Scene.--The Garden of Abrat in Magh Mell. There are fairy trees and fairy flowers. A banquet is spread on one side of the stage.
(A Chorus of the Sidhe. Liban and Fand conversing.)
Song --``In the Land of the Living.''
Chorus.
In the land of the living are kingdoms twain,
Kingdoms twain,--nay, kingdoms three;
One of the gods and one of men,
And one of the people who hold the glen.
The happy people, of these are we,
The ever--living, the Sidhe, the Sidhe.
In the land of the living are kingdoms twain,
Kingdoms twain,--nay, kingdoms three;
One is of sunshine and one of rain,
And one of the moonlight without a stain.
The moonlight people, of these are we,
The ever--happy, the Sidhe, the Sidhe.
In the land of the living are kingdoms twain,
Kingdoms twain,--nay, kingdoms three;
One is of pleasure and one of pain,
And one of the love which is loved in vain.
The ever--lovers, of these are we,
The happy people, the Sidhe, the Sidhe.
Liban. And are you a happy lover? Are you happy Fand?
Fand. The happiest woman, sister, of all fairyland.
How were it otherwise? You see him what he is,
A very prince of love and lord of happiness.
A man is a better lover than our Sidhe--folk are,
Because his heart beats faster. Whether in love or war,
Cuchulain has the rage which is the life of things.
Liban. He is less subtle, surely.
Fand. He has imaginings
Begot of human sorrow, which are beyond our wit,
Beyond our subtlety. Men's joys are infinite
Because their time is short. Joy has its root in tears.
Liban. And does Cuchulain weep?
Fand. He grieves for his lost years
And for the years to come. Though he has loved so much
He thinks he has never loved. He would have such and such
A joy, lest time should rob him. He is in haste to reap
The whole of his life's crop, and lay it in a heap
As it were here at my feet, to--day and not to--morrow.
This is his cause of grief.
Liban. Heaven grant us all such sorrow.
You are well venged of Manannan.
Fand. Manannan? Where is he
In all these happy ventures? I am released and free.
Liban. Manannan was a fool, sister, to leave you thus.
You are transformed, transfigured.
Fand. O, I am glorious
As a crane in her spring plumage. Who was it that said
A woman should love once, and only once?
Liban. Your head
Has reason to be turned. It will be sad for you
The hour when this shall end.
Fand. Liban, what shall I do?
The fortieth day is near. He has won his victory.
His hero work is finished, fought out gloriously,
And all my foes are captive, put to flight, or slain.
I cannot keep him chained although he loves his chain.
How shall I hold my word? I have promised, place and time,
To yield him to his wife. Would failure be a crime
Where time means happiness, for him no less than me?
What is our rule of honour? May we not faithless be
A little for love's sake?
Liban. It is a doctrine hard
That love should yield to aught. Yet must we keep our word.
The Sidhe--folk do not lie.
Fand. I will not grieve to--day,
I am too light--hearted. No. Let grief come when it may,
To--day I will laugh and sing.
Liban. Sister, to laugh is best.
We cannot know the future. Love should make its nest
Only for one short spring, as the birds do who give
Their whole souls to a moment.
Fand. I will live and live
As never woman yet, and when the time comes--then
It will be time enough for tears.
(Enter Laeg in haste.)
Liban. Here comes our prince of men,
Laeg, his good messenger. What news?
Laeg. All well, all well.
Liban. Labraid?
Fand. Cuchulain?
Laeg. All. I ran in front to tell
The news of their safe coming, and they follow close.
Fand. Laeg, tell us of the battle? Did he press his foes
As fiercely as of old. Did his strength come to him?
Laeg. O he was terrible. He stood there limb to limb
With Siabartha wrestling, each a granite wall
Leaning upon the other, grappling for a fall,
Rigid as stone together till the last crash came.
Liban. How came the fight about?
Laeg. It was Eochaid's sole blame
That brought the battle on and roused his bitterness.
We had met Eochaid at the spring, who had stooped to wash his face,
In jest at my lord's weakness, leaving one shoulder bare,
While his fellows stood around him with a heedless air,
Their heads thus on their hands
(with a gesture of sleeping), as if to mimic sleep. They had heard of my lord's sickness, and they held him cheap,
And laughed out in derision. But Cuchulain took
Gay Bolg, his spear, from me and poised it till it shook
Like a reed in the north wind, and with a sudden throw,
Swift as a snake that strikes, ere she is seen, her foe,
Sent it among them singing. Thus it was. The shaft
Pierced Eochaid's shoulder through--ay, even as the hero laughed.
