DRAMATIS PERSONAE
* Cuchulain, son of Sualtim, champion of Ulster, otherwise called Settanta, or the Hound of Ulster.
* Conhor, King of Ulster.
* Laeg, Cuchulain's charioteer.
* Laegaire friends of Cuchulain.
* Lugaid friends of Cuchulain.
* Labraid, of the Quick Sword, King of the Sidhe, in Magh Mell.
* Manannan, a magician, King of the Sea.
* Emer, Cuchulain's wife.
* Fand, of the fair cheek, a fairy, wife to Manannan.
* Liban, sister to Fand, and wife to Labraid.
* Eithne, a poetess, beloved of Cuchulain.
* Male and female attendants, chorus of fairies, prisoners, etc.
A room in the Speckled House at Emain. One portion of the stage is divided from the rest by a curtain. In it lies Cuchulain on a couch entranced, Laeg and Eithne with him. Outside Lugaid, Laegaire, and others, are playing noisily with dice, a flagon by them and horn cups. Eithne singing. She has a distaff and spindle.
Eithne's Spinning Song
Things of the Earth and things of the Air,
Strengths that we feel though we cannot share,
Shapes that are round us and everywhere.
Things of the Sunlight and things of Sleep.
Into what grave doth the spirit creep
When limbs are loosened and life lies deep?
Griefs that have blossomed, wounds that have bled.
How shall we meet on the day of dread,
When the dead are living, the living dead?
Love is the master, and him we know,
Deals us our portion of weal and woe,
Leads us and leaves us to grieve and go.
Laegaire
(rising). I have had enough of this. I need the air, Lugaid.
'Tis a fool's life we lead here by this sick man's bed.
Lugaid. Ay, a dog's life.
Laegaire. I've done. He neither lives nor dies.
I want the sun, the wind, the blue face of the skies,
The white mists on the mountains. We are useless here.
Lugaid. We will away to--morrow.
Laegaire. We will chase the deer
In the free forest, run, shout. We have become diseased
With his mad malady. 'Tis time we were released.
Lugaid. We have been a year here, watchers. What more can we do?
We have done enough for him.
Laegaire. We will leave him with these two,
Who will watch on.--And Emer, she will be here anon.
I sent for her last night. When all is said and done
His wife is his best guard, albeit he forbade.
The day Laeg bore him in from Baile's strand he was mad,
As thou well knowest, mad; and we had promised him
To carry out his bidding to the utmost whim;
He would not hear of Emer. Yet time solves all vows,
And small has been his profit in this Speckled House
With Eithne for consoler, and her songs and tears.
She has lost her power to soothe. He needs more wit than hers,
However well she loves him. I have called Conhor too,
His liege lord, whom he worships, his companion true.
A wise man sure is Conhor. He will probe this thing
And grant us our dismissal.
Lugaid. See, he comes.
(A voice.)The King!
Enter Conhor, who approaches slowly and withdraws the curtain. Laeg rises, but Eithne sits weeping at Cuchulain's feet.)
Conhor. He sleeps on?
Laeg. Ay! he sleeps, and without change or sign
More than a tree in winter, his breath infantine,
His colour, as you see, a little paler grown
Through the long lying here. His cheeks have lost their brown,
His brows their manliness, and all his frame is slack
As an uncoiled rope.
Conhor. Yet he is sound?
Laeg. We find no lack
Of any bodily doing; hand, and foot, and limb,
All seem compact, in order.
Conhor. Can none waken him?
Laegaire. Conhor, not one of us. A year it is to--day
Since Laeg first laid him here. And still, do what we may,
He sleeps, and sleeps, and sleeps. He heeds us not at all.
The weakness came on him at the Spring Festival.
Some say it was the Sidhe, others a woman lewd
Who took him unawares, where he lay in a wood
Because the sun was hot, and scourged him at her will.
He spoke to Laeg of faces fair and terrible,
And not to be gainsaid, of a shape clothed in green,
Another in clear crimson, and of a third, a queen,
Who smote him with a rod, till he became a child
And yielded to her will; and while she smote she smiled.
He told this and no more; and the sun burned his head.
And so they bore him here, as one less live than dead,
To Eithne's Speckled House. He would not be brought home,
Or hear of his wife Emer. He was mettlesome
On this one point. And since that day of evil we,
I, Laeg, and Lugaid, have watched him narrowly;
And she, too, who weeps there. And we have hid him close,
For our oath's sake and her great love, here in her house
Unknown to all the world. And, Conhor, of a truth
We are weary of our lives, and grudge our days of youth
Spent idly in this room. We can no longer wait.
