Classic Poem

O ISIN . S T . Patrick . O ISIN .

O son of Calphruin! — sage divine!
Soft voice of heavenly song,
Whose notes around the holy shrine
Sweet melody prolong;

Did e'er my tale thy curious ear
And fond attention draw,
The story of that Chase to hear,
Which my fam'd father saw?

The Chase, which singly o'er the plain,
The hero's steps pursu'd;
Nor one of all his valiant train
Its wond'rous progress view'd. Patrick .

O royal bard, to valour dear,
Whom fame and wisdom grace,
It never was my chance to hear
That memorable Chase.

But let me now, O bard, prevail!
Now let the song ascend;
And, thro' the wonders of the tale,
May truth thy words attend! O ISIN .

O Patrick! — to the Finian race
A falsehood was unknown;
No lie, no imputation base
On our clear fame was thrown;

But by firm truth, and manly might
That fame establish'd grew,
Where oft, in honorable fight,
Our foes before us flew.

Not thy own clerks, whose holy feet
The sacred pavement trod,
With thee to hymn, in concert sweet,
The praises of thy God;

Not thy own clerks in truth excell'd
The heroes of our line,
By honor train'd, by fame impell'd
In glory's fields to shine!

O Patrick of the placid mien,
And voice of sweetest sound!
Of all thy church's walls contain
Within their hallow'd round,

Not one more faithful didst thou know
Than Comhal's noble son,
The chief who gloried to bestow
The prize the bards had won!

Were Morni's valiant son alive,
(Now in the deedless grave,)
O could my wish from death revive
The generous and the brave!

Or Mac-O'Dhuivne, graceful form,
Joy of the female sight;
The hero who would breast the storm,
And dare the unequal fight.

Or he whose sword the ranks defy'd,
Mac-Garra, conquest's boast,
Whose valour would a war decide,
His single arm an host,

Or could Mac-Ronan now appear,
In all his manly charms;
Or — Oh my Osgur! wert thou here,
To fill my aged arms!

Not then, as now, should Calphruin's son,
His sermons here prolong;
With bells, and psalms, the land o'er-run,
And hum his holy song!

If Fergus liv'd, again to sing,
As erst, the Fenii's fame;
Or Daire, who sweetly touch'd the string,
And thrill'd the feeling frame;

Your bells, for me, might sound in vain,
Did Hugh the little, live;
Or Fallan's generous worth remain,
The ceaseless boon to give;

Or Conan bald, tho' oft his tongue
To rage provok'd my breast;
Or Finn's small dwarf, whose magic song
Oft lull'd the ranks to rest.

Sweeter to me their voice would seem
Than thy psalm-singing train;
And nobler far their lofty theme,
Than that thy clerks maintain! P ATRICK .

Cease thy vain thoughts, and fruitless boasts;
Can death thy chiefs restore? —
Son of the King of mighty hosts,
Their glories are no more.

Confide in him whose high decree
O'er-rules all earthly power;
And bend to him thy humble knee,
To him devote thy hour;

And let thy contrite prayer be made
To him who rules above;
Entreat for his almighty aid,
For his protecting love!

Tho' (with thy perverse will at strife,)
Thou deem'st it strange to say,
He gave thy mighty father life,
And took that life away. O ISIN .

Alas! thy words sad import bear,
And grating sounds impart;
They come with torture to mine ear,
And anguish to my heart!

Not for thy God these torrents spring,
That drain their weeping source,
But that my Father, and my King,
Now lies a lifeless corse!

Too much I have already done,
Thy Godhead's smile to gain;
That thus each wonted joy I shun,
And with thy clerks remain!

The royal robe, the social board,
Musick and mirth are o'er,
And the dear art I once ador'd
I now enjoy no more;

For now no bards, from Oisin's hand,
The wonted gift receive;
Nor hounds, nor horn I now command,
Nor martial feats atchieve!

O Innisfail! thy Oisin goes
To guard thy ports no more;
To pay with death the foreign foes
Who dare insult thy shore!

I speak not of the fast severe
Thy rigid faith has taught;
Compar'd with all the rest I bear,
It is not worth a thought. P ATRICK .

O! Oisin of the mighty deed!
Thy folly I deplore;
O! cease thy frenzy thus to feed,
And give the subject o'er.

Nor Finn, nor all the Finian race,
Can with his power compare,
Who to yon orbs assigns their place,
And rules the realms of air!

For man yon azure vault he spreads,
And clothes the flow'ry plains;
On every tree soft fragrance sheds,
And blooming fruit ordains!

'Tis he who gives the peopl'd stream,
Replete with life to flow;
Who gives the Moon's resplendant beam,
And Sun's meridian glow!