Then on Cuchulain came an unappeasable wrath,
Seeing we two were alone, with all these on the path,
His and thy enemies; and round his head there shone
The hero light of battle; and to each mother's son
He shouted his defiance, words that were not words
But biting points of steel. And all they drew their swords
Who heard him, yet stayed not, and fled before his rage,
While he pursued and slew. And no man dared assuage
The fury of his anger till thy kinsmen came.
And now they turn in triumph, each lord to his dame,
And with them captive kings. But Senach stricken sore
Fled down the road to death. He shall thee vex no more,
He nor Eochaid nor Eoghan.
Fand. O, sweet victory,
O, day of all the days! There is none, Laeg, but he
A hero in the world, since the great gods withdrew
Apart to their lone mountains, angered at things new,
And left men to their ways. Liban, they come, they come.
Call all the women in. Bring garlands. Deck the room.
Bid every minstrel play. To--day we triumph all,
And celebrate their praise in one brave festival.
Laeg, here is this for thee.
[She gives him a gold chain from her neck.
Liban. And are none hurt? Labraid?
Has he come back unharmed?
Laeg. Ay, even as I said,
They are all here untouched, scathless of grief or ill.
The foe before them fled as 'twere a miracle,
All. Only Siabartha, whom Cuchulain broke
Asunder in his arms as the storm rends an oak.
Fand. And he, my lord Manannan?
Laeg. Lady, Manannan waits
The issue in his ships, guarding the eastern gates.
The slain men were his spies. He will outlive their death,
Being more wise than they.
Liban. His sword clings to its sheath,
Yet will he come in war. He has a heavy hand,
Stronger than all the storms that are by sea or land.
Laeg. Is he stronger than Cuchulain?
Liban. He has the magic cloak,
Stronger than love or death. Love yet shall be a smoke
Before Manannan's ire. Fand has good cause for fear.
Fand. I fear him not to--day, Liban. He is powerless here,
In this fair mountain place, far from his fastnesses,
Which all are of the ocean. Here his magic is
Unskilled for mortal hurt, nor dares he face the green
Of gardens watered thus, save as a shape unseen,
And impotent to wound. The anger in his blood
Would be but a faint tremor in our multitude.
The sea is his dominion, and to--day, sweetheart,
We will forget, forgive him.
Liban. A sweet fool thou art,
Deserving to be happy, and no martyrdom.
Thou knowest not how to hate.
Fand. Sister, they come! they come!
(Enter a procession, Cuchulain, Labraid, and the army of the Sidhe, crowned with flowers. Prisoners in chains are with them. Fand and Liban advance and sing alternate verses.)
Song --``Who is the Man?''
Fand
(singing). Who is the man I see,
Set on his chariot of war,
Beautiful, dark--faced, proud?
His eyes as the eagle's are,
His brow is a summer cloud,
His smile is of victory.
He hath looked on the lands afar,
He hath scorn both of fool and wise.
The man with the eagle's eyes
Is the man I see.
Liban
(singing). Tell me, thou glorious one,
Son of Sualtim, say,
What are the deeds thou hast done?
What are the deeds thou hast done?
Where are the men thy foes,
Thy foes who were foes to me?
Thou art here in thy pride. And they?
Not thou but the raven knows.
When the battle was lost and won
They were cast to the wolves a prey;
There was left of them all not three,
Not two, not a mother's son.
Not one was there left to flee.
Fand
(singing). Hero! What women's eyes
Rise in their tears for thee?
The men they loved thou hast slain.
Thy face is fairer than theirs,
They shall weep till thou come again,
The sun in their summer skies.
They shall smile and forget their cares.
Thou shalt kiss the tears from their eyes,
Thy love shall have made them wise,
They shall laugh, ay, loud in their glee,
They shall laugh with me.
[Fand makes show of kneeling at Cuchulain's feet, Liban at Labraid's, but Cuchulain kisses Fand's hand, while Labraid raises up Liban.
Labraid. We greet you, ladies, well. The hour of home coming
Is always war's best part, and the sweet smiles you bring
That make our joy the keener. Liban!
