Kitabı oku: «Elves and Heroes», sayfa 2

CONN, SON OF THE RED

 
The Fians sojourned by the shore
Of comely Cromarty, and o'er
The wooded hill pursued the chase
With ardour. 'Twas a full moon's space
Ere Beltane¹ rites would be begun
With homage to the rising sun—
Ere to the spirits of the dead
Would sacrificial blood be shed
In yon green grove of Navity—²
When Conn came over the Eastern Sea,
His heart aflame with vengeful ire,
To seek for Goll, who slew his sire
When he was seven years old.
 
 
                             Finn saw
In dreams, ere yet he came, with awe
The Red One's son, so fierce and bold,
In combat with his hero old—
The king-like Goll of valorous might—
A stormy billow in the fight
No foe could ere withstand.
 
 
                            He knew
The strange ship bore brave Conn, and blew
Clear on his horn the Warning Call;
And round him thronged the Fians all
With wond'ring gaze.
 
 
                     The sun drew nigh
The bale-fires of the western sky,
And faggot clouds with blood-red glare,
Caught flame, and in the radiant air
Lone Wyvis like a jewel shone—
The Fians, as they stared at Conn,
Were stooping on the high Look-Out.
They watched the ship that tacked about,
Now slant across the firth, and now
Laid bare below the cliff's broad brow,
And heaving on a billowy steep,
Like to a monster of the deep
That wallowed, labouring in pain—
And Conn stared back with cold disdain.
 
 
Pondering, he sat alone behind
The broad sail swallowing the wind,
As over the hollowing waves that leapt
And snarled with foaming lips, and swept
Around the bows in querulous fray,
And tossed in curves of drenching spray,
The belching ship with ardour drove;
Then like a lordly elk that strove
Amid the hounds and, charging, rent
The pack asunder as it went,
It bore round and in beauty sprang—
The sea-wind through the cordage sang
With high and wintry merriment
That stirred the heart of Conn, intent
On vengeance, and for battle keen—
So hard, so steadfast, and serene.
 
 
Then Ossian, sweet of speech, spake low,
With musing eyes upon the foe,
"Is Conn more noble than The Red,
Whom Goll in battle vanquished?"
"The Red was fiercer," Conan cried—
"Nay, Conn is nobler," Finn replied,
"More comely, stalwart, mightier far—
What sayest thou, Goll, my man of war?"
Then Goll made answer on the steep,
Nor ceased to gaze on Conn full deep—
"His equal never came before
Across the seas to Alban shore,
Nor ever have I peered upon
A nobler, mightier man than Conn"
 
 
The ship flew seaward, tacking wide,
Contending with the wind and tide,
And when upon the broad stream's track
It baffled hung, or drifted back,
With grunt and shriek, like battling boars,
The shock and swing of bladed oars
Came sounding o'er the sea
 
 
                           The dusk
Grew round the twilight, like a husk
That holds a kernel choice, and keen,
Cold stars impaled the sky serene,
When Conn's ship through the slackening tide
Drew round the wistful bay and wide,
Behind the headlands high that snout
The seas like giant whales, and spout
The salt foam high and loud
 
 
                            Then sighed
The gasping men who all day plied
Their oars in plunging seas, with hands
Grown stiff, and arms, like twisted bands
Drawn numbly, as they rose outspent,
And staggering from their benches went
The sail napped quarrelling, and drank
The wind in broken gasps, and sank
With sullen pride upon the boards,
And smote the mast and shook the cords
 
 
Darkly loomed that alien land,
And darkly lowered the Fian band,
For hovering on the shoreland grey
The ship they followed round the bay
Nor sought the sheltering woods until
The shadows folded o'er the hill
Full heavily, and night fell blind,
And laid its spell upon the wind
 
 
The swelling waters sank with sip
And hollow gurgle round the ship,
The long mast rocked against the dim,
Soft heaven above the headland's rim
 
 
But while the seamen crouched to sleep,
Conn sat alone in reverie deep,
And saw before him in a maze
The mute procession of his days,
In gloom and glamour wending fast—
His heart a-hungering for the past—
Again he leapt, a tender boy,
To greet his sire with eager joy,
When he came over the wide North Sea,
Enriched with spoils of victory—
Then heavily loomed that fateful morn
When tidings of his fall were borne
From Alban shore … Again he saw
The youth who went alone with awe
To swear the avenging oath before
The smoking altar red with gore.
 
 
Ah! strange to him it seemed to be
That hour was drawing nigh when he
Would vengeance take … And still more strange,
O sorrow! it would bring no change
Though blood for blood be spilled, and life
For life be taken in fierce strife;
'Twill ne'er recall the life long sped,
Or break the silence of the dead.
 