Would'st thou thy puny King compare
To that Almighty hand,
Which form'd fair earth, and ambient air,
And bade their powers expand? O ISIN .

It was not on a fruit or flower
My King his care bestow'd;
He better knew to shew his power
In honor's glorious road.

To load with death the hostile field;
In blood, his might proclaim;
Our land with wide protection shield,
And wing to heaven his fame!

In peace, his tranquil hours to bless,
Beneath soft beauty's eye;
Or, on the chequer'd field of chess,
The mimic fight to try;

Or Sylvan sports, that well beseem
The martial and the brave;
Or, plung'd amid the rapid stream,
His manly limbs to lave.

But, when the rage of battle bled! — —
Then — then his might appear'd,
And o'er red heaps of hostile dead
His conquering standard rear'd!

Where was thy God, on that sad day,
When, o'er Ierne's wave,
Two heroes plough'd the wat'ry way,
Their beauteous prize to save?

From Lochlin's King of Ships, his bride,
His lovely Queen they bore,
Through whom unnumber'd warriors dy'd,
And bath'd in blood our shore.

Or on that day, when Tailk's proud might
Invaded Erin's coast;
Where was thy Godhead in that fight,
And where thy empty boast?

While round the bravest Fenii bled,
No help did he bestow;
'Twas Osgur's arm aveng'd the dead,
And gave the glorious blow!

Where was thy God, when Magnus came?
Magnus the brave, and great;
The man of might, the man of fame,
Whose threat'ning voice was fate!

Thy Godhead did not aid us then; —
If such a God there be,
He should have favour'd gallant men,
As great and good as he!

Fierce Anninir's wide-wasting son,
Allean, of dreadful fame,
Who Tamor's treasures oft had won,
And wrapt her walls in flame;

Not by thy God, in single fight,
The deathful hero fell;
But by Finn's arm, whose matchless might
Could ev'ry force repel!

In ev'ry mouth his fame we meet,
Well known, and well believ'd; —
I have not heard of any feat
Thy cloudy King atchiev'd. P ATRICK .

Drop we our speech on either side,
Thou bald and senseless fool!
In torments all thy race abide,
While God in heaven shall rule. O ISIN .

If God then rules, why is the chief
Of Comhal's gen'rous race
To fiends consign'd, without relief
From justice, or from grace?

When, were thy God himself confin'd,
My King, of mild renown,
Would quickly all his chains unbind,
And give him back his crown.

For never did his generous breast
Reject the feeling glow;
Refuse to succour the distrest,
Or slight the captive's woe.

His ransom loos'd the prisoner's chains,
And broke the dire decree;
Or, with his hosts, on glory's plains,
He fought to set them free!

O Patrick! were I senseless grown,
Thy holy clerks should bleed,
Nor one be spar'd, to pour his moan
O'er the avenging deed!

Nor books, nor crosiers should be found,
Nor ever more a bell,
Within thy holy walls should sound,
Where prayers and zealots dwell. P ATRICK .

O Oisin, of the royal race!
The actions of thy sire,
The king of smiles, and courteous grace,
I, with the world, admire;

Thy story therefore I await,
And thy late promise claim,
The Chase's wonders to relate,
And give the tale to fame. O ISIN .

O Patrick! tho' my sorrowing heart
Its fond remembrance rend,
I will not from my word depart,
Howe'er my tears descend!

Full joyous past the festive day
In Almhain's stately hall,
Whose spears, with studded splendours gay,
Illum'd the trophy'd wall.

The feast was for the Fenii spread;
Their chiefs, assembled round,
Heard the song rise to praise the dead,
And fed their souls with sound.

Or on the chequer'd fields of chess
Their mimic troops bestow'd;
Or round, to merit or distress,
Their ample bounty flow'd.

At length, unnotic'd of his train,
The Finian king arose,
And forth he went where Almhain's plain
With neighbouring verdure glows.

There, while alone the hero chanc'd,
To breathe the fragrant gale,
A young and beauteous doe advanc'd,
Swift bounding o'er the vale.

He call'd his fleet and faithful hounds,
The doe's light steps to trace;
Sgeolan and Bran obey'd the sounds,
And sprung upon the chase.

Unknown to us, no friend to aid,
Or to behold the deed;
His dogs alone, and Luno's blade,
Companions of his speed.

Swift on to steep Slieve Guillin's foot,
The doe before him flew;
But there, at once, she mock'd pursuit,
And vanish'd from his view!

He knew not whether east or west
She past the mountain's bounds,
But east his random course he prest,
And west his eager hounds!

At length he stopp'd, — he look'd around,
To see the doe appear;
When soft distress, with plaintive sound,
Assail'd his gentle ear.