(He embraces her.
Cuchulain
(to Fand). I kneel to you.
Lady of my soul
(kissing her hands).
Fand. Nay, nay. The hand--kissing is due
To you alone, Settanta. Let me pay my debt
(she kisses his hand) Thus here before them all, lest later I forget
In my great joy to thank you. How should Fand not give
Her worship to her champion, who first made her live,
Alas, and made her love!
[They all walk towards the banquet.
Cuchulain
(to Fand). In love there are no thanks,
Whoever gives or takes; and the least generous ranks
With the most glorious god in all he can bestow.
Let us be happy, sweet, whatever debt we owe
On this side or on that of unpaid gratitudes.
To--day we will walk together in these scented woods,
Holding each other's hands. Now to the feast.
[They take their places at the table near the front of the stage.
Labraid
(seating himself with Liban under a canopy). My queen,
You give a gay returning here for hungry men.
Let us fall to.
[Music plays, and there is a dance of Fairies.
Chorus. In the land of the living are kingdoms twain,
Kingdoms twain,--nay, kingdoms three;
One of the slayer and one of the slain,
And one of the kings that come back again.
Of these are we, the victorious Sidhe,
The ever--happy, the Sidhe, the Sidhe.
Labraid
(to Liban). Enough. Now send the flagons round
For better entertainment. What mirth have you found
To celebrate the day?
Liban. There are two bards from Meath,
But neither of much count. They wear the poet's wreath,
But lack the poet's fire. A blind harper there is
Better worth hearing from beyond the Eastern seas,
And with him a fair youth, it is said, a messenger
From Cathbad, the Arch Druid, one with with severe
And finer flights of fancy than beseem his age,
Master of recitation and high verbiage.
Labraid. Let them be called. To--day we need a master's tongue
To give praise to our guest. What matter he be young
So the gods speak through him. Let him be called.
[They seat themselves at the feast.
(Drinking to Cuchulain.)
To you,
Cuchulain, valiant friend and war--companion true,
Champion of Ulster, King, and of all Ireland first
And noblest fighting man, we consecrate this thirst,
The fruit of glorious toil.
Fand. Settanta, to your praise.
Liban. We drink to you, Cuchulain. Peace and length of days.
Others. To you, to you, Cuchulain.
(Enter Eithne disguised as a poet, followed by Manannan disguised as a harper. Neither of them is recognised by the guests.)
Fand. What are these two, the boy,
The old man?--a strange union. This one blushing, coy;
The other a veiled spectre. Do you know them?
Cuchulain. Nay.
I seem to have seen the youth, but vaguely, far away--
I have forgotten where.
Fand. And the harper? Watch him close.
To me he is familiar.
Cuchulain. He is from Meath.
Fand. Who knows?
They came both strangers here. His eye is like a snake's,
Which watches with lids closed and seems asleep, but wakes.
Keep close to me Settanta.
Labraid. Whence and what are you,
Bards, who thus honour us where welcome is most due
To sing at our high feast? Your name? Your lineage?
(To Eithne.) You are young to be a poet.
Eithne. Poets have no age.
They are born of their own thoughts.
Labraid. It is well said. And he?
Eithne. His hand shall touch the strings. He shall strike gloriously,
And you shall listen all.
Labraid. What, poet, wilt thou sing?
Eithne. That which the gods shall breathe into my ear. I bring
No thought which is my own. Yet thou shalt listen.
Labraid. Chaunt
Thy praise of our high hero. We will reward thy vaunt.
Eithne. Thou shalt have little pleasure.
Labraid. Yet sing on.
Eithne. Of thee?
Labraid is monarch here.
Labraid. As thou wilt, let it be.
Cuchulain. His voice disturbs me strangely. To my ear it clings
Like an enchantment, echoing remembered things,
Ulster, Emain, my glory--dreams I had forgot.
Fand. Do they still grieve thee then?
Cuchulain. Nay, love, it matters not.
It was an echo only.
[Manannan strikes chords on the harp.
Fand. Didst thou hear that?
Cuchulain. The sound
Of the harper's prelude searching till the words be found?
Fand. It was the sea's voice calling. It was the sea that spoke,
The black--surge of the shingle and the waves that broke
In thunder on the beach.
Cuchulain. I heard it not. It was
To me like land winds wandering through the meadow grass.
