She is rescued from days and hours, she is
lost to the years that pass,
And the broken pride of her beauty shall
lie near the roots of the grass.
In vain dost thou seek to restore her, oh
Queen, she was weary of war,
Let us bear her away to the peace of the
lonely and dream-trodden shore.
Far away near the haunted Rosses where the
sea shrinks out of the bay
And the world is a purple shadow from the
green lands to Knocknarea,
Where the sky is above and about us and
the sand crumbles under our tread,
And a rain-soft wind from the hills shall
soothe the tired eyelids of the dead,
We will fold her round with our pity, we
will lay her down in her grave,
Fionavar, fairest of women, the daughter of
yellow-haired Maeve.
Oh Mother! how shall we remember, how
shall we bear her in mind —
A spent lamp lost in the darkness or a flame
that went forth on the wind.
Is she broken and silent and gone like the
broken string of a lyre,
Or radiant, a child of the lightning, a spirit
of music and fire?
Did she mock at the growing flowers, think
scorn of the spring in her pride?
Though the guardian hills stood dreaming
about her she would not abide.
The rain and the wind were her comrades,
she left them, she went forth alone;
Now the rainbow's circle is broken, the
dreams of the wind overthrown.
She forsook the kind hearth of the world
and the sweetness of things that are,
To build up the pride of her soul on some
lonely and perilous star.
She is hidden away from the twilight, her
secret is known to none,
She has broken her faith with the wind and
the sea — she is false to the sun.
AN OLD MAN
My sight is dim — why do these idle folk
Crowd round the Queen, what evil has come to pass? —
A WARRIOR
Men say the great heart of the Princess broke
For pity of the dead lying on the grass
After the battle.
MAEVE
Ye who have borne her hither on her shield
Tell now your tale. How did this thing befall
Fionavar?
A WARRIOR
She came at evening, running to the field,
Knowing naught of battle, or sights that appal
The strongest soul unused to the ways of war.
Thou knowest her heart was ever wont to burn
For any little grief. Therefore when she saw
The primroses all soaked in blood and the brown fern
Broken — Death that was servant to no gentle God
And everywhere pale faces wild with pain,
The blood-stained daisy cried out from the sod
Unto her soul, there on the stricken plain
For very pity she fell down and died.
NERA
Should a man die for pity of those who die?
I weep for the immortals, patient eyed,
And pale fixed stars that weary of the sky.
MAEVE
Oh ye who saw her fall, ye must have heard
Her idlest whisper, her last sobbing breath.
Did ye not rescue one half-drowned word
From the black tides and silent gulfs of death?
WARRIOR
She shrieked — a bitter cry.
MAEVE
Is there then none of you
Will tell me the words of her whose swift end
Has broken my heart?
MAEVE
Unfaithful and untrue!
Are you all slaves, have I not then one friend?
FLEEAS
She flung her arms out to the blue and cried,
" Is this the triumph of Maeve" and shrieked and fell,
And lay so still, none knew when she died.
Oh Queen! this is a grievous tale to tell.
MAEVE
Yea, and a grievous triumph.
FERGUS
Queen, I am loath to bring
Noises of battle to this quiet tent
Where all men mourn, and only the bards sing
Praises of the dead.
MAEVE
What sudden event
Has brought thee here, what dark and evil fate?
FERGUS
There are strange tidings from the fortressed hills,
The captains sit in council, and they wait
Thy presence and crowning will.
MAEVE
Oh, least of many ills
Is death. Child, thou wert wise beyond thy years.
FERGUS
The jealous captains wait for thee, oh Queen,
This is no time for mourning or for tears.
MAEVE
I will go with thee.
FERGUS
'Twere well thou wert seen
In the camp, for men say the Queen is dead.
MAEVE
I come.
FERGUS
They have cast covetous eyes on the throne.
MAEVE
Alas! alas! shall there be more blood shed?
FERGUS
Pity them not, they reap as they have sown.
The host is murmuring like a troubled sea;
Speak them soft words and bid this tumult cease.
MAEVE
Pass on.
MAEVE
Oh, wilt thou not open the gates to me?