The plaintive sound, quick to his breast,
With wonted influence sped;
And on he follow'd in its quest,
Till to Lough-Shieve it led.

There he beheld a weeping fair,
Upon a bank reclin'd,
In whose fine form, and graceful air,
Was every charm combin'd.

On her soft cheek, with tender bloom,
The rose its tint bestow'd;
And in her richer lip's perfume,
The ripen'd berry glow'd.

Her neck was as the blossom fair,
Or like the cygnet's breast,
With that majestic, graceful air,
In snow and softness drest:

Gold gave its rich and radiant die,
And in her tresses flow'd;
And like a freezing star, her eye
With Heaven's own splendour glow'd.

Thyself, O Patrick! hadst thou seen
The charms that face display'd;
That tender form, and graceful mein,
Thyself had lov'd the maid!

My king approach'd the gentle fair,
The form of matchless grace. — —
" Hast thou, sweet maid of golden hair!
" Beheld my hounds in chase? "

" Thy chase, O king, was not my care;
" I nothing of it know;
" Far other thoughts my bosom share,
" The thoughts, alas, of woe! "

" Is it the husband of thy youth,
" O fair-one, that has died?
" Or has an infant pledge of truth
" Been torn from thy soft side?

" White-handed mourner! speak the grief
" That causes thy distress;
" And, if it will admit relief,
" Thou may'st command redress. "

" Alas, my ring, for whose dear sake
" These ceaseless tears I shed,
" Fell from my finger in the lake! "
(The soft-hair'd virgin said).

" Let me conjure thee, generous king!
" Compassionate as brave,
" Find for me now my beauteous ring,
" That fell beneath the wave! "

Scarce was the soft entreaty made,
Her treasure to redeem,
When his fair form he disarray'd,
And plung'd into the stream.

At the white-handed fair's request,
Five times the lake he try'd;
On ev'ry side his search address'd,
Till he the ring descry'd.

But when he sought the blooming maid,
Her treasure to restore;
His powers were gone, — he scarce could wade
To reach the nearest shore!

That form where strength and beauty met,
To conquer, or engage,
Paid, premature, its mournful debt
To grey and palsied age.

While magic thus our king detain'd,
In hateful fetters bound;
We in fair Almhain's halls remain'd,
And festal joy went round.

The mirthful moments danc'd along
To music's charming lore;
And to the sons of lofty song,
Wealth pour'd her bounteous store!

Thus fled the hours, on heedless wing,
From every care releas'd;
Nor thought we of our absent king,
Nor miss'd him from the feast:

Till Caoilte, struck with sudden dread,
Rose in the Hall of Spears:
His words around strange panic spread,
And wak'd misgiving fears!

" Where is the noble Comhal's son,
" Renown'd assembly! Say? —
" Or is our arm of conquest gone, —
" Our glory pass'd away! "

We stood aghast. — Conan alone,
The rash Mac Morni, spoke;
" O joyful tidings! I shall groan
" No more beneath his yoke.

" Swift Caoilte of the mighty deed!
" On this auspicious day,
" I, to his fame and power, succeed,
" And take the sovereign sway. "

We laugh'd to scorn his senseless boast,
Tho' with a grieving heart;
And Almhain saw our numerous host,
With headlong haste depart.

The van myself and Caoilte led,
The Fenii in the rear;
And on our rapid march we sped,
But saw no king appear.

We follow'd, where he led the chase,
To steep Slieve Guillin's foot;
But there we could no further trace,
And stop'd the vain pursuit.

North of the mount our march we stay'd,
Upon a verdant plain,
Where conquest once our arms array'd,
Tho' bought with heaps of slain!

Hope threw each eager eye around,
And still'd attention's ear, —
In vain, — for neither sight or sound
Of our lov'd chief was near.

But, on the borders of a lake,
A tall old man we spy'd,
Whose looks his wretched age bespake
To want and woe ally'd!

Bare wither'd bones, and ghastly eyes,
His wrinkl'd form display'd;
Palsy'd and pale, he scarce could rise,
From age and strength decay'd.

We thought, perchance, that famine gave
That wan and wasted frame,
Or that from far, adown the wave,
A fisherman he came.

We ask'd him, had he seen in chase,
Two hounds that snuff'd the gale,
And a bold Chief, of princely grace,
Swift bounding o'er the vale.

The head of age in silence hung,
Bow'd down with shame and woe,
Long e'er his hesitating tongue
The cruel truth could shew.

At length, to Caoilte's faithful ear,
The fatal change he told,
And gave our raging host to hear
The dreadful tale unfold!

