The unity of form and content is what distinguishes poetry from other areas of creativity. However, this is precisely what titanic work implies. Poems by Denis Florence MacCarthy (websites to read books for free .TXT) 📖
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wife! Was ever truer cause of strife? A swifter hound!-a better steed! Columba! these are cause indeed!"
Again, like spray from mountain rill, Up started Con: "By Collum Kille, And by the blessed light of day, This matter brooketh no delay. The moon is down, the morn is up, Come, kinsmen, drain a parting cup, And swear to hold our next carouse, With John MacJohn MacDonnell's spouse!
"We've heard the song the bard has sung, And as a healing herb among Most poisonous weeds may oft be found, So of this woman, steed, and hound; The song has burned into our hearts, And yet a lesson it imparts, Had we but sense to read aright The galling words we heard to-night.
"What lesson does the good hound teach? Oh, to be faithful each to each! What lesson gives the noble steed? Oh! to be swift in thought and deed! What lesson gives the peerless wife? Oh! there is victory after strife; Sweet is the triumph, rich the spoil, Pleasant the slumber after toil!"
They drain the cup, they leave the hall, They seek the armoury and stall, The shield re-echoing to the spear Proclaims the foray far and near; And soon around the castles gate Full sixty steeds impatient wait, And every steed a knight upon, The strong, small-powerful force of Con!
Their lances in the red dawn flash, As down by Easky's side they dash; Their quilted jackets shine the more, From gilded leather broidered o'er; With silver spurs, and silken rein, And costly riding-shoes from Spain; Ah! much thou hast to fear, MacJohn, The strong, small-powerful force of Con!
As borne upon autumnal gales, Wild whirring gannets pierce the sails Of barks that sweep by Arran's shore,[90] Thus swept the train through Barnesmore. Through many a varied scene they ran, By Castle Fin, and fair Strabane, By many a hill, and many a clan, Across the Foyle and o'er the Bann:-
Then stopping in their eagle flight, They waited for the coming night, And then, as Antrim's rivers rush Straight from their founts with sudden gush, Nor turn their strong, brief streams aside, Until the sea receives their tide; Thus rushed upon the doomed MacJohn The swift, small-powerful force of Con.
They took the castle by surprise, No star was in the angry skies, The moon lay dead within her shroud Of thickly-folded ashen cloud; They found the steed within his stall, The hound within the oaken hall, The peerless wife of thousand charms, Within her slumbering husband's arms:
The bard had pictured to the life The beauty of MacDonnell's wife; Not Evir[91] could with her compare For snowy hand and shining hair; The glorious banner morn unfurls Were dark beside her golden curls; And yet the blackness of her eye Was darker than the moonless sky!
If lovers listen to my lay, Description is but thrown away; If lovers read this antique tale, What need I speak of red or pale? The fairest form and brightest eye Are simply those for which they sigh; The truest picture is but faint To what a lover's heart can paint.
Well, she was fair, and Con was bold, But in the strange, wild days of old; To one rough hand was oft decreed The noblest and the blackest deed. 'Twas pride that spurred O'Donnell on, But still a generous heart had Con; He wished to show that he was strong, And not to do a bootless wrong.
But now there's neither thought nor time For generous act or bootless crime; For other cares the thoughts demand Of the small-powerful victor band. They tramp along the old oak floors, They burst the strong-bound chamber doors; In all the pride of lawless power, Some seek the vault, and some the tower.
And some from out the postern pass, And find upon the dew-wet grass Full many a head of dappled deer, And many a full-ey'd brown-back'd steer, And heifers of the fragrant skins, The pride of Antrim's grassy glynns, Which with their spears they drive along, A numerous, startled, bellowing throng.
They leave the castle stripped and bare, Each has his labour, each his share; For some have cups, and some have plate, And some have scarlet cloaks of state, And some have wine, and some have ale, And some have coats of iron mail, And some have helms, and some have spears, And all have lowing cows and steers!
