Classic Poem

O ISIN . S T . Patrick . O ISIN .

I care not for thee, senseless clerk!
Nor all thy psalming throng,
Whose stupid souls, unwisely dark,
Reject the light of song:

Unheeding, while it pours the strain,
With Finian glory swell'd;
Such as thy thought can scarce contain,
Thine eye has ne'er beheld! Patrick .

O son of Finn! the Fenii's fame
Thou gloriest to prolong;
While I my heav'nly King proclaim,
In psalm's diviner song. O ISIN .

Dost thou insult me to my face?
Does thy presumption dare
With the bright glories of my race
Thy wretched psalms compare?

Why did my folly let thee live,
To brave too patient age,
To see how tamely I forgive,
And preach me from my rage! Patrick .

Pardon, great chief! — I meant no ill;
Sweet is to me thy song;
And high the themes and lofty skill
Its noble strains prolong.

Sing then, sweet bard! thy purpos'd tale,
While gladly I attend,
And let me on thy grace prevail
Its lovely sounds to lend. O ISIN .

Once, while we chac'd the dark-brown deer,
Along the sea-girt plain,
We saw a distant fleet appear,
Advancing on the main.

Quick ceas'd the hunt: — to east, to west
Our rapid mandate hi'd;
With instant march the Fenii prest
To join their leader's side.

Beneath the chief of mighty fame,
Whom lovely Morna bore,
Seven warlike bands to join us came,
Collected on the shore.

Then Finn, the soul of Erin's might,
With fame and conquest crown'd;
To deeds of glory to incite,
Address'd the heroes round.

" Which of my chiefs the first will go
" To yon insulted shore,
" And bravely meet the daring foe,
" Their purpose to explore! "

Then Conan of the froward mind,
The bald M'Morni spoke,
And as his spleenful soul inclin'd,
His sneering accents broke.

" O chief of Erin's batt'ling host!
" Whom should yon navy bring? —
" Haply some Prince, or hero's boast,
" To match our wond'rous King!

" Let Fergus, peaceful Bard, advance
" To meet their haughty lord;
" He, with accustom'd art, perchance
" The threaten'd blow may ward. "

" Peace, tongue accurs'd, bald, froward fool! "
(The graceful Fergus cry'd)
" Think'st thou I move beneath thy rule,
" To go or to abide? —

" Yet, for the Fenii, I will go
" To yon insulted shore,
" And meet, for them, the daring foe,
" Their purpose to explore. "

Bright in the glittering blades of war,
The youthful Fergus goes;
Loud sounds his martial voice afar,
And greets the distant foes.

" Whence are those hosts? Come they the force
" Of Finian arms to brave? —
" Or wherefore do they steer their course
" O'er Erin's guarded wave? "

" Mac-Mehee, of the crimson shields,
" Fierce Magnus heads our bands,
" Who Lochlin's mighty sceptre wields,
" And mighty hosts commands. "

" Why does he thus our coasts explore,
" And hither lead his power?
" If peace conducts him to our shore,
" He comes in happy hour. "

The furious Magnus swift reply'd,
With fierce and haughty boast,
(The King whose navy's speckled pride
Defied our martial host.)

" I come (he cried) from Comhal's son
" A hostage to obtain;
" And, as the meed of conquest won,
" His spouse and dog to gain.

" His Bran, whose fleetness mocks the wind,
" His spouse of gentle love:
" Let them be now to me resign'd,
" My mightier arm to prove. "

" Fierce will the valiant Fenii fight,
" And thin will be their host,
" Before our Bran shall, in their sight,
" Perform thy haughty boast;

" And Finn will swell green Erin's wave
" With Lochlin's blood of pride,
" Before his spouse shall be thy slave,
" And leave his faithful side. "

" Now by that generous hand of thine,
" O Fergus! hear me swear,
" Though bright your Finian glories shine,
" And fierce you learn to dare;

" Or Bran shall soon the dark-brown deer
" O'er Lochlin's hills pursue;
" Or soon this arm shall teach you fear,
" And your vain pride subdue. "

" Though strong that valiant arm you deem,
" Whose might so loud you boast;
" And high those martial troops esteem,
" Whose numbers hide our coast;

" Yet, never with thy haughty will
" Shall Erin's chief comply;
" Nor ever deer, o'er Lochlin's hill,
" Before our Bran shall fly. "

Mild Fergus then, his errand done,
Return'd with wonted grace;
His mind, like the unchanging sun,
Still beaming in his face.

