He is pure gold, he is the sky around the sun, He is a vessel of silver with wine, He is an angel, he is holy wisdom, Whoso doth the will of the King.
He is a bird round which a trap closes, He is a leaky ship in perilous danger, He is an empty vessel, a withered tree, Who doth not the will of the King above.
He is a fragrant branch with its blossom, He is a vessel full of honey, He is a precious stone with its virtue, Whoso doth the will of God's Son from Heaven.
He is a blind nut in which there is no good, He is a stinking rottenness, a withered tree, He is a branch of a blossomless crab-apple, Whoso doth not the will of the King.
Whoso doth the will of God's Son from Heaven Is a brilliant summer-sun, Is a dais of God of Heaven, Is a pure crystalline vessel.
He is a victorious racehorse over a smooth plain, The man that striveth after the Kingdom of great God; He is a chariot that is seen Under a triumphant king.
He is a sun that warms holy Heaven, A man with whom the Great King is pleased, He is a temple blessed, noble, He is a holy shrine bedecked with gold.
He is an altar on which wine is dealt, Round which a multitude of melodies is sung, He is a cleansed chalice with liquor, He is fair white bronze, he is gold.
MAELISU'S HYMN TO THE ARCHANGEL MICHAEL
O angel! Bear, O Michael of great miracles, To the Lord my plaint.
Hearest thou? Ask of forgiving God Forgiveness of all my vast evil.
Delay not! Carry my fervent prayer To the King, to the great King!
To my soul Bring help, bring comfort At the hour of its leaving earth.
Stoutly To meet my expectant soul Come with many thousand angels!
O soldier! Against the crooked, wicked, militant world Come to my help in earnest!
Do not Disdain what I say! As long as I live do not desert me!
Thee I choose, That thou mayst save my soul, My mind, my sense, my body.
O thou of goodly counsels, Victorious, triumphant one, Angelic slayer of Antichrist!
THE MOTHERS' LAMENT AT THE SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS
Then, as the executioner plucked her son from her breast, one of the women said:
Why do you tear from me my darling son, The fruit of my womb? It was I who bore him, My breast he drank. My womb carried him about, My vitals he sucked, My heart he filled. He was my life, 'Tis death to have him taken from me. My strength has ebbed, My speech is silenced, My eyes are blinded.
Then another woman said:
It is my son you take from me. I did not do the evil, But kill me--me! Kill not my son! My breasts are sapless, My eyes are wet, My hands shake, My poor body totters. My husband has no son, And I no strength. My life is like death. O my own son, O God! My youth without reward, My birthless sicknesses Without requital until Doom. My breasts are silent, My heart is wrung.
Then said another woman:
Ye are seeking to kill one, Ye are killing many. Infants ye slay, The fathers ye wound, The mothers ye kill. Hell with your deed is full, Heaven is shut, Ye have spilt the blood of guiltless innocents.
And yet another woman said:
O Christ, come to me! With my son take my soul quickly! O great Mary, Mother of God's Son, What shall I do without my son? For Thy Son my spirit and sense are killed. I am become a crazy woman for my son. After the piteous slaughter My heart is a clot of blood From this day till Doom.
SONGS OF NATURE
KING AND HERMIT
Marvan, brother of King Guare of Connaught in the seventh century, had renounced the life of a warrior-prince for that of a hermit. The king endeavoured to persuade his brother to return to his court, when the following colloquy took place between them.
GUARE
Why, hermit Marvan, sleepest thou not Upon a feather quilt? Why rather sleepest thou abroad Upon a pitchpine floor?
MARVAN
I have a shieling in the wood, None knows it save my God: An ash-tree on the hither side, a hazel-bush beyond, A huge old tree encompasses it.
Two heath-clad doorposts for support, And a lintel of honeysuckle: The forest around its narrowness sheds Its mast upon fat swine.
The size of my shieling tiny, not too tiny, Many are its familiar paths: From its gable a sweet strain sings A she-bird in her cloak of the ousel's hue.
The stags of Oakridge leap Into the river of clear banks: Thence red Roiny can be seen, Glorious Muckraw and Moinmoy.[14]
A hiding mane of green-barked yew Supports the sky: Beautiful spot! the large green of an oak Fronting the storm.
A tree of apples--great its bounty! Like a hostel, vast! A pretty bush, thick as a fist, of tiny hazel-nuts, A green mass of branches.
