose dread was from the deep,—In strife their strength, in peace repose,Their guardian now in sleep.

Thine eyes, old tower, have scanned the scrollAnd palimpsest of Earth,And fain would we thy thoughts unrollThro’ years of bliss or dearth,For thou from thy calm height dost lookWith sage, dispassionate eye,To where the star of day-dawn shookWithin a youthful sky.

We deem thee old; but age is notA toll of hours and days,—Mean measure of our little lotAnd arbitrary ways.We run our little round of changeThro’ years of less or more,But Time to thee holds nought of strange,Unheard, unseen before.

Down paths of night no starrier ballsNo new Milanion throws;Thro’ no transfigured day’s high hallsTh’ itinerant breeze still blows;Belligerent ever, baffled still,Th’ importunate surges swing;Still dear as dawn th’ ecstatic thrillAnd prophet power of Spring.

Wrapt in a dream of ancient daysThou stand’st aloof from ours,Yet nought hast thou of battle’s blazeOr blighting iron showers;For well-beloved art thou of moon,And sun, and winds, and stars,Forever in thy heart attuneTo every statelier bars

Than aught my highest hope could knowIn this inspiring breathWhere wilding blossoms bloom and blow,As life blooms out of death;Yet fain, withal, my lips would wedTo song, for modern ears,This chord from lyric days long dead,This dream from epic years:

Quoth good Saint Mahee of Endrim,“I shall build for Christ my masterHere a church, and here defend himAnd His cause from all disaster.”Seven score youths cut beam and wattle,Seven score hands unseared in battleTheir unstinted aid did lend him,Fast and ever faster.But tho’ arm, and voice loud-ringing,To a test of toil defied him,Right and left the wattles flinging,Not a tongue could dare deride himFor, before them all, he stoodFinished, waiting. Not a roodFrom the spot a bird was singingIn a thorn beside him.Sang no bird in ancient storyHalf so sweet or loud a strain:Seaward to the Lough of Rory,Landward then, and back again,Swelled the song, and trilled and trembledO’er the toiling youths assembled,Rang around ’mid Summer gloryThere at Ballydrain.Far more beautiful the bird wasThan the bright-plumed Bird of BlissAnd the Abbot’s feeling stirred wasTo its deepest depths, I wis;’Till, as from the fiery splendourMoses saw, in accents tenderSpake the bird, and lo, the word was:“Goodly work is this!”“True,” quoth Saint Mahee of Endrim,“’Tis required by Christ my masterHere to build, and here defend HimAnd His cause from all disaster;But my blood mounts high with weeningOf this goodly word the meaning?”Nearer then the bird did tend him,Fast and even faster.“I shall answer. I descendedFrom mine angel-soul’s compeers,From my home serene and splendidTo this haunt of toil and tears;Came to cheer thee with a noteFrom an angel’s silvern throat.”Then he sang three songs: each, ended,Made a hundred years.There, thro’ days that dawned and darkened,With his wattles by his side,Stood the island Saint and hearkenedTo that silvery-flowing tideStood entranced, and ever wondr’éd,Till had circled thrice a hundredYears o’er fields, life-lade or stark, andStrangford’s waters wide.Then when came the final number,Ceased the angel-bird its strain,And, unheld by ills that cumberMortals, sought the heavenly plain.Then the Saint, in mute amaze,Round him turned an anxious gaze,And from that far land of slumberCame to Earth again.Low his load, mid weed and flower,Lay beside him all unbroken,Till, with thrice augmented power,From his holy dream awoken,Up he bore it to his shoulder—Broad and not a hand’s breath older.Scarce, thought he, had passed an hourSince the bird had spoken.Toward his island church he bore it.Lo, an oratory gleaming,And “To Saint Mahee,” writ o’er it!“Now,” quoth he, “in faith I’m dreaming!Say, good monk, at whose consistoryShall I solve this mighty mystery,And to form of fact restore itFrom this shadowy seeming?”Thus he spake to one who faced himWith a look of mild surprise,One who swiftly brought and placed him’Neath the Abbot’s searching eyes.—Leave him there: not mine to rhyme ofDeeds that filled the latter time ofHim who, fain tho’ years would waste him,Ages not, nor dies.. . . . . .Such the wondrous old-time storyOf the bird’s long, lethal strainSung thro’ Summers hot and hoary,Winters white on mount and mainAnd the monks, to mark the missionOf the bird,—so tells tradition,—Built a church to God’s great gloryThere at Ballydrain.