 
But when he heard his mother's wail,
Once more uplifted on the gale,
Moaning The Red who ne'er returned—
His cheeks with sudden passion burned;
And darkly frowned that valiant man,
As through his quivering body ran
The lightnings of impelling ire
And impulses of fierce desire,
That surged, with a consuming hate
Against a world made desolate,
Unceasing and unreconciled,
And ever clamouring … like wild,
Dark-deeded waves that stun the shore,
And through the anguished twilight roar
The hungry passions of the wide
And gluttonous deep unsatisfied.
 

II

 
The shredding dawn in beauty spread
Its shafts of splendour, golden-red,
High over the eastern heaven, and broke
Through flaking clouds in silvern smoke
That burst aflame, and fold o'er fold,
Let loose their oozing floods of gold,
Splashed over the foamless deep that lay
Tremulous and clear. In fiery play
The rippling beams that swept between
The sea-cleft Sutor crags serene,
Broke quivering where the waters bore
The soft reflection of the shore.
 
 
The pipes of morn were sounding shrill
Through budding woods on plain and hill,
And stirred the air with song to wake
The sweet-toned birds within the brake.
 
 
The Fians from their sheilings came,
With offerings to the god a-flame,
And round them thrice they sun-wise went;
Then naked-kneed in silence bent
Beside the pillar stones …
 
 
                             But now
Brave Conn upon the ship's high prow
Hath raised his burnished blade on high,
And calls on Woden and on Tigh
With boldness, to avenge the death
Of his great sire … In one deep breath
He drains the hero's draught that burns
With valour of the gods; then turns
His long-sought foe to meet … Great Conn
Sweeps, stooping in a boat, alone.
Shoreward, with rapid blades and bright,
That shower the foam-rain pearly white,
And rip the waters, bending lithe,
In hollowing swirls that hiss and writhe
Like adders, ere they dart away
Bright-spotted with the flakes of spray.
 
 
When, furrowing the sand, he drew
His boat the shallowing water through,
A giant he in stature rose
Straight as a mast before his foes,
With head thrown high, and shoulders wide
And level, and set back with pride;
His bared and supple arms were long
As shapely oars: firm as a thong
His right hand grasped his gleaming blade,
Gold-hilted, and of keen bronze made
In leafen shape.
 
 
                      With stately stride
He crossed the level sands and wide,
Then on his shield the challenge gave—
His broad sword thund'ring like a wave—
For single combat.
 
 
                      Red as gold
His locks upon his shoulders rolled;
A brazen helmet on his head
Flashed fire; his cheeks were white and red;
And all the Fians watched with awe
That hero young with knotted jaw,
Whose eyes, set deep, and blue and hard,
Surveyed their ranks with cold regard;
While his broad forehead, seamed with care,
Drooped shadowily: his eyebrows fair
Were sloping sideways o'er his eyes
With pondering o'er the mysteries.
 
 
The eyes of all the Fians sought
Heroic Groll, whose face was wrought
With lines of deep, perplexing thought—
For gazing on the valiant Conn,
He mourned that his own youth was gone,
When, strong and fierce and bold, he shed
The life-blood of the boastful Red,
Whom none save he would meet. He heard
The challenge, and nor spake, nor stirred,
Nor feared; but now grown old, when hate
And lust of glory satiate—
His heart took pride in Conn, and shared
The kinship of the brave.
 
 
                          Who dared
To meet the Viking bold, if he
The succour of the band, should be
Found faltering or in despair?
Until that day the Fians ne'er
Of one man had such fear.
 
 
                          Old Goll
Sat musing on a grassy knoll,
They deemed he shared their dread … Not so
Wise Finn, who spake forth firm and slow—
"Goll, son of Morna, peerless man,
The keen desire of every clan,
Far-famed for many a valiant deed,
Strong hero in the time of need.
I vaunt not Conn … nor deem that thou
Dost falter, save with meekness, now—
But why shouldst thou not take the head
Of this bold youth, as of The Red,
His sire, in other days?"
 
 
                          Goll spake—
"O noble Finn, for thy sweet sake
Mine arms I'd seize with ready hand,
Although to answer thy command
My blood to its last drop were spilled—
By Crom! were all the Fians killed,
My sword would never fail to be
A strong defence to succour thee."
 
 
Upon his hard right arm with haste
His crooked and pointed shield he braced,
He clutched his sword in his left hand—
While round that hero of the band
The Fian warriors pressed, and praised
His valour … Mute was Goll … They raised,
Smiting their hands, the battle-cry,
To urge him on to victory.
 