A choice pure spring and princely water To drink: There spring watercresses, yew-berries, Ivy-bushes thick as a man.
Around it tame swine lie down. Goats, pigs, Wild swine, grazing deer, A badger's brood.
A peaceful troop, a heavy host of denizens of the soil, A-trysting at my house: To meet them foxes come, How delightful!
Fairest princes come to my house, A ready gathering: Pure water, perennial bushes, Salmon, trout.
A bush of rowan, black sloes, Dusky blackthorns, Plenty of food, acorns, pure berries, Bare flags.
A clutch of eggs, honey, delicious mast, God has sent it: Sweet apples, red whortleberries, And blaeberries.
Ale with herbs, a dish of strawberries Of good taste and colour, Haws, berries of the juniper, Sloes, nuts.
A cup with mead of hazel-nut, blue-bells, Quick-growing rushes, Dun oaklets, manes of briar, Goodly sweet tangle.
When brilliant summer-time spreads its coloured mantle, Sweet-tasting fragrance! Pignuts, wild marjoram, green leeks, Verdant pureness!
The music of the bright red-breasted men, A lovely movement! The strain of the thrush, familiar cuckoos Above my house.
Swarms of bees and chafers, the little musicians of the world, A gentle chorus: Wild geese and ducks, shortly before summer's end, The music of the dark torrent.
An active songster, a lively wren From the hazel-bough, Beautiful hooded birds, woodpeckers, A vast multitude!
Fair white birds come, herons, seagulls, The cuckoo sings between-- No mournful music! dun heathpoults Out of the russet heather.
The lowing of heifers in summer, Brightest of seasons! Not bitter, toilsome over the fertile plain, Delightful, smooth!
The voice of the wind against the branchy wood Upon the deep-blue sky: Falls of the river, the note of the swan, Delicious music!
The bravest band make cheer to me, Who have not been hired: In the eyes of Christ the ever-young I am no worse off Than thou art.
Though thou rejoicest in thy own pleasures, Greater than any wealth; I am grateful for what is given me From my good Christ.
Without an hour of fighting, without the din of strife In my house, Grateful to the Prince who giveth every good To me in my shieling.
GUARE
I would give my glorious kingship With the share of my father's heritage-- To the hour of my death I would forfeit it To be in thy company, my Marvan.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 14: Names of well-known plains.]
SONG OF THE SEA
A great tempest rages on the Plain of Ler, bold across its high borders Wind has arisen, fierce winter has slain us; it has come across the sea, It has pierced us like a spear.
When the wind sets from the east, the spirit of the wave is roused, It desires to rush past us westward to the land where sets the sun, To the wild and broad green sea.
When the wind sets from the north, it urges the dark fierce waves Towards the southern world, surging in strife against the wide sky, Listening to the witching song.
When the wind sets from the west across the salt sea of swift currents, It desires to go past us eastward towards the Sun-Tree, Into the broad long-distant sea.
When the wind sets from the south across the land of Saxons of mighty shields, The wave strikes the Isle of Scit, it surges up to the summit of Caladnet, And pounds the grey-green mouth of the Shannon.
The ocean is in flood, the sea is full, delightful is the home of ships, The wind whirls the sand around the estuary, Swiftly the rudder cleaves the broad sea.
With mighty force the wave has tumbled across each broad river-mouth, Wind has come, white winter has slain us, around Cantire, around the land of Alba, Slieve-Dremon pours forth a full stream.
Son of the God the Father, with mighty hosts, save me from the horror of fierce tempests! Righteous Lord of the Feast, only save me from the horrid blast, From Hell with furious tempest!
SUMMER HAS COME
Summer has come, healthy and free, Whence the brown wood is aslope; The slender nimble deer leap, And the path of seals is smooth.
The cuckoo sings sweet music, Whence there is smooth restful sleep; Gentle birds leap upon the hill, And swift grey stags.
Heat has laid hold of the rest of the deer-- The lovely cry of curly packs! The white extent of the strand smiles, There the swift sea is.
A sound of playful breezes in the tops Of a black oakwood is Drum Daill, The noble hornless herd runs, To whom Cuan-wood is a shelter.
Green bursts out on every herb, The top of the green oakwood is bushy, Summer has come, winter has gone, Twisted hollies wound the hound.
The blackbird sings a loud strain, To him the live wood is a heritage, The sad angry sea is fallen asleep, The speckled salmon leaps.