Away! away! the morning breaks O'er Antrim's hundred hills and lakes; Away! away! the dawn begins To gild gray Antrim's deepest glynns; The rosy steeds of morning stop, As if to gaze on Collin top; Ere they have left it bare and gray, O'Donnell must be far away!
The chieftain on a raven steed, Himself the peerless dame doth lead, Now like a pallid, icy corse, And lifts her on her husband's horse; His left hand holds his captive's rein, His right is on the black steed's mane, And from the bridle to the ground Hangs the long leash that binds the hound.
And thus before his victor clan, Rides Con O'Donnell in the van; Upon his left the drooping dame, Upon his right, in wrath and shame, With one hand free and one hand tied, And eyes firm fixed upon his bride, Vowing dread vengeance yet on Con, Rides scowling, silent, stern MacJohn.
They move with steps as swift as still, 'Twixt Collin mount and Slemish hill, They glide along the misty plain, And ford the sullen muttering Maine; Some drive the cattle o'er the hills, And some along the dried-up rills; But still a strong force doth surround The chiefs, the dame, the steed, and hound.
Thus ere the bright-faced day arose, The Bann lay broad between the foes. But how to paint the inward scorn, The self-reproach of those that morn, Who waking found their chieftain gone, The cattle swept from field and bawn, The chieftain's castle stormed and drained, And, worse than all, their honour stained!
But when the women heard that Anne, The queen, the glory of the clan Was carried off by midnight foes, Heavens! such despairing screams arose, Such shrieks of agony and fright, As only can be heard at night, When Clough-i-Stookan's mystic rock The wail of drowning men doth mock.[92]
But thirty steeds are in the town, And some are like the ripe heath, brown, Some like the alder-berries, black, Some like the vessel's foamy track; But be they black, or brown, or white, They are as swift as fawns in flight, No quicker speed the sea gull hath When sailing through the Gray Man's Path.[93]
Soon are they saddled, soon they stand, Ready to own the rider's hand, Ready to dash with loosened rein Up the steep hill, and o'er the plain; Ready, without the prick of spurs, To strike the gold cups from the furze: And now they start with winged pace, God speed them in their noble chase!
By this time, on Ben Bradagh's height, Brave Con had rested in his flight, Beneath him, in the horizon's blue, Lay his own valleys of Tirhugh. It may have been the thought of home, While resting on that mossy dome, It may have been his native trees That woke his mind to thoughts like these.
"The race is o'er, the spoil is won, And yet what boots it all I've done? What boots it to have snatched away This steed, and hound, and cattle-prey? What boots it, with an iron hand To tear a chieftain from his land, And dim that sweetest light that lies In a fond wife's adoring eyes?
"If thus I madly teach my clan, What can I hope from beast or man? Fidelity a crime is found, Or else why chain this faithful hound? Obedience, too, a crime must be, Or else this steed were roaming free; And woman's love the worst of sins, Or Anne were queen of Antrim's Glynnes!
"If, when I reach my home to-night, I see the yellow moonbeam's light Gleam through the broken gate and wall Of my strong fort of Donegal; If I behold my kinsmen slain, My barns devoid of golden grain, How can I curse the pirate crew For doing what this hour I do?
"Well, in Columba's blessed name, This day shall be a day of fame,- A day when Con in victory's hour Gave up the untasted sweets of power; Gave up the fairest dame on earth, The noblest steed that e'er wore girth, The noblest hound of Irish breed, And all to do a generous deed."
He turned and loosed MacDonnell's hand, And led him where his steed doth stand; He placed the bride of peerless charms Within his longing, outstretched arms; He freed the hound from chain and band, Which, leaping, licked his master's hand; And thus, while wonder held the crowd, The generous chieftain spoke aloud:-
"MacJohn, I heard in wrathful hour
That thou in Antrim's glynnes possessed The fairest pearl, the sweetest flower
That ever bloomed on Erin's breast. I burned to think such prize should fall
To any Scotch or Saxon man, But find that Nature makes us all
The children of one world-spread clan.