Conhor. And she, too, is she weary?
Laeg. Eithne? Ay! of late,
In spite of her long love. Awhile her voice to him
Served to bring understanding and a change of dream,
And he would turn and listen while she sang. But now
A month and more is past, and neither prayer, nor vow,
Nor chant is of avail. We are weary to our death
Of this unending watch. And we have lost our faith
In all things, even our love.
Laegaire. Conhor, you are a king,
Speak to him as a master. Bid him leave this thing
And be himself once more.
Eithne
(rising). Ay! Conhor. Use thy power,
Thou glorious King of Ulster. Even at this late hour
If thou shouldst speak to him in terms of thy high wrath
He could not choose but listen. Smite the fiend he hath
With thy authority. He shall not gainsay thee.
[He bends over Cuchulain and takes him by the hand.
Conhor. Cuchulain, man, wake! rouse thee!
Laegaire. Nay, but lustily.
Conhor. Wake! wake!
After a pause.)My power counts little. You who loved him know
He listened but to women, heeding nor friend nor foe
For all he was our champion. These possessed his ear;
Never our man's persuasion. If she move him not,
Neither may I prevail to counterwork their plot.
After another pause.)
O, pitiful Cuchulain! What fool's fate is thine,
Thou mirror of our nation, our sun's self, which did shine
Like daylight on the world, and drawing all to thee!
How is thy pride departed; the fair witchery
Of thy high hero's courage, and thy manly face,
Which was all Ireland's glory, Alban's sore disgrace,
Beloving and beloved! Hast thou forgot thy deeds,
Thy battles, thy strong shoutings, thy delight in steeds,
The clamouring of thy clansmen and the clash of spears?
Sualtim's son, bestir thee. Be as in past years.
The day is gone for sleeping. Rise, man. To your arms.
Your chariot waits. Laeg calls you. Hark to his alarms.
The foe is at the ford!
[Cuchulain moves restlessly, waving his arms.
Laegaire. He seems to wake, to hear.
He clutches for his sword. O, wise philosopher!
Speak louder to him, Conhor.
Lugaid. By the powers of hell
He shall not now escape us. Rouse him with a yell
Such as he heard in Connaught.
[They all shout. Cuchulain half rises, staring around him angrily. Then his eyes close and he falls back.
Eithne. He is beyond relief.
He falls back to the darkness. O my grief! my grief!
[She goes out weeping.
Conhor. It is no use. He sleeps more soundly than before.
Lugaid. He mocks us, for he heard us.
Laegaire. Ay, he heard our roar
As a wolf hears the hunters in his far--off den,
And bares his teeth an instant, yawns, then sleeps again.
He is beyond our rousing.
Conhor
(drawing the curtain). Leave him to his sleep.
Your noise shall not prevail, or haply make you weep
If he should rise in anger. Where is his wife?
Lugaid. Not here.
At Dundealgan is she. We sent a messenger,
But she will hardly come. She is a woman proud,
And will not face this other.
Conhor. Eithne?
Laegaire. 'Tis the cloud
In her high heaven. She sits and waits the end apart,
Not here at Emain Macha.
Conhor. She has a mighty heart,
And has forgiven him much, and once he loved her well.
Love's memories lie close. Where they are housed they dwell.
Laeg. Ay! Emer is no babe. Her will for war or peace
Had ever a strong edge, and will not let her cease
Till she has gained her end--a woman passionate,
And fair, and masterful, either in love or hate.
Conhor. Ay! a supreme, fair woman,--and his wife. Time was
She clung to him, his shadow. Whereso'er he went
She followed unreproved, beloved, obedient,
And yet commanding him. How often have I seen
The two in their first courting on the hurling green,
He godlike in his skill, she rapt and watching him,
Intent upon his triumphs, and with strained eyes dim
With the thrill of victory. The long day through she sat,
Made glorious by her love, his arbiter and fate,
To give him praise or counsel. I have seen her, too,
Handing him spears in battle while the javelins flew
Around them like a hail, both at death grips with men
Sublimely overnumbered, as of one to ten,
Yet victors in the fight, where each took glorious toll.
He feared her while he loved, and both were as one soul,
A noble apparition. Later a change came.