But tho’ arm, and voice loud-ringing,To a test of toil defied him,Right and left the wattles flinging,Not a tongue could dare deride himFor, before them all, he stoodFinished, waiting. Not a roodFrom the spot a bird was singingIn a thorn beside him.

Sang no bird in ancient storyHalf so sweet or loud a strain:Seaward to the Lough of Rory,Landward then, and back again,Swelled the song, and trilled and trembledO’er the toiling youths assembled,Rang around ’mid Summer gloryThere at Ballydrain.

Far more beautiful the bird wasThan the bright-plumed Bird of BlissAnd the Abbot’s feeling stirred wasTo its deepest depths, I wis;’Till, as from the fiery splendourMoses saw, in accents tenderSpake the bird, and lo, the word was:“Goodly work is this!”

“True,” quoth Saint Mahee of Endrim,“’Tis required by Christ my masterHere to build, and here defend HimAnd His cause from all disaster;But my blood mounts high with weeningOf this goodly word the meaning?”Nearer then the bird did tend him,Fast and even faster.

“I shall answer. I descendedFrom mine angel-soul’s compeers,From my home serene and splendidTo this haunt of toil and tears;Came to cheer thee with a noteFrom an angel’s silvern throat.”Then he sang three songs: each, ended,Made a hundred years.

There, thro’ days that dawned and darkened,With his wattles by his side,Stood the island Saint and hearkenedTo that silvery-flowing tideStood entranced, and ever wondr’éd,Till had circled thrice a hundredYears o’er fields, life-lade or stark, andStrangford’s waters wide.

Then when came the final number,Ceased the angel-bird its strain,And, unheld by ills that cumberMortals, sought the heavenly plain.Then the Saint, in mute amaze,Round him turned an anxious gaze,And from that far land of slumberCame to Earth again.

Low his load, mid weed and flower,Lay beside him all unbroken,Till, with thrice augmented power,From his holy dream awoken,Up he bore it to his shoulder—Broad and not a hand’s breath older.Scarce, thought he, had passed an hourSince the bird had spoken.

Toward his island church he bore it.Lo, an oratory gleaming,And “To Saint Mahee,” writ o’er it!“Now,” quoth he, “in faith I’m dreaming!Say, good monk, at whose consistoryShall I solve this mighty mystery,And to form of fact restore itFrom this shadowy seeming?”

Thus he spake to one who faced himWith a look of mild surprise,One who swiftly brought and placed him’Neath the Abbot’s searching eyes.—Leave him there: not mine to rhyme ofDeeds that filled the latter time ofHim who, fain tho’ years would waste him,Ages not, nor dies.

. . . . . .

Such the wondrous old-time storyOf the bird’s long, lethal strainSung thro’ Summers hot and hoary,Winters white on mount and mainAnd the monks, to mark the missionOf the bird,—so tells tradition,—Built a church to God’s great gloryThere at Ballydrain.

The song has ceased, the dream is done,Lo, nought but shattered shrineAnd weed-clad walls greet now the sunThat sparkles in the brine;Yet these no remnant are of deadInsalutary days,Vicarious blood of morning, shedFor more than Memphian haze.

The fires of worship, and of war,De Courcey’s marshalled hosts,The rude sea-rovers from afarHave vanished from our coasts;And out of these an ampler fieldFound Freedom, mind and hand,Toward unattempted ends to wieldA world-enchanting wand.