"Within thy arms thou now dost hold
A treasure of more worth and cost Than all the thrones and crowns of gold
That valour ever won or lost; Thine is that outward perfect form,
Thine, too, the subtler inner life, The love that doth that bright shape warm:
Take back, MacJohn, thy peerless wife!"
"They praised thy steed. With wrath and grief
I felt my heart within me bleed, That any but an Irish chief
Should press the back of such a steed; I might to yonder smiling land
The noble beast reluctant lead; But, no!-he'd miss thy guiding hand-
Take back, MacJohn, thy noble steed.
"The praises of thy matchless hound,
Burned in my breast like acrid wine; I swore no chief on Irish ground
Should own a nobler hound than mine; 'Twas rashly sworn, and must not be,
He'd pine to hear the well-known sound, With which thou call'st him to thy knee,
Take back, MacJohn, thy matchless hound.
"MacJohn, I stretch to yours and you
This hand beneath God's blessed sun, And for the wrong that I might do
Forgive the wrong that I have done; To-morrow all that we have ta'en
Shall doubly, trebly be restored: The cattle to the grassy plain,
The goblets to the oaken board.
"My people from our richest meads
Shall drive the best our broad lands hold For every steed a hundred steeds,
For every steer a hundred-fold; For every scarlet cloak of state
A hundred cloaks all stiff with gold; And may we be with hearts elate
Still older friends as we grow old.
"Thou'st bravely won an Irish bride-
An Irish bride of grace and worth- Oh! let the Irish nature glide
Into thy heart from this hour forth; An Irish home thy sword has won,
A new-found mother blessed the strife; Oh! be that mother's fondest son,
And love the land that gives you life!
"Betwixt the Isles and Antrim's coast,
The Scotch and Irish waters blend; But who shall tell, with idle boast,
Where one begins and one doth end? Ah! when shall that glad moment gleam,
When all our hearts such spell shall feel? And blend in one broad Irish stream,
On
Again, like spray from mountain rill, Up started Con: "By Collum Kille, And by the blessed light of day, This matter brooketh no delay. The moon is down, the morn is up, Come, kinsmen, drain a parting cup, And swear to hold our next carouse, With John MacJohn MacDonnell's spouse!
"We've heard the song the bard has sung, And as a healing herb among Most poisonous weeds may oft be found, So of this woman, steed, and hound; The song has burned into our hearts, And yet a lesson it imparts, Had we but sense to read aright The galling words we heard to-night.
"What lesson does the good hound teach? Oh, to be faithful each to each! What lesson gives the noble steed? Oh! to be swift in thought and deed! What lesson gives the peerless wife? Oh! there is victory after strife; Sweet is the triumph, rich the spoil, Pleasant the slumber after toil!"
They drain the cup, they leave the hall, They seek the armoury and stall, The shield re-echoing to the spear Proclaims the foray far and near; And soon around the castles gate Full sixty steeds impatient wait, And every steed a knight upon, The strong, small-powerful force of Con!
Their lances in the red dawn flash, As down by Easky's side they dash; Their quilted jackets shine the more, From gilded leather broidered o'er; With silver spurs, and silken rein, And costly riding-shoes from Spain; Ah! much thou hast to fear, MacJohn, The strong, small-powerful force of Con!
As borne upon autumnal gales, Wild whirring gannets pierce the sails Of barks that sweep by Arran's shore,[90] Thus swept the train through Barnesmore. Through many a varied scene they ran, By Castle Fin, and fair Strabane, By many a hill, and many a clan, Across the Foyle and o'er the Bann:-
Then stopping in their eagle flight, They waited for the coming night, And then, as Antrim's rivers rush Straight from their founts with sudden gush, Nor turn their strong, brief streams aside, Until the sea receives their tide; Thus rushed upon the doomed MacJohn The swift, small-powerful force of Con.