He was a man, inconstant. Spite of his great name,
He stooped to things inglorious. Foolish loves he had
With foolish, pretty women, whom his fame drove mad,
And who must tempt him from her. She was high--born, proud.
She scorned to be their rival. Silently, calm--browed,
She stepped back from his life. He went alone to war.
Yet she subdued him still, and brought him back to her,
Twice, thrice. There was a savage tincture in her blood,
Which always overcame. He fears her in this mood,
And fear is kin to love, and both work miracles;
For this 'twere well she came.
Laeg. I hear her chariot wheels
Already in the court. For certain she is there.
(Enter Emer, who approaches them doubtfully.)
Emer. Laegaire! Lugaid! The King! You sent for me, Laegaire?
Laegaire. Ay, for we needed thee. Thy husband lies within,
As thou well knowest, asleep; such sleep as is akin
To sickness, on our hands. We are beyond our wit
To cure him or to wait. See, lady, you to it,
We yield him to your care.
Emer. Who brought him to this house?
Was it thy order, Conhor, he lies far from us,
Thy order,--or what woman's?
Conhor. Emer, none of ours.
Thou knowest his mastering will, the strength which overpowers
All impulse but his own. 'Twas his own headstrong choice,
These dared not disobey nor raise a counter voice.
They hid it from thee long.
Emer. Too long. And where is she?
Conhor. Eithne? She might not stand betwixt the sun and thee.
She fled before thy coming as the wild dove flies
Before the falcon's wing, nor thinks which way be wise
So it escape her rage. There lies the man you love.
She shall not vex him more, nor thee.
Emer. Enough, enough.
What is your Eithne to me, or all womankind,
That she should fear to see me? Think you my peace of mind
Is of such unstable stuff it should be over--set
By a girl's folly, a man's fanciful regret
For youthful joys remembered, and the sickly need
Of a new maiden bosom for his aching head?
Conhor, no more of this; pass on to larger themes.
The man, your friend, lies here, by what foul stratagems
Stricken I may but guess; the man, your champion,
The bulwark of your State, Sualtim's glorious son,
Foe of your foes, Cuchulain. What have you dared for him
Who dared all for your help, who risked life, fortune, limb
Each prodigal day for you? You hid him from me close,
You grudged him to my care, in this unhallowed house.
How have you proved your wisdom? You are a king of men:
Did you command a cure? Are there no Druids, then,
In all the land to serve you? Have the woods no charms,
No herbs, no poison flowers, since harms are met with harms
And poisons with more poison? Have you probed the hills
For a wise omen, searched the seas to cure his ills?
The Gods have many omens. Have you asked of them
A single sign in prayer or clung to Nature's hem
For a least alms of pity? Speak! Would you let him die?
Away with you for cowards!
Conhor. Emer, verily
These waited while he slept. They deemed he would awake
With the new dawn of summer, and arise and break
His bonds as a bear roused.
Laegaire. We watched and waited here
Until our hearts were sick.
Emer. Like crows a wounded deer!
Nay, as brute sheep are you which on the hillside graze,
Nor see more than the herbage on the mountain ways.
His spear alone to you was worth a thousand spears,
His shout all Ulster's shouting, his rage all its tears.
And you sit on and watch. You, Conhor, are his lord:
You stand and look at him and speak your royal word
Of your high royal bounty--and go forth? Laegaire,
You come here for your chess play. You, his charioteer,
Laeg, drowse at his bed--head. You weep for him, Lugaid,
As a man weeps with wine, and drink as to one dead.
Are these the ways of men? Had it Cuchulain been,
And you the slumberers, what wonders had been seen
In every realm of Ireland! Not a Druid's skill
But had been impressed to service--ay, against his will.
If Fergus had been sick, think you the Hound's swift brain
Had caught no remedy? If Connall had thus lain
All Albion had been ransacked by Sualtim's son.
Rise, Laeg, put wings upon thy feet, thou sluggard! Run
Through hill and dale for help; press all men to his need.
You shall not let him die.
Laeg. Ay! Emer, we take heed;
Yet art thou less than just.
Emer. Justice is powerless here.
'Tis tyranny should rule.
(To Conhor.)Be thou strength's messenger,
And bring peace with the sword.
Laegaire. Ay! Emer, with the sword.
The thought is a man's thought. Thou hast thy woman's word
More potent than our own. We go forth all for thee.
Command us as thou wilt.
Lugaid. Ay! go we joyfully.
We leave him in thy hands.