With horror struck, aghast and pale,
Three sudden shouts we gave. —
Affrighted badgers fled the vale,
And trembling sought the cave!

But Conan glory'd in our grief;
Conan the bald, the base;
He curs'd with rage the Finian chief,
And all the Finian race.

" O, were I sure (he fiercely said)
" Thou wert that heart of pride,
" Soon should this blade thy shaking head
" From thy old trunk divide!

" For never did thy envious mind
" Bestow my valour's meed;
" In secret has thy soul repin'd
" At each heroick deed.

" I grieve not for thy strength decay'd,
" Shrunk form, and foul disgrace;
" But that I cannot wave my blade
" O'er all thy hated race.

" Oh, were they all like thee this day,
" My vengeance, as a flood,
" Should sweep my hated foes away,
" And bathe my steel in blood!

" Since Comhal of the Hosts was slain
" Upon the ensanguin'd field,
" By Morni's son, who ne'er in vain
" Uprear'd his golden shield;

" Since then, our clan in exile pine,
" Excluded from thy sight;
" And the fam'd heroes of our line
" But live in thy despight. " C AOILTE .

" Did not my soul too keenly share
" In our great cause of woe,
" On aught like thee to waste its care,
" Or any thought bestow;

" Bald, senseless wretch! thy envy, soon
" This arm should make thee rue;
" And thy crush'd bones, thou base buffoon,
" Should bear thy folly's due! " O SCUR .

" Cease thy vain bab'ling, senseless fool!
" Bald boaster, stain to arms,
" Still forward to promote misrule,
" But shrink at war's alarms! " C ONAN .

" Cease thou, vain youth, nor think my soul
" Can by thy speech be won,
" Servile to stoop to the controul
" Of Oisin's beardless son.

" Even Finn, who, head of all thy line,
" Can best their boasts become,
" What does he do, but daily dine,
" Upon his mangl'd thumb.

" 'Twas not the sons of Boishne's clan,
" But Morni's gallant race,
" That thunder'd in the warlike van,
" And led the human chase.

" Oisin, this silken son of thine,
" Who thus in words excels,
" Will learn of thee the psalming whine,
" And bear white books and bells.

" Cease Osgur, cease thy foolish boast,
" Not words, but deeds decide;
" Now then, before this warlike host,
" Now be our valour try'd! "

My son high rais'd his threat'ning blade,
To give his fury sway;
But the pale Conan shrunk dismay'd,
And sprung with fear away:

Amid the scoffing host he sprung,
To shun th' unequal strife;
To 'scape the forfeit of his tongue,
And save his worthless life.

Nor vainly did he importune;
The host, as he desir'd,
Engag'd my son to give the boon
His cowardice requir'd.

Once, twice, and thrice, to Erin's chief
The sorrowing Caoilte spoke:
O say, lov'd cause of all our grief!
" Whence came this cruel stroke?

" What curst Tuathan's direful charm
" Has dar'd that form deface?
" O! who could thus thy force disarm,
" And wither ev'ry grace? "

" Guillen's fair daughter, (Finn reply'd,)
" The treacherous snare design'd,
" And sent me to yon magic tide,
" Her fatal ring to find. "

Conan who, penitent of tongue,
Would now his guilt revoke,
Forward, with zeal impatient sprung,
And vengeful ire bespoke.

" May never from this hill (he cry'd,)
" Our homeward steps depart,
" But Guillen dearly shall abide
" Her dark and treacherous art! "

Then our stout shields with thongs we bound,
Our hapless King to bear;
While each fond chieftain press'd around,
The precious weight to share.

North of the mount, to Guillen's cave,
The alter'd form we bore;
Determin'd all her art to brave,
And his lost powers restore.

Eight nights and days, without success,
We tore the living tomb,
Until we pierc'd the last recess
Of the deep cavern's gloom.

Then forth the fair Enchantress came,
Swift issuing to the light,
The form of grace, the beauteous dame,
With charms too great for sight.

A cup quite full she trembling bore
To Erin's alter'd chief,
That could his pristine form restore,
And heal his people's grief.

He drank. — O joy! his former grace,
His former powers return'd;
Again with beauty glow'd his face,
His breast with valour burn'd.

Oh, when we saw his kindling eye
With wonted lustre glow,
Not all the glories of thy sky
Such transport could bestow!

The Hero of the Stately Steeds,
From magic fetters free,
To Finian arms, and martial deeds
Thus — thus restor'd to see! —

Scarce could our souls the joy sustain! —
Again three shouts we gave;
Again the badgers fled the plain,
And trembling sought the cave!

Now, Patrick of the scanty store,
And meager-making face!
Say, did'st thou ever hear before
This memorable Chase?