They took the castle by surprise, No star was in the angry skies, The moon lay dead within her shroud Of thickly-folded ashen cloud; They found the steed within his stall, The hound within the oaken hall, The peerless wife of thousand charms, Within her slumbering husband's arms:
The bard had pictured to the life The beauty of MacDonnell's wife; Not Evir[91] could with her compare For snowy hand and shining hair; The glorious banner morn unfurls Were dark beside her golden curls; And yet the blackness of her eye Was darker than the moonless sky!
If lovers listen to my lay, Description is but thrown away; If lovers read this antique tale, What need I speak of red or pale? The fairest form and brightest eye Are simply those for which they sigh; The truest picture is but faint To what a lover's heart can paint.
Well, she was fair, and Con was bold, But in the strange, wild days of old; To one rough hand was oft decreed The noblest and the blackest deed. 'Twas pride that spurred O'Donnell on, But still a generous heart had Con; He wished to show that he was strong, And not to do a bootless wrong.
But now there's neither thought nor time For generous act or bootless crime; For other cares the thoughts demand Of the small-powerful victor band. They tramp along the old oak floors, They burst the strong-bound chamber doors; In all the pride of lawless power, Some seek the vault, and some the tower.
And some from out the postern pass, And find upon the dew-wet grass Full many a head of dappled deer, And many a full-ey'd brown-back'd steer, And heifers of the fragrant skins, The pride of Antrim's grassy glynns, Which with their spears they drive along, A numerous, startled, bellowing throng.
They leave the castle stripped and bare, Each has his labour, each his share; For some have cups, and some have plate, And some have scarlet cloaks of state, And some have wine, and some have ale, And some have coats of iron mail, And some have helms, and some have spears, And all have lowing cows and steers!
Away! away! the morning breaks O'er Antrim's hundred hills and lakes; Away! away! the dawn begins To gild gray Antrim's deepest glynns; The rosy steeds of morning stop, As if to gaze on Collin top; Ere they have left it bare and gray, O'Donnell must be far away!
The chieftain on a raven steed, Himself the peerless dame doth lead, Now like a pallid, icy corse, And lifts her on her husband's horse; His left hand holds his captive's rein, His right is on the black steed's mane, And from the bridle to the ground Hangs the long leash that binds the hound.
And thus before his victor clan, Rides Con O'Donnell in the van; Upon his left the drooping dame, Upon his right, in wrath and shame, With one hand free and one hand tied, And eyes firm fixed upon his bride, Vowing dread vengeance yet on Con, Rides scowling, silent, stern MacJohn.
They move with steps as swift as still, 'Twixt Collin mount and Slemish hill, They glide along the misty plain, And ford the sullen muttering Maine; Some drive the cattle o'er the hills, And some along the dried-up rills; But still a strong force doth surround The chiefs, the dame, the steed, and hound.
Thus ere the bright-faced day arose, The Bann lay broad between the foes. But how to paint the inward scorn, The self-reproach of those that morn, Who waking found their chieftain gone, The cattle swept from field and bawn, The chieftain's castle stormed and drained, And, worse than all, their honour stained!
But when the women heard that Anne, The queen, the glory of the clan Was carried off by midnight foes, Heavens! such despairing screams arose, Such shrieks of agony and fright, As only can be heard at night, When Clough-i-Stookan's mystic rock The wail of drowning men doth mock.[92]
But thirty steeds are in the town, And some are like the ripe heath, brown, Some like the alder-berries, black, Some like the vessel's foamy track; But be they black, or brown, or white, They are as swift as fawns in flight, No quicker speed the sea gull hath When sailing through the Gray Man's Path.[93]
Soon are they saddled, soon they stand, Ready to own the rider's hand, Ready to dash with loosened rein Up the steep hill, and o'er the plain; Ready, without the prick of spurs, To strike the gold cups from the furze: And now they start with winged pace, God speed them in their noble chase!