What tho’ in oft ignoble causeThe wave of war still rolls,The hate of sects, the clutching claws,The strife of armoured souls;What tho’ the thousands, born to fail,In darkness come and go,Be ours no pessimistic wailOf fear for larger woe;

For even now the dawn doth giveSome promissory gleams,Tho’ most ’tis ours in night to live,Participant in dreamsOf some broad-beamed and brighter morn,Some elemental balm,Some purer peace, of battle born,Some tempest-cradled calm!

I wonder if there still remainSome echoes from the songs of old;Or what the measure of the strainThe future shall unfold?The voice that breathed across the years,And came, and went, and passed the bar,And sang the battle song of tears,Sounds small, and faint, and far;And men have found another chord,An offspring, not of heart, but head;And gold is God, and lust is Lord,And Love lies stricken dead!Ah, me! the race goes blindly onAnd leaves the old familiar ways;And still, earth-weighted, flowers the dawnTo still ignoble days;And men, as sheep within their folds,Grope round their world with great sad eyes;And hate the hand that still withholdsThe secret of the skies;Or, deeming God an idle taleWithdrawn from lore of ancient shelves,Themselves would reckon by the scaleAnd measure of themselves!How mean the stature of the songOf our inglorious—glorious time,Attenuating, as alongIt moves from that great primeWhen Milton, in the midnight hours,Lay waiting for the mystic breathOf God to touch his soul to flowersOf song that smile at Death.O singers of the years to come!Be yours the large and liberal scope:Sing sweetly—or for aye be dumb—Of God, and Love, and Hope,Encircled by no little lineOf gain or loss, of time or sense,Nor, bent at Mammon’s soulless shrine,Your birth-right part for pence;But bend an arm across the past,And finger all the vibrant years,Till sunlight, on our shadows cast,Makes rainbows of our tears.

I wonder if there still remainSome echoes from the songs of old;Or what the measure of the strainThe future shall unfold?

The voice that breathed across the years,And came, and went, and passed the bar,And sang the battle song of tears,Sounds small, and faint, and far;

And men have found another chord,An offspring, not of heart, but head;And gold is God, and lust is Lord,And Love lies stricken dead!

Ah, me! the race goes blindly onAnd leaves the old familiar ways;And still, earth-weighted, flowers the dawnTo still ignoble days;

And men, as sheep within their folds,Grope round their world with great sad eyes;And hate the hand that still withholdsThe secret of the skies;Or, deeming God an idle taleWithdrawn from lore of ancient shelves,Themselves would reckon by the scaleAnd measure of themselves!

How mean the stature of the songOf our inglorious—glorious time,Attenuating, as alongIt moves from that great prime

When Milton, in the midnight hours,Lay waiting for the mystic breathOf God to touch his soul to flowersOf song that smile at Death.

O singers of the years to come!Be yours the large and liberal scope:Sing sweetly—or for aye be dumb—Of God, and Love, and Hope,

Encircled by no little lineOf gain or loss, of time or sense,Nor, bent at Mammon’s soulless shrine,Your birth-right part for pence;

But bend an arm across the past,And finger all the vibrant years,Till sunlight, on our shadows cast,Makes rainbows of our tears.