Before bright Honor's generous chief,
His noble sire, he goes;
And thus unfolds, in accents brief,
The message of his foes.

" Why should I, from the valiant ear,
" The words of death withhold;
" Since, to the heart that knows no fear,
" All tidings may be told.

" Fierce Magnus bids thee instant yield,
" And take the granted hour;
" Or soon the dire contested field
" Shall make thee feel his pow'r;

" Fleet-bounding Bran, his deer to chase,
" And prove his mightier arm;
" And thy soft love, his halls to grace,
" And his fierce soul to charm;

" These are his proud, his stern demands,
" Or soon, from shore to shore,
" His spear shall desolate thy lands,
" And float thy fields with gore. "

" From me shall my soft love be torn,
" A stranger's halls to grace? —
" Or my fleet Bran away be borne,
" A stranger's deer to chase? —

" Oh! first shall cease this vital breath,
" And useless be this blade;
" And low in earth, and cold in death,
" This arm be powerless laid!

" O Gaul! shall these redoubted bands
" Stand cold and silent by;
" And hear such insolent demands,
" And not to vengeance fly!

" Shall we not chase yon vaunting host,
" With rout and death away,
" And make them rue their haughty boast,
" And rue this fatal day? — — "

" Yes, by that arm of deathful might,
" O Comhal's noble son!
" Soon shall our swords pursue their flight,
" And soon the field be won;

" Yon King, whose ships of many waves
" Extend along our coast,
" Who thus thy power insulting braves,
" And dares our gallant host.

" Soon shall this arm his fate decide,
" And, by this vengeful blade,
" Shall that fierce head of gloomy pride
" In humble dust be laid! "

" Not so! (with eager warmth exclaim'd
My generous son of Love)
" Yon King, though fierce, though widely fam'd,
" Thy Osgur's arm shall prove!

" Soon his twelve Judges' tribe before
" My valiant troop shall flee;
" And their proud King shall fall, no more
" His isle of boars to see. "

" No, mine " (the famed Macluya cry'd)
" Mine be yon vaunting foe!
" Mine be the task to check his pride,
" And lay his glories low!

" Dark Norway's King myself will meet,
" And well his arm employ:
" For danger, in thy cause, is sweet,
" And life is risqu'd with joy. "

" No, I to glorious fame will spring!
(Brown Dermid cry'd) " or die;
" Mine be to meet yon stranger king;
" His boasted arm to try:

" Strong though it be, it soon shall yield,
" While in thy cause I fight;
" Or soon these eyes, on yonder field,
" Shall close in endless night. "

" My vision now I call to mind!
(The starting Fallan cry'd)
" I dream'd that with the Moorish King,
" Alone the fight I try'd:

" At length, methought, one lucky aim
" Struck off his gloomy head;
" And thence my soul forebodes our fame,
" And sees our glories spread! "

" Blest be your souls, ye arms of war!
(The blooming Finn exclaim'd)
" May victory bear your triumphs far,
" To distant nations fam'd!

" But, my brave troops! your chief alone,
" Shall chief in danger be;
" And Magnus shall be all my own,
" Whate'er the fates decree.

" Strong though his arm, the war to wage,
" I mean that arm to try;
" Nor from his might, nor from his rage,
" Shall Erin's chieftain fly. "

Then, girding on each warlike blade,
And glorying in their might,
Our martial host advanc'd, array'd,
And ardent for the fight.

Auspicious arms around us blaz'd,
Each thigh its weapon grac'd;
And, on each manly shoulder rais'd,
A spear of war is plac'd.

Each chief with ardent valour glows,
To prove the faith he swore;
And forth we march, to meet the foes
Encamp'd upon the shore.

No mirth conducts the night along;
No wax illumes our board:
Nor saffron, banquet, wine or song,
The darksome hours afford.

At length we see grey morning rise
Upon its early dew;
And the first dawn of eastern skies
Gives Lochlin's host to view.

Before us, on the crouded shore,
Their gloomy standard rose,
And many a chief their navy bore,
And many princely foes.

And many a proud and bossy shield,
And coat of martial mail,
And warlike arms of proof they wield,
To guard, or to assail.

And many a sword with studs engrav'd
In golden pomp was there;
And many a silken standard wav'd
Its splendid pride in air.

And many a chief in fight renown'd,
Finn of the banquets led,
And many a helmet darkly frown'd
On many a valiant head.

And many a warlike axe was there,
To hew the ranks of fight;
And many a glittering spear in air
Arose with stately height.