Fionavar, Deirdre, the gates of Peace.
lost to the years that pass,
And the broken pride of her beauty shall
lie near the roots of the grass.
In vain dost thou seek to restore her, oh
Queen, she was weary of war,
Let us bear her away to the peace of the
lonely and dream-trodden shore.
Far away near the haunted Rosses where the
sea shrinks out of the bay
And the world is a purple shadow from the
green lands to Knocknarea,
Where the sky is above and about us and
the sand crumbles under our tread,
And a rain-soft wind from the hills shall
soothe the tired eyelids of the dead,
We will fold her round with our pity, we
will lay her down in her grave,
Fionavar, fairest of women, the daughter of
yellow-haired Maeve.
Oh Mother! how shall we remember, how
shall we bear her in mind —
A spent lamp lost in the darkness or a flame
that went forth on the wind.
Is she broken and silent and gone like the
broken string of a lyre,
Or radiant, a child of the lightning, a spirit
of music and fire?
Did she mock at the growing flowers, think
scorn of the spring in her pride?
Though the guardian hills stood dreaming
about her she would not abide.
The rain and the wind were her comrades,
she left them, she went forth alone;
Now the rainbow's circle is broken, the
dreams of the wind overthrown.
She forsook the kind hearth of the world
and the sweetness of things that are,
To build up the pride of her soul on some
lonely and perilous star.
She is hidden away from the twilight, her
secret is known to none,
She has broken her faith with the wind and
the sea — she is false to the sun.
AN OLD MAN
My sight is dim — why do these idle folk
Crowd round the Queen, what evil has come to pass? —
A WARRIOR
Men say the great heart of the Princess broke
For pity of the dead lying on the grass
After the battle.
MAEVE
Ye who have borne her hither on her shield
Tell now your tale. How did this thing befall
Fionavar?
A WARRIOR
She came at evening, running to the field,
Knowing naught of battle, or sights that appal
The strongest soul unused to the ways of war.
Thou knowest her heart was ever wont to burn
For any little grief. Therefore when she saw
The primroses all soaked in blood and the brown fern
Broken — Death that was servant to no gentle God
And everywhere pale faces wild with pain,
The blood-stained daisy cried out from the sod
Unto her soul, there on the stricken plain
For very pity she fell down and died.
NERA
Should a man die for pity of those who die?
I weep for the immortals, patient eyed,
And pale fixed stars that weary of the sky.
MAEVE
Oh ye who saw her fall, ye must have heard
Her idlest whisper, her last sobbing breath.
Did ye not rescue one half-drowned word
From the black tides and silent gulfs of death?
WARRIOR
She shrieked — a bitter cry.
MAEVE
Is there then none of you
Will tell me the words of her whose swift end
Has broken my heart?
MAEVE
Unfaithful and untrue!
Are you all slaves, have I not then one friend?
FLEEAS
She flung her arms out to the blue and cried,
" Is this the triumph of Maeve" and shrieked and fell,
And lay so still, none knew when she died.
Oh Queen! this is a grievous tale to tell.
MAEVE
Yea, and a grievous triumph.
FERGUS
Queen, I am loath to bring
Noises of battle to this quiet tent
Where all men mourn, and only the bards sing
Praises of the dead.
MAEVE
What sudden event
Has brought thee here, what dark and evil fate?
FERGUS
There are strange tidings from the fortressed hills,
The captains sit in council, and they wait
Thy presence and crowning will.
MAEVE
Oh, least of many ills
Is death. Child, thou wert wise beyond thy years.
FERGUS
The jealous captains wait for thee, oh Queen,
This is no time for mourning or for tears.
MAEVE
I will go with thee.
FERGUS
'Twere well thou wert seen
In the camp, for men say the Queen is dead.
MAEVE
I come.
FERGUS
They have cast covetous eyes on the throne.
MAEVE
Alas! alas! shall there be more blood shed?
FERGUS
Pity them not, they reap as they have sown.
The host is murmuring like a troubled sea;
Speak them soft words and bid this tumult cease.
MAEVE
Pass on.
MAEVE
Oh, wilt thou not open the gates to me?
Fionavar, Deirdre, the gates of Peace.