Conhor. Thou shalt keep watch and ward
While we are in the mountains. If our quest be hard,
Our zeal shall make it light. Only, do thou take heed.
The man thou lovest is sick. He standeth in sore need,
Beset by ills not human. There are shapes and shades
We know of, yet see never, in the forest glades,
And on the heaths and rivers deadly to us men.
It needs a mightier power to drive them to their den
Than only arms and courage--nay, than only love--
Else had he long been rescued. Guard him close, and prove
All comers with thy questions. Be advised. Who knows
What spirits may appear, in what enchantments gross,
To work his full undoing.
Emer. Or to work him weal.
The powers have sometimes pity. They have a hand to heal
Where they have wounded; bring back strength, restore, make good
Losses sustained through pain; earn human gratitude
By more than human help.
Conhor. Be politic with these,
And know the good and evil of all fantasies.
Lady, I kiss your hand.
[Exit Conhor.
Emer. I do not fear the spirits,
Who lead a wiser life than our sad world inherits.
Rather man's foolishness.
Laegaire. We bid you our farewell.
We will bring you back his cure, were it a herb from hell.
I go with a light heart.
Lugaid. And I. To the hills! Lugaid!
Shout, brother, we are released, a shout to wake the dead!
[Laegaire and Lugaid go out shouting.
Laeg. Lady, I do thy bidding. Be thou circumspect.
See where he lies within
(half drawing the curtain).
[Exit Laeg.
Emer.
(listening to the shouts outside). There go they, the elect,
The warrior lords of Ulster. Peace be with their ways.
Yet why should I say ``peace,'' since peace is a dispraise,
And war their only pastime? They have watched too long,
And are like boys let loose. They shout their battle--song
Already in the street. I had need to wish them war;
Fight to their hearts' content. And what a race men are!
How small their practical worth! They have the thing we lack,
The doggedness of will, to stand with a stiff back
Against all odds of fear in a death--stricken field,
And win the day or lose it--at least, not to yield--
The rage themselves call courage. But beyond it, what?
Nothing of any count. We weave the nobler plot
Who are the strengthless women. What they spend we keep
And build up in our souls, and half forget to weep.
Only, our hearts betray us--always, utterly.
[She goes to Cuchulain's couch, draws back the curtain and kneels by him. Settanta! My beloved. Dost thou hear me? See,
I have come to thee at last, although thou wouldst not come.
Hast thou forgot them, then, the pleasures of thy home,
The faces of thy children, thy delight in all
The fair things which were thine, which were a festival
Each day to thee renewed? I am Emer, thy true wife,
Who asks but to forgive thee.
(After a pause.) O, my grief! my grief!
He hears me not, nor knows.
(After another pause.) Who brought thee to this pass,
Man, that thou liest here, with thy sad, witless face
All the sweet summer through? What women evil--eyed
Have set their blight on thee? I do not blame their pride,
Beloved, that they loved thee. But 'twas a foolish whim
That thou shouldst love them back, be pitiful to them.
Enough of this dissembling. Rise, Settanta, wake!
It is summer in the hills. The wild swans on the lake
Have every pair their brood. The does from lawn to lawn
Crop the sweet grass in joy, and each one with her fawn.
All are awake but thou, Settanta.
(After a pause.)His eyes close.
He is beyond my skill. He neither hears nor knows.
[She buries her face in her hands.
(Enter Fand, closely veiled, with doubting steps, as of an old woman.)
Fand. Lady!
Emer. What voice is thine that questions of my grief?
Fand. One's who would bring thee counsel.
Emer. Canst thou bring relief
For a long, causeless ache, rekindle fires grown cold,
Awake hearts worse than dead, and loves that have waxed old?
Hast thou a remedy for ills that have no cure?
Fand. I come from one that knows, and from a far--off shore,
A friend to thee and thine.
Emer. Nay, woman. Get thee hence!
Begone! These have no need of thee, nor I of friends.
Fand. Yet were it well thou listened. Lady, this disease
Is not a common ill, but of those maladies
Which are the gods' to send, the gods' to take away.
I would share counsels with thee for his cure.
Emer. Nay, nay.
What know you of the gods?
Fand. What those know who have seen.
Emer. The gods have little pity on the sons of men.
They live in their own world apart, their mountain tops,
Their inaccessible mists, aloof from human hopes.
They know not of our doings, and we know them not.