And many a chief of martial fame,
And prince of mighty sway,
All rang'd beneath our banners came
That memorable day.

Bright waving from its staff, in air,
Gall-grena high was rais'd,
With gems that India's wealth declare,
In radiant pomp it blaz'd.

The next in rank, and next in name,
Gaul's Fuillaing-torrigh rose,
Attendant on its master's fame,
And dreadful to his foes;

Oft, while the field of death he brav'd,
Triumphant in his might,
High o'er the ranks its beauty wav'd,
And led the rage of fight!

At length we mov'd; — then was the shock!
Then was the battle's roar!
Re echoing shouts from rock to rock
Resounding, shook the shore!

With tenfold might each nerve was strung;
Each bosom glow'd with flame!
Each chief exulting, forward sprung,
And rush'd to promis'd fame!

The foe recoil'd? — fierce on we prest,
For freedom or for death! —
Each arm to vengeance was addrest,
And victory gasp'd for breath.

Almost the bloody field was won,
When through the ranks of fight,
Dark Lochlin's king, and Comhal's son,
Rush'd forth, like flame, to sight.

Round on their falling hosts, their eyes
With rage and grief they threw; —
Then, swift as bolts from angry skies,
They fierce to vengeance flew!

Each Chief, with the collected rage
Of his whole host was fir'd;
And dire was the suspence, O Sage!
That dreadful sight inspir'd!

As when two sinewy sons of flame
At the dark anvil meet;
With thundering sound, and ceaseless aim
Their mighty hammers beat:

Such are the fierce contending kings!
Such strokes their fury sends;
Such thunder from their weapons rings,
And sparkling flame ascends!

Dire was the rending rage of fight,
And arms that stream'd with gore;
Until dark Lochlin's ebbing might
Proclaim'd the combat o'er.

Beneath the mighty Finn he lay,
Bound on the blood-stain'd field;
No more to boast his martial sway,
Or hostile arms to wield.

Then, base of soul, bald Conan spoke —
" Hold now the King of Spears,
" Till, with one just and vengeful stroke,
" I ease our future fears! "

" Ungenerous chieftain that thou art!
(The hapless Magnus cry'd)
" With thee no mercy can have part;
" No honor can abide!

" Not for thy favour e'er to call
" My soul shall I abase;
" Beneath a hero's arm I fall,
" Beneath a hero's grace. "

" Since then to me the glory fell
" Thy valour to subdue,
" My arm shall now thy foes repel,
" Nor injure those who sue.

" For thou thyself an hero art,
" Though Fortune on thee frown;
" Rise therefore free, and free depart,
" With unimpair'd renown.

" Or chuse, strong arm of powerful might!
" Chuse, Magnus, now thy course:
" With generous foes in peace unite,
" Or dare again their force.

" Better our friendship to engage,
" And be in peace ally'd,
" Than thus eternal warfare wage,
" Defying and defy'd. "

" O never more my arm, through life,
" Against thee, Finn, shall rise!
" O never such ungrateful strife
" Shall Mehee's son devise!

" And O! that on their hills of snow
" My youths had still remain'd,
" Nor thus against a generous foe
" Unprosperous war maintain'd!

" Exulting in their conscious might,
" And glorying in their fame,
" And gay with spoils of many a fight,
" And flush'd with hope they came!

" (O sad reverse! O fatal hour!
" In mangl'd heaps to die!)
" Too mighty Erin! to thy power,
" Pale victims, here they lie. "

Thus was the mighty battle won
On Erin's sounding shore;
And thus, O Clerk! great Comhal's son
The palm of valour bore!

Alas! far sweeter to my ear
The triumphs of that day,
Than all the psalming songs I hear,
Where holy zealots pray.

Clerk, thou hast heard me now recite
The tale of Lochlin's shame,
From whose fierce deeds, and vanquish'd might,
The battle took its name.

And by that hand, O blameless sage!
Hadst thou been on the shore,
To see the war our chiefs could wage;
The sway their prowess bore: —

From Laogare's sweetly flowing stream,
Had'st thou the combat view'd,
The Fenii then thy thoughts would deem
With matchless force endued. — —

Thou hast my tale, — Tho' memory bleeds,
And sorrow wastes my frame,
Still will I tell of former deeds,
And live on former fame!

Now old, — the streams of life congeal'd,
Bereft of all my joys!
No sword this wither'd hand can wield,
No spear my arm employs.

Among thy clerks, my last sad hour
Its weary scene prolongs;
And psalms must now supply the pow'r
Of victory's lofty songs.