There it stands, as it has stood—Theme for bards, and theme for seers—Mute to sun and tempests rude,To the swift express of years;Stretched across from bank to bankWhere the rabbits flash and go,Where the fir-trees, rank by rank,Gaze upon the track belowAs the train, at man’s behest,In the calm or tempest’s teeth,Speeds with lightning in its breast,And the thunder underneath.There in many a rift and rent,Many a bird finds friendly cover;And the toiler, homeward bent,Whistles as he passes over;And the children from the townClimb its parapets and strainHalf a hundred throats to drownWith a cheer the passing train.Yet how many children, toilers,List’ to what that arch would sayTo the thousands of earth’s moilers?—Dull of ear and listless they!Ah! adown the track of time,In the world’s great sidings lying,Many a theme for many a rhymeIs unmarked by thousands, flyingAfter all the fen-fires, dartingIn the damps and swamps of life;Fires of meeting and of parting,Hate and love, and strain and strife!There it stands—O! how I love it;For it speaks of weal, and woe,For the thousands pass above it;For the thousands rush below;And, attune to whirr and clatter,Wide and wider does it span,High o’er time and sense and matter,High o’er life and death and man,Stretched from age to age unborn;And above it in a streamPass, unceasing, night and morn,Shapes like those in Jacob’s dreamAll the souls of all the ages,All the ghosts of all the years,Priests and prophets, saints and sages,Sweet-breathed bards and broad-browed seers,Who from many a cloudy stationList’ the whirring of the wheelsBounding on without cessation,Dragging progress at their heels;Who, as children from the town,Throng the parapets, and strainForm and voice in flashing downWarning signals to the trainSpeeding on, at man’s behest,In the calm, or tempest’s teeth,With the lightning in its breast,And the thunder underneath!

There it stands, as it has stood—Theme for bards, and theme for seers—Mute to sun and tempests rude,To the swift express of years;

Stretched across from bank to bankWhere the rabbits flash and go,Where the fir-trees, rank by rank,Gaze upon the track below

As the train, at man’s behest,In the calm or tempest’s teeth,Speeds with lightning in its breast,And the thunder underneath.

There in many a rift and rent,Many a bird finds friendly cover;And the toiler, homeward bent,Whistles as he passes over;

And the children from the townClimb its parapets and strainHalf a hundred throats to drownWith a cheer the passing train.

Yet how many children, toilers,List’ to what that arch would sayTo the thousands of earth’s moilers?—Dull of ear and listless they!

Ah! adown the track of time,In the world’s great sidings lying,Many a theme for many a rhymeIs unmarked by thousands, flying

After all the fen-fires, dartingIn the damps and swamps of life;Fires of meeting and of parting,Hate and love, and strain and strife!

There it stands—O! how I love it;For it speaks of weal, and woe,For the thousands pass above it;For the thousands rush below;

And, attune to whirr and clatter,Wide and wider does it span,High o’er time and sense and matter,High o’er life and death and man,

Stretched from age to age unborn;And above it in a streamPass, unceasing, night and morn,Shapes like those in Jacob’s dream

All the souls of all the ages,All the ghosts of all the years,Priests and prophets, saints and sages,Sweet-breathed bards and broad-browed seers,

Who from many a cloudy stationList’ the whirring of the wheelsBounding on without cessation,Dragging progress at their heels;

Who, as children from the town,Throng the parapets, and strainForm and voice in flashing downWarning signals to the train

Speeding on, at man’s behest,In the calm, or tempest’s teeth,With the lightning in its breast,And the thunder underneath!

(A Ballad of Armenia.)