Woman, hast thou their ear? Canst thou, too, haply float
Upon the rain, and hear their voices in the wind?
Hast thou held converse with them, thou of human kind?
Thy words are idle phrases, and the gods are far.
Fand. Yet are there others, lady, who more congruous are,
And serve us to interpret. Mortal shapes have they,
With men's own loves and passions, and less far away.
They live with them unseen in every lake and rill--
Ay, too, and in their homes as the invisible
Co--partners of their lives. The great gods delegate
Their sovereign power to these, and these control men's fate
On sundry strange occasions. Wouldst thou not hear of them?
Wouldst thou refuse their message? Listen, noble dame.
The Sidhe--folk are his friends, and, as thou lovest, they love.
They would not he should die.
Emer. And their help's price? They prove
Their pleasure to what profit? They will hardly give
Their succour without payment.
Fand. All the world must live.
But these are generous givers, and their price is small.
Emer. I dare not trust them. Nay, a blight is on them all:
They are not of human blood.
Fand. They are of human passion.
They love and would be loved, but in less selfish fashion
Than you with your mad lives. Yet are they ill to cross,
And whoso mocks at them 'tis to his pain and loss.
Lady, forbear your railing.
Emer. And you? Who are you,
Woman? Are you one of them that you hold the clue
Of their designs?
Fand. Grant me full audience. Let me speak.
O gracious lady, listen. Fand with the fair cheek
Is she that sent me hither. Fand, Manannan's Queen,
Of the shores of Eoghan lord, and of the islands green
Twixt Inbhir and the sea.
Emer. Fand, daughter of Abrat?
Fand. Ay, she of the pure eyes, the face which some relate
Is as an unshed tear for its wise chastity.
Ah! she is pure. How pure! All men she doth deny
Who come to crave her grace. She looketh upon none,
Though now for a year past Manannan, the sea's son,
Hath gone forth in his ships and left her without guard.
Yet pitiful is she. There is no wandering Bard,
No Druid in the land, but asketh alms of her.
She taketh delight in heroes. All things great and fair
Move her to joy and pity--battle, glory, fame,
Heroic feats of arms, the deeds that earn a name,
The songs that win men's tears. Thou knowest, who art generous,
The largeness of great bounty in an ungrudging house,
The largeness of compassion. Long hath she known of thee
And him who lieth here, and of his malady,
Since she knows all; and lately she was touched with pity
And sent me here, her angel, to this alien city,
To help thee and to heal. And, lady, if thou please,
I will put forth my power--as thus--on his disease,
And cure him of his ill--as thus--and thus--and thus--
[She makes magic passes with her hands which Cuchulain responds to in his sleep. And bring him to nemembrance of days glorious,
And of his noble deeds and his great fame with men.
And he shall be more a man twice told than he was then,
For thee and for thy love. Yet only if thou will.
See how my hands can move him.
Emer. I mistrust thy skill.
What is the price? The price? Thou art a woman old.
How were it wert thou young? Shall I pour out my gold,
My jewels, in thy lap? Fand hath her price?
Fand. She hath.
Only do thou, fair lady, keep an equal faith,
Nor challenge us too strictly of our means and ways.
We borrow him of thee.
Emer. How so?
Fand. For forty days.
This is Fand's message to thee: In return for good,
Thy hero being restored, with health and strength renewed,
Grant him to fight with us against our enemies,
Eochaid and Siabartha, who are Manannan's spies
And leagued against her peace. But with Cuchulain's aid
She shall be free from fear; and they too, and Labraid,
Shall meet their men in battle and make discord cease.
And so for forty days. Then shall he turn in peace,
Fair lady, to your pleasure.
Emer. Thou dost tempt me. Yet--
Fand. Thou doubtest of my skill. Behold him in my net,
A bird held by the fowler.
[Cuchulain struggles on the couch.
Emer. Stop! Do naught to him.
You are not of our blood. Your purpose is too dim,
Your face too full of meaning. You are a woman old.
How were it were you young? My fears are manifold,
My faith in thee a shred.
Fand. Must he then find his death,
Your hero? Nay, behold him; note his labouring breath,
The darkness of his cheeks, his hands that clutch and strive.
Have you no pity on him? Must he, then, not live?
Emer. Yours is an evil presence.
Fand. He has felt my power;
He struggles with his sickness. It is the fateful hour!
His life hangs on a thread, the word of our debate.
Say, shall he live or die?
Emer
(aside). She is importunate,
I know not what to think. It may be she is true.