 
The one-eyed Goll went forth alone,
His face was like a mountain stone,—
Cold, hard, and grey; his deep-drawn breath
Came heavily, like a man nigh death—
But his firm mouth, with lips drawn thin,
Deep sunken in his wrinkled skin,
Was cunningly crooked; his hair was white,
On his bald forehead gleamed a bright
And livid scar that Conn's great sire
Had cloven when their swords struck fire—
Burly and dauntless, full of might,
Old Goll went humbly forth to fight
With arrogant Conn … It seemed The Red
In greater might was from the dead,
Restored in his fierce son …
 
 
                                A deep
Swift silence fell, like sudden sleep,
On all the Fians waiting there
In sharp suspense and half despair …
The morn was still. A skylark hung
In mid-air flutt'ring, and sung
A lullaby that grew more sweet
Amid the stillness, in the heat
And splendour of the sun: the lisp
Of faint wind in the herbage crisp
Went past them; and around the bare
And foam-striped sand-banks gleaming fair,
The faintly-panting waves were cast
By the wan deep fatigued and vast.
 
 
O great was Conn in that dread hour,
And all the Fians feared his power,
And watched, as in a darksome dream,
The warriors meet … They saw the gleam
Of swift, up-lifted swords, and then
A breathless moment came, as when
The lithe and living lightning's flash
Makes pause, until the thunder's crash
Is splintered through the air.
 
 
                                Loud o'er
The blue sea and the shining shore
Broke forth the crash of arms … The roll
Of Conn's fierce blows that baffled Goll
On sword and shield resounding rang,
While that old warrior stooped and sprang
Sideways, and swerved, or backward leapt,
As swiftly as the bronze blade swept
Above him and around … He swayed,
Stumbling, but rose … But, though his blade
Was ever nimble to defend,
The Fians feared the fight would end
In victory for Conn.
 
 
                     … 'Twas like
As when an eagle swoops to strike,
But swerves with flutt'ring wings, as nigh
Its head a javelin gleams … A cry
That banished fear of Conn's great blows
From out the Fian ranks arose,
As, like a plumed reed in a gust,
Goll suddenly stooped—a deadly thrust
That drew the first blood in the fray
He darting gave … With quick dismay
The valiant Conn drew back …
 
 
                               Again
He leapt at Goll, but sought in vain
To blind him with his blows that fell
Like snowflakes on a sullen well—
For Goll was calm, while great Conn raged,
As hour by hour the conflict waged;
He was a blast-defying tree—
A crag that spurned a furious sea,
And all the Fians with one mind
Set firm their faith in Goll
 
 
                             The wind
Rose like a startled bird from out
The heather at the huntsman's shout
In swift and blust'ring flight At noon
The sun rolled in a cloudy swoon
Dimly, and over the rolling deep
Gust followed gust with shadowy sweep;
And waves that streamed their snowy locks
Were tossing high against the rocks
Seaward, while round the sands ebbed wide
Scrambled the fierce devouring tide
 
 
O, Conn was like a hound at morn,
That springs upon an elk forlorn
Among the hills. He was a proud
Cascade that leaps a cliff with loud
Unspending fall So fierce, so fair
Was arrogant Conn, but Goll fought there
Keen-eyed, with ready guard, at bay—
He was as a boar in that fierce fray.
 
 
The waves were humbled on the shore,
And silent fell, amid the roar
And crash of battle Mute and still
The Fians watched; while on the hill
The little elves came out and gazed,
To be amused and were amazed …
They saw upon the shrinking sands
The warriors with restless hands
And busy blades, with shields that rose
To buffet the unceasing blows;
They saw before the rising flood
The flash of fire, the flash of blood;
And watched the men with panting breath,
Striving to be the slaves of death;
Now darting wide, now swerving round,
Now clashed together in a bound,
With splitting swords that smote so fast,
As hour by hour unheeded past.
 
 
The sands were torn and tossed like spray
Before the whirlwind of the fray,
That waged in fury till the sun
Sank, and the day's last loops were spun—
Then terrible was Goll … He rose
A tempest of increasing blows,
More furious and fast, as dim,
Uncertain twilight fell … More grim
And great he grew as, looming large,
He fought, and pressing to the marge
Of ocean, he o'erpowered and drave
The Viking hero back; till wave
O'er ready wave that hurried fleet,
Snuffled and snarled about their feet …
 
 
Then with a mighty shout that made
The rocks around him ring, his blade
Swept like a flash of fire to smite
The last fell blow in that fierce fight—
So great Conn perished like The Red
By Goll's left hand … his life-blood spread
Over the quenching sands where rolled
His head entwined with locks of gold.
Then passed like thunder o'er the sea
The Fian shout of victory.
And, trembling on the tossing ships,
The Vikings heard, with voiceless lips
And dim, despairing eyes … Alone
Stood Goll, and like a silent stone
Bulking upon a ben-side bare,
He bent above the hero fair—
Remembering the mighty Red,
And wondering that Conn lay dead.