Kitabı oku: «Elves and Heroes», sayfa 5

III

 
When Ossian from Knockfarrel went, a band
Of merry maidens, trooping hand in hand,
Came forth, with laughing eyes and flowing hair,
To share the freedom of the morning air;
Adown the steep they went, and through the wood
Where Garry splintered logs in sullen mood—
Pining to join the chase! His wrath he wrought
Upon the trees that morn, as if he fought
Against a hundred foemen from the west,
Till he grew weary, and was fain to rest.
 
 
The maids were wont to shower upon his head
Their merry taunts, and oft from them he fled;
For of their quips and jests he had more fear
Than e'er he felt before a foeman's spear—
And so he chose to be alone.
 
 
                             The air
Was heavily laden with the odour rare
Of deep, wind-shaken fir trees, breathing sweet,
As through the wood, the maids, with silent feet,
Went treading needled sward, in light and shade,
Now bright, now dim, like flow'rs that gleam and fade,
And ever bloom and ever pass away …
 
 
Upon a fairy hillock Garry lay
In sunshine fast asleep: his head was bare,
And the wind rippling through his golden hair
Laid out the seven locks that were his pride,
Which one by one the maids securely tied
To tether-pins, while Garry, breathing deep,
Moaned low, and moved about in troubled sleep
Then to a thicket all the maidens crept,
And raised the Call of Warning … Garry leapt
From dreams that boded ill, with sudden fear
That a fierce band of foemen had come near—
The seven fetters of his golden hair
He wrenched off as he leapt, and so laid bare
A shredded scalp of ruddy wounds that bled
With bitter agony … The maidens fled
With laughter through the wood, and climb'd the path
Of steep Knockfarrel. Fierce was Garry's wrath
When he perceived who wronged him. With a shriek
That raised the eagles from the mountain peak,
He shook his spear, and ran with stumbling feet,
And sought for vengeance, speedy and complete—
The lust of blood possessed him, and he swore
To slay them…. But they shut the oaken door
Ere he had reached that high and strong stockade—
From whence, alas! nor wife, nor child, nor maid
Came forth again.
 

IV

 
                  Soft-couch'd upon a bank
Lay Caoilte on the cliff-top, while he drank
The sweetness of the morning air, that brought
A spell of dreamful ease and pleasant thought,
With mem'ries from the deeps of other years
When Dermaid, unforgotten by his peers,
And Oscar, fair and young, went forth with mirth
A-hunting o'er the hills around the firth
On such an April morn….
 
 
                          He leapt to hear
The Fians shouting from a woodland near
Their hunting-call. Then swift he sped a-pace,
With bounding heart, to join the gladsome chase;
Stooping he ran, with poised, uplifted spear,
As through the woods approached the nimble deer
That swerved, beholding him. With startled toss
Of antlers, down the slope it fled, to cross
The open vale before him … To the west
The Fians, merging from the woodland, pressed
To head it shoreward … All the fierce hounds bayed
With hungry ardour, and the deer, dismayed,
With foaming nostrils leapt, and strove to flee
Towards the deep, dark woods of Calrossie.
But Caoilte, fresh from resting, was more fleet
Than deer or dogs, and sped with naked feet,
Until upon a loose and sandy bank,
Plunging his spear into the smoking flank,
Its flight he stayed…. He stabbed it as it sank,
The life-blood spurting; and he saw it die
Or ever dog or huntsman had come nigh.
 
 
Then eager feast they made; and after long
And frequent fast of winter, they grew strong
As they had been of old. And of their fare
The lean and scrambling hounds had ready share.
 
 
Nor over-fed they in their merry mood,
But set to hunt again, and through the wood
Scattered with eager pace, ere yet the sun
Had climbed to highest noon; for lo! each one
Had mem'ry of the famished cheeks and white
Of those who waited their return by night,
In steep Knockfarrel's desolate stockade—
O' many a beauteous and bethrothčd maid,
And mothers nursing babes, and warriors lying
In winter-fever's spell, the old men dying,
And slim, fair lads who waited to acclaim,
With gladsome shout, the huntsmen when they came
With burdens of the chase … So they pursued
The hunt till eve was nigh. In Geanies wood
Another deer they slew …
 
 
                           Caoilte, who stood
On a high ridge alone … with eager eyes
Scanning the prospect wide … in mute surprise
Saw rising o'er Knockfarrel, a dark cloud
Of thick and writhing smoke … Then fierce and loud
Upon his horn he blew the warning blast—
From out the woods the Fians hastened fast—
Lo! when they stared towards the western sky,
They saw their winter dwelling blazing high.
 
 
Then fear possessed them for their own, and grief
Unutterable. And thus spake their wise chief,
To whom came knowledge and the swift, sure thought—
"Alas! alas! an enemy hath wrought
Black vengeance on our kind. In yonder gleam
Of fearsome flame, the horrors of my dream
Are now accomplished—all we loved and cherished,
And sought, and fought for, in that pyre have perished!"
 
 
White-lipped they heard…. Then, wailing loud, they ran,
Following the nimble Caoilte, man by man,
Towards Knockfarrel; leaping on their spears
O'er marsh and stream. MacReithin, blind with tears,
Tumbled or leapt into a swollen flood
That swept him to the sea. But no man stood
To help or mourn him, for the eve grew dim—
And some there were, indeed, who envied him.
 

V

 
As snarls the wolf at bay within the wood
On huntsmen and their hounds, so Garry stood
Raging before the women who had made
Secure retreat within the high stockade;
He cursed them all, and their loud laughter rang
More bitter to his heart than e'en the pang
Of his fierce wounds. Then while his streaming blood
Half-blinded him, he hastened to the wood,
And a small tree upon his shoulders bore,
And fixed it fast against the oaken door,
That none might issue forth.
 