Fand. Speak, quick. His hour approaches.
Emer. What, then, would you do?
Fand. He shall be safe with me. His life as my own life,
Ay, as the life of Fand. He shall not need his wife
In one short glorious war which shall restore his fame
And bring him back to you recaptured from all blame,
A hero to your arms. Behold the dolorous man
Laid on his couch of death; how pitifully wan,
How frail a thing for you. We take him upon lease,
Lady, to cure and save and yield him to your grace
Ere forty days are done, a new man, sound and whole
And worthy of your worship,--once more soul to soul,
Body to body yours,--a man!
Emer. She tempts me sore.
The occasion is too great.
Fand. Thou sayest?
Emer. I give o'er.
I leave him to thy skill. Deal with him as thou wilt.
Only beware of failure. Yours shall be the guilt
And yours the punishment if treachery there be,
And a long arm of vengeance stretched remorselessly.
Fand. I undertake the charge. At Baile's strand we will meet,
And on the fortieth day. In glory or defeat
Fand shall be there with him to win her thanks of you.
Emer. I go back to Dundealgan in all faith.
Fand.
Adieu.
[Exit Emer. Fand, alone, unveils herself. Forgive me, heaven, my guile! She is a noble woman.
And I did not promise all; and promises are human,
And die as mortals die. Ay, a most noble queen,--
And yet a woman only. We who wear the green
Have subtler hearts than theirs. They beat against the strings,
These poor souls that must die, and strive and bruise their wings
Like wild birds in a cage, and end by losing all.
We are more wise who take life as a festival,
And sing without a tear. A little tenderness
Is all men want; not tears, not plaints, not ecstasies,
Not anything discordant with their cup of pleasure.
They had rather hear us laugh, however false the measure,
Than listen to our griefs. For this men love us more
And do our bidding better. She has lost her power
Through over--wifely ways; and his too violent heart
Rebels against her virtues. 'Tis the counterpart
Of virtue that men prize,--not virtue's self,--the mock
Of things divine and wise that gives the sentient shock
These value in their passions. Yet there are times and moods
When even we feel human, dire solicitudes,
Resentments, angers, fears. Manannan angers me
Beyond my natural heat. He has gone back to the sea
And left me to my wrath, and now is leagued with those
Who are my enemies, the Sidhe's ancestral foes.
How sweet it were a vengeance!--and to love again!
[She bends over Cuchulain, soothing him. Behold a man worth holding, a true king of men,
Settanta, the beloved! How many hearts have beat
To see him riding by with flower crowns through the street
In triumph from the battle,--no man's face, but a god's,--
Fighter and victor ever, and against all odds!
What woman might withstand him? He lies here to--day
A lion in my toils, my captive. I could slay
Cuchulain with a word who slew the Connaught Kings.
He trembles at my presence. To my eyes he clings
As a child to its mother's skirt. His lips part with a cry.
I could wake him with a touch; or I could let him die
For lacking of a touch. This hour he is my own.
Will he love me when he wakes? Who knows? Some hearts are stone;
But not Settanta's. No. He loves a woman's face.
Fand's he will not despise, nor rise up passionless.
[She sings to him, waving her arms the while.He wakens and sits up and stares round him.
Song --``Beautiful Eyes Awake''
Beautiful eyes awake!
Undo the latchets of sleep.
Be your lids unloosed,
As winter is loosed from the hills
When the forests tremble and quake,
And the snow is poured from the rills,
And the waters gather and grow,
And the fountains and streams run free,
And the lake's face brims in the sun,
And the skies' unshepherded sheep
Are noosed in the light of the noon--
In the light of its life--ah, me!
Awake! Be wise, and rejoice.
There are things more worthy than sleep,
Than the golden dream of thy soul,
Than the words of thy lips in tune.
There are things that shall leap and run,
At the sound of thy conquering voice,
On the day thou shalt wake from thy swoon
And gather thy strength and arise.
There are hearts that shall tremble and weep
At the rush of thy conquering voice,
At the sight of thy lips, thine eyes,
At the tale of thy deeds to be,
At the thought of thy strength--ah, me!
Awake! Arise, and behold.
The glory of earth and air
Is a fair new kingdom won;
The glory of lake and sea.
By these shall thy deeds be told,
By the maidens that braid their hair,
With the locks and the crowns of gold;
By the women that proudest are.