By this time, on Ben Bradagh's height, Brave Con had rested in his flight, Beneath him, in the horizon's blue, Lay his own valleys of Tirhugh. It may have been the thought of home, While resting on that mossy dome, It may have been his native trees That woke his mind to thoughts like these.
"The race is o'er, the spoil is won, And yet what boots it all I've done? What boots it to have snatched away This steed, and hound, and cattle-prey? What boots it, with an iron hand To tear a chieftain from his land, And dim that sweetest light that lies In a fond wife's adoring eyes?
"If thus I madly teach my clan, What can I hope from beast or man? Fidelity a crime is found, Or else why chain this faithful hound? Obedience, too, a crime must be, Or else this steed were roaming free; And woman's love the worst of sins, Or Anne were queen of Antrim's Glynnes!
"If, when I reach my home to-night, I see the yellow moonbeam's light Gleam through the broken gate and wall Of my strong fort of Donegal; If I behold my kinsmen slain, My barns devoid of golden grain, How can I curse the pirate crew For doing what this hour I do?
"Well, in Columba's blessed name, This day shall be a day of fame,- A day when Con in victory's hour Gave up the untasted sweets of power; Gave up the fairest dame on earth, The noblest steed that e'er wore girth, The noblest hound of Irish breed, And all to do a generous deed."
He turned and loosed MacDonnell's hand, And led him where his steed doth stand; He placed the bride of peerless charms Within his longing, outstretched arms; He freed the hound from chain and band, Which, leaping, licked his master's hand; And thus, while wonder held the crowd, The generous chieftain spoke aloud:-
"MacJohn, I heard in wrathful hour
That thou in Antrim's glynnes possessed The fairest pearl, the sweetest flower
That ever bloomed on Erin's breast. I burned to think such prize should fall
To any Scotch or Saxon man, But find that Nature makes us all
The children of one world-spread clan.
"Within thy arms thou now dost hold
A treasure of more worth and cost Than all the thrones and crowns of gold
That valour ever won or lost; Thine is that outward perfect form,
Thine, too, the subtler inner life, The love that doth that bright shape warm:
Take back, MacJohn, thy peerless wife!"
"They praised thy steed. With wrath and grief
I felt my heart within me bleed, That any but an Irish chief
Should press the back of such a steed; I might to yonder smiling land
The noble beast reluctant lead; But, no!-he'd miss thy guiding hand-
Take back, MacJohn, thy noble steed.
"The praises of thy matchless hound,
Burned in my breast like acrid wine; I swore no chief on Irish ground
Should own a nobler hound than mine; 'Twas rashly sworn, and must not be,
He'd pine to hear the well-known sound, With which thou call'st him to thy knee,
Take back, MacJohn, thy matchless hound.
"MacJohn, I stretch to yours and you
This hand beneath God's blessed sun, And for the wrong that I might do
Forgive the wrong that I have done; To-morrow all that we have ta'en
Shall doubly, trebly be restored: The cattle to the grassy plain,
The goblets to the oaken board.
"My people from our richest meads
Shall drive the best our broad lands hold For every steed a hundred steeds,
For every steer a hundred-fold; For every scarlet cloak of state
A hundred cloaks all stiff with gold; And may we be with hearts elate
Still older friends as we grow old.
"Thou'st bravely won an Irish bride-
An Irish bride of grace and worth- Oh! let the Irish nature glide
Into thy heart from this hour forth; An Irish home thy sword has won,
A new-found mother blessed the strife; Oh! be that mother's fondest son,
And love the land that gives you life!
"Betwixt the Isles and Antrim's coast,
The Scotch and Irish waters blend; But who shall tell, with idle boast,
Where one begins and one doth end? Ah! when shall that glad moment gleam,
When all our hearts such spell shall feel? And blend in one broad Irish stream,
On
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