Fand. Listen.
Eithne
(sings, addressing Labraid).
Song --``Howshall I sing?''
How shall I sing to thee, Labraid,
Thou Lord
Of the quick sword,
Thou hero born?
Upon this day of days
My lays shall comfort bring,
Even as the snows in Spring,
The wind of ill, that blights the corn.
They ask a song of thee, O soul of mine,
A song of wine
And joyous mirth,
Thou raven in their path.
The cup he hath
That shall the poet fill.
Nay, hide thy wrath,
Thou seer of things divine.
Bind thou thy locks unshorn,
Fill high thy horn.
They ask thy praise,
With peace and length of days.
Let loose thy tongue
To a new stream of fire.
Pay them their hire,
Or leave thy songs in impotence unsung.
Why spare them their amaze?
Scourge thou their lips with scorn,
With thorn on thorn.
Peace! Who shall speak of peace?
Who in the silences
Shall cry with eyes outworn?
Who calm their ire?
Since man is the thing he is,
Slave of a day's desire,
Thrall of a woman's kiss,
Breath of a serpent's hiss.
Man, of a woman born.
[They show signs of disapproval.
Labraid. What meanest thou, young poet? This is a festal day.
We asked thee for thy blessing, and thy verses play
Like lightning on the rocks, a too discordant tune.
This warrior is our guest. If thou wouldst ask a boon,
We give thee all thy wish, so thou sing joyously.
Who sent thee with this word?
Eithne. From the high gods am I,
And Cathbad, their arch--priest.
Cuchulain
(aside). Cathbad! What youth is here,
Who dares to speak of Cathbad, his interpreter?
I know that voice, that eye.
Fand. Whose? Do they anger thee?
Cuchulain. Their menace cannot harm. But there is sorcery
In the boy's voice, a trouble which I needs must share,
And makes me sad at heart. It is ill to leave the air
Where one was suckled.
Fand. Thou art weary grown of us.
Thou lackest thy companions, thy days glorious
With thine own human kind. Thou art weary grown of all.
Cuchulain. Not weary, sweet, of thee,--but of this festival.
What was his word of Cathbad?
Fand. There is a presence here
More potent than the boy's.
Cuchulain. There is thunder in the air.
It is the sea--storm gathering.
Labraid. Young poet, sing again,
And put aside thy sorrow for the sons of men.
The high gods do not grieve. They have no cause for tears,
Being aloof from time and the avenging years,
Even as we the Undying.
Eithne. They are aloof from that
Which is more fierce than time. They neither love nor hate,
They are absolved of passion and the turbulent sting
Of that which hurries man to his own undoing,
Even as you the Undying?--Out and alas, Labraid,
Can you see nothing here? Are your eyes so in shade
That you see nothing? Nothing?
Labraid. What, then, dost thou see?
Eithne
(then turns to Cuchulain, who becomes troubled while she sings).
Song (continued).
I see a flame of fire
On the hill,
The trees aglow.
When the breeze was still
It was lit by the hand of a child,
By the guile of a woman's will,
The wile of a woman that smiled,
And a man's desire.
Woe to the forest, woe!
I see a man among men,
Proud of his might
In fight
When the trumpets blow.
Who shall withstand his ire?
He is bound as a hound with a chain.
He is bound to a stranger's eyes.
Fool is he that was wise.
He has earned his hire.
He shall go where they bid him go.
[They rise and expostulate.
Cuchulain. It is Eithne and none other. What would she seek here?
Fand. Eithne? A woman?
Cuchulain. Ay.
Fand. What is she, then?
Cuchulain. A seer.
Fand. A woman who once loved thee?
Cuchulain. Hush! She begins again.
It is to thee she turns.
Fand. Ay. As a soul in pain.
Eithne
(turns to Fand and sings). A fair woman's face I see.
Is it a rose, or snow,
Or a tear is she?
Nay, but the rose is a briar,
The snow is trod in the mire.
Her lover is proved a liar.
And the tear? Ah, me!
The sweet, sad, pitiful tear
Of the eyes that know.
Woe to the woman, woe!
[The whole of the company rise up in indignation against Eithne. Fand and Cuchulain interpose on her behalf. There is tumult on the stage, and Manannan raises his harp high above his head, as if imposing silence. A low sound of thunder is heard.
Fand
(who alone recognises him). Manannan!
