Classic Poem

I

I am Ethell, the son of Conn!
Here I live at the foot of the hill,
I am clansman to Brian and servant to none;
Whom I hated I hate, whom I loved love still.
Blind am I. On milk I live,
And meat (God sends it) on each saint's day,
Though Donald Mac Art — may he never thrive —
Last Shrovetide drove half my kine away!

II

At the brown hill's base, by the pale blue lake,
I dwell, and see the things I saw;
The heron flap heavily up from the brake,
The crow fly homeward with twig and straw,
The wild duck, a silver line in wake,
Cutting the still mere to far Bunaw.
And the things that I heard, though deaf, I hear;
From the tower in the island the feastful cheer;
The horn from the woodlands; the plunge of the stag,
With the loud hounds after him, down from the crag.
Sweet is the chase but the battle is sweeter;
More healthful, more joyous, for true men meeter!

III

My hand is weak; it once was strong:
My heart burns still with its ancient fire;
If any man smite me he does me wrong,
For I was the Bard of Brian Mac Guire.
If any man slay me — not unaware,
By no chance blow, nor in wine and revel,
I have stored beforehand a curse in my prayer
For his kith and kin: for his deed is evil.

IV

There never was king, and there never will be,
In battle or banquet like Malachi!
The seers his reign had predicted long;
He honour'd the bards, and gave gold for song.
If rebels arose he put out their eyes;
If robbers plunder'd or burn'd the fanes
He hung them in chaplets, like rosaries,
That others beholding might take more pains!
There was none to women more reverent-minded
For he held his mother, and Mary, dear:
If any man wrong'd them that man he blinded
Or straight amerced him of hand or ear.
There was none who founded more convents — none;
In his palace the old and the poor were fed;
The orphan might walk, or the widow's son,
Without groom or page to his throne or bed.
In his council he mused with great brows divine,
And his eyes like the eyes of the musing kine;
Upholding a sceptre o'er which men said
Seven Spirits of Wisdom like fire-tongues played.
He drain'd ten lakes and he built ten bridges;
He bought a gold book for a thousand cows;
He slew ten princes who brake their pledges;
With the bribed and the base he scorn'd to carouse.
He was sweet and awful; through all his reign
God gave great harvests to vale and plain;
From his nurse's milk he was kind and brave;
And when he went down to his well-wept grave,
Through the triumph of penance his soul uprose
To God and the saints. Not so his foes!

V

The king that came after! ah woe, woe, woe!
He doubted his friend and he trusted his foe.
He bought and he sold: his kingdom old
He pledged and he pawned to avenge a spite:
No bard or prophet his birth foretold:
He was guarded and warded both day and night:
He counsell'd with fools and had boors at his feast;
He was cruel to Christian and kind to beast:
Men smiled when they talked of him far o'er the wave:
Well paid were the mourners that wept o'er his grave.
God plagued for his sake his people sore: —
They sinn'd; for the people should watch and pray
That their prayers, like angels at window and door,
May keep from the king the bad thought away!