They shall bow to thy conquering voice,
They bow to their king to be;
They shall kneel at thy feet--ah, me!
For all women love thee--ah, me!
A woman loves thee--ah me!
Cuchulain. Where am I? Was it Eithne? Is it her house? Emain?
Yet it was not Eithne's voice. It was like a sound of rain
On the tree tops heard at noon. I have slept long in the heat.
I need to be aroused, to rise and feel my feet,
To stamp, to do some powerful thing with my hands, to shout.
Yet I am weak; my voice is thin; I feel afraid, in doubt.
I have been long sick here. I remember how it was;
The sun's strength on my head where I lay in the grass
By the yew tree at Baile's Strand; the women that were there,
Beautiful, wonderful eyes, and a mad mass of hair,
Like Dana the Earth Spirit. They struck me first in play,
Then with a heavy hand, and then I swooned away
In pleasure half and pain.
(He calls.)Eithne!
Fand
(showing herself). She is not here.
I wait upon your pleasure, fair son of Dechtire,
To serve you and to honour. Shall I bring you aught?
Milk, honey, lentils, mead? You have been long distraught.
A draught to give you courage?
Cuchulain. Ay, I will have mead.
'Tis always the best cure. A curse upon my head
(trying to rise). It swims when I would stand.
Fand. Let me support you. So.
Lean on me--your full weight. 'Tis a mere nothing.
Cuchulain. No.
I cannot stand alone. My knees beneath me flinch
Like a man's struck in the battle when the spear shafts pinch.
Give me the mead, good soul.
Fand. Come, one step forward. There!
You are at your travel's end. Sit bravely in this chair
While I pour out the tankard. Here is a flagon left
By the roysterers that watched him--all thanks for the gift.
[She pours out to him. Drink, noble Hound of Ulster--God confound your foes!
[Cuchulain drinks, and she sits at his feet caressing him.
Cuchulain. You are a kind sweet woman, fair as a wild rose
With the dew of morning on it.
(Playing with her hair.
Fand. The mead has done you good.
You are feeling like a man.
(She kisses his hand.)
Cuchulain. This is beatitude.
I feel my courage rising. Soul of my life! I swear
Your lips have given me strength. You are most sweetly fair,
A woman of a thousand.
Fand. Only one who is
Your servant among women, in all kindnesses,
Your servant, suppliant.
Cuchulain. What, pretty, is your name?
Fand. Men call me Fand.
Cuchulain. How? Fand of the fair cheek?
Fand. The same.
Cuchulain. I have heard men speak of her. They say--what is it they said?
They called you like a tear, a passionate tear, unshed,
A single passionate tear--and they spoke truth.
Fand. Alas!
I would be a smile to please you, not a tearful face.
Cuchulain. How came you to me here, sweet face?
Fand. I came from far,
And with a wish, a hope--half peace, and half of war.
Of peace to heal Cuchulain.
Cuchulain. The poor Hound. What more?
Fand. Of war to ask his succour; since my need was sore,
To win him to my side.
Cuchulain. As what?
Fand. A Champion
To fight for me--and love me. And there was but one,
Worthy of that--and this, in the whole land of Eire.
Cuchulain. You speak, sweet, in no riddles.
Fand. Truth is best. A fire
Set on a hill brings help. And thou wilt help me. See
I speak as to a god whom no hypocrisy
Can argue into favour, truly as a god
Who needs not our dissembling when we seek his nod,
Nor any form of prayer save only ``Grant thy grace,
Do with me as thou wilt. But let me see thy face.''
And I have seen Settanta's!
Cuchulain. Thy god answers thee.
And thou shalt be his goddess and thy champion he.
How shall I help thee, Queen? On what far angry shore
Shall I descend in wrath and drive thy foes before,
Like wolves from their strong places? Shall I scourge the seas
With my arm's flail, and pour my vials on the breeze
Which circles Albion's shore. Shall I fire the eastern main?
What new lands shall I conquer for thy sweet disdain?
Fand with the passionate eyes; Fand with the fair rose cheek.
Pour all thy soul in words! Nay, I conjure thee, speak!
Whom shall I slay for thee?
Fand. Settanta, none to--day;
Let all the wicked live. They are not worth thy say;
They are not worth thy rage. To--morrow thou shalt kill
Men to thy heart's desire, and go forth terrible
To all my foes and me. To--day I ask thee less;
I am Fand, and at thy feet. Wilt thou love her?
Cuchulain. Sweet one, yes.