They had fought, they had failed, those women and now, in a wild-eyed throng,They fled from the red destroyer, and they cried: “O Lord, how long?—How long, O Lord, till the ending of the ghastly sounds and sights,Till the dripping days be finished, and the thrice red-running nights,—Till the last cold corpse falls, severed from the last Armenian head,Till the last maid be dishonoured, and the last hot tear be shed?”They had fled from the red destroyer, but he hastens around their track,Till the fate they had flown is before them, and they turn in their pathway back.But, Northward and Southward and Eastward and Westward, and round and round,Come the gleam of the steely lightning, and the wild, soul-harrowing sound,As mother and sister and daughter, and the child at its mother’s breastGo down in the surge of slaughter and the wreck of the great Opprest.And now they are huddled together, as the death-cries rise and swell,Where the rock runs up to Heaven, and the gulf goes down to Hell,—On the edge of a beetling hillock; when, lo! from the ’wildered crowd,On a peak of the rock steps Schakhe, and calls to her sisters, loud:—“O sisters in nameless sorrow, baptised in a life of tears;Before you two paths lie open: behind you a thousand yearsFade far in the dusky distance, one long, broad stream of blood,That flows by the wreck and ruin of sword and fire and flood!Before you two paths lie open: one leads where dangers lurk,And the pain and the dumb dishonour from the merciless hand of the Turk.Choose ye! Will ye thread that pathway, prove false to the men ye love;Prove false to the children ye bore them; prove false to the God above?Will ye sell yourselves to the spoilers of father and mother and child,Who butchered and then, like devils, at their cries for mercy smiled?Do ye think of the thousands rotting, flung down in a ghastly heapUnblessed; whose dust commingles in their last unhallowed sleep?Do ye think of the blood, the sorrow, the wild, sky-rending cries,As the scarce-born babe was mangled to feast their fiendish eyes?Do you think of the brute defilement when, full in the flare of day,Ye were robbed of your dear-prized honour, and made the Moslem’s prey?Will ye choose that path, O sisters? ’Tis a path ye have often trod;Or throw yourselves on the mercy of the great, all-powerful God?What though He is veiled in silence, and behind our clouds grown dim;If He come not down to help us, then we will go to Him.See! there is the other pathway, down, down to the home of Night.Jump! long ere the body be broken, the soul will have taken flight.He will give His charge to His angels: in their hands they will bear thee up,As ye tread the Saviour’s pathway, and drink the Saviour’s cup.There,—lean on my breast, sweet infant, and good-bye to Earth and woe.Now, sisters, the way lies open: I am weary and long to go!”They had fought: they had failed; and they followed brave Schakhe, a martyr throng;—And soft o’er the corpse-strewn valley the winds sigh: “Lord, how long?”

They had fled from the red destroyer, but he hastens around their track,Till the fate they had flown is before them, and they turn in their pathway back.But, Northward and Southward and Eastward and Westward, and round and round,Come the gleam of the steely lightning, and the wild, soul-harrowing sound,As mother and sister and daughter, and the child at its mother’s breastGo down in the surge of slaughter and the wreck of the great Opprest.And now they are huddled together, as the death-cries rise and swell,Where the rock runs up to Heaven, and the gulf goes down to Hell,—On the edge of a beetling hillock; when, lo! from the ’wildered crowd,On a peak of the rock steps Schakhe, and calls to her sisters, loud:—

“O sisters in nameless sorrow, baptised in a life of tears;Before you two paths lie open: behind you a thousand yearsFade far in the dusky distance, one long, broad stream of blood,That flows by the wreck and ruin of sword and fire and flood!Before you two paths lie open: one leads where dangers lurk,And the pain and the dumb dishonour from the merciless hand of the Turk.

Choose ye! Will ye thread that pathway, prove false to the men ye love;Prove false to the children ye bore them; prove false to the God above?Will ye sell yourselves to the spoilers of father and mother and child,Who butchered and then, like devils, at their cries for mercy smiled?Do ye think of the thousands rotting, flung down in a ghastly heapUnblessed; whose dust commingles in their last unhallowed sleep?Do ye think of the blood, the sorrow, the wild, sky-rending cries,As the scarce-born babe was mangled to feast their fiendish eyes?Do you think of the brute defilement when, full in the flare of day,Ye were robbed of your dear-prized honour, and made the Moslem’s prey?Will ye choose that path, O sisters? ’Tis a path ye have often trod;Or throw yourselves on the mercy of the great, all-powerful God?

What though He is veiled in silence, and behind our clouds grown dim;If He come not down to help us, then we will go to Him.See! there is the other pathway, down, down to the home of Night.Jump! long ere the body be broken, the soul will have taken flight.He will give His charge to His angels: in their hands they will bear thee up,As ye tread the Saviour’s pathway, and drink the Saviour’s cup.There,—lean on my breast, sweet infant, and good-bye to Earth and woe.Now, sisters, the way lies open: I am weary and long to go!”

They had fought: they had failed; and they followed brave Schakhe, a martyr throng;—And soft o’er the corpse-strewn valley the winds sigh: “Lord, how long?”

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