 
                             Then once again
Towards the wood he turned, but all in vain
The women waited his return, till they
Grey weary.. for in pain and wrath he lay
In a close thicket, brooding o'er his shame,
And panting for revenge.
 
 
                         Then Finn's wife came
To set the women to the wheel and loom,
With angry chiding; and a heavy gloom
Fell on them all. "Who knoweth," thus she spake,
"What evil may the Fian men o'ertake
This day of evil omens. Yester-night
I say the pale ghost of my sire with white
And trembling lips … At morn before my sight
A raven darted from the wood, and slew
A brooding dove … What fear is mine!… for who
Would us defend if our fierce foemen came—
When Garry is against us … Much I blame
Thy wanton deed." … The women heard in shame,
Nor answer made.
 
 
                 The sun, with fiery gleam,
Scattered the feath'ry clouds, as in a dream
The spirits of the dead are softly swept
From severed visions sweet. A low wind crept
Around with falt'ring steps, and, pausing, sighed—
Then fled to murmur from the mountain side
Amid the pine-tree shade; while all aglow
Ben-Wyvis bared a crest of shining snow
In barren splendour o'er the slumbering strath;
While some sat trembling, fearing Garry's wrath,
Some feared the coming of the foe, and some
Had vague forebodings, and were brooding dumb,
And longed to greet the huntsmen. Mothers laid
Their babes to sleep, and many a gentle maid
Sighed for her lover in that lone stockade;
And one who sat apart, with pensive eye,
Thus sang to hear the peewee's plaintive cry—
 
 
     _Peewee, peewee, crying sweet,
        Crying early, crying late—
      Will your voice be never weary
        Crying for your mate?
      Other hearts than thine are lonely,
        Other hearts must wait.
 
 
      Peewee, peewee, I'd be flying
        O'er the hills and o'er the sea,
      Till I found the love I long for
        Whereso'er he'd be—
      Peewee crying, I'd be flying,
        Could I fly like thee!_
 
 
When Garry, who had stanched his wounds, arose,
He seized his axe, and 'gan with rapid blows
To fell down fir trees. Through the silent strath
The hollow echoes rang. With fiendish wrath
He made resolve to heap the splintered wood
Against the door, and burn the hated brood
Of his tormentors one and all. He hewed
An ample pyre, then piled it thick and high,
While the sun, sloping to the western sky,
Proclaimed the closing of that fateful day.
But the doomed women little dreamed that they
Would have such fearsome end … As Garry lay
Rubbing the firesticks till they 'gan to glow,
He heard a Fian mother singing low—
 
 
     _Sleep, O sleep, I'll sing to thee—
        Moolachie, O moolachie.
      Sleep, O sleep, like yon grey stone,
        Moolachie, mine own.
 
 
      Sleep, O sleep, nor sigh nor fret ye,
        And the goblins will not get ye,
      I will shield ye, I will pet ye—
        Moolachie, mine own._
 
 
The mother sang, the gentle babe made moan—
And Garry heard them with a heart of stone …
With fiendish laugh, he saw the leaping flames
Possess the pyre; he heard the shrieking dames,
And maids and children, wailing in the gloom
Of smothering smoke, e'er they had met their doom.
Then when the high stockade was blazing red,
Ere yet their cries were silenced, Garry fled,
And westward o'er the shouldering hills he sped.
 

VI

 
A broad, faint twilight lingered to unfold
The sun's slow-dying beams of tangled gold,
And the long, billowy hills, in gathering shade,
Their naked peaks and ebon crags displayed
Sharp-rimmed against the tender heaven and pale;
And misty shadows gathered in the vale—
When Caoilte to Knockfarrel came, and saw
Amid the dusk, with sorrow and with awe,
The ruins of their winter dwelling laid
In smouldering ashes; while the high stockade
Around the rocky wall, like ragged teeth,
Was crackling o'er the melting stones beneath,
Still darting flame, and flickering in the breeze.
 
 
He sped towards the wood, and through the trees
Called loud for those who perished. On his fair
And gentle spouse he called in his despair.
His sweet son, and his sire, whose hair was white
As Wyvis snow, he called for in the night.
Full loud and long across the Strath he cried—
The echoes mocked him from the mountain side.
 
 
Ah! when his last hope faded like the wave
Of twilight ebbing o'er the hills, he gave
His heart to utter grief and deep despair;
And the cold stars peer'd down with pitiless stare,
While sank the wind in silence on its flight
Through the dark hollows of the spacious night;
And distant sounds seem'd near. In his dismay
He heard a Fian calling far away.
The night-bird answered back with dismal cry,
Like to a wounded man about to die—
But Caoilte's lips were silent … Once again
And nearer, came the voice that cried in vain.
Then swift steps climbed Knockfarrel's barren steep,
And Alvin called, with trembling voice and deep,
To Caoilte, crouching low, with bended head,
"Who liveth?" … "I am here alone," he said …
Thus Fian after Fian came to share
Their bitter grief, in silence and despair.
 
 
All night they kept lone watch, until the dawn
With stealthy fingers o'er the east had drawn
Its dewy veil and dim. Then Finn arose
From deep and sleepless brooding o'er his woes,
And spake unto the Fians, "Who shall rest
While flees our evil foeman farther west?
Arise!" … "But who hath done this deed?" they sighed;
And Finn made answer, "Garry." … Then they cried
For vengeance swift and terrible, and leapt
To answer Finn's command.
 
 
                          A cold wind swept
From out the gates of morning, moaning loud,
As swift they hastened forth. A ragged shroud
Of gathering tempest o'er Ben-Wyvis cast
A sudden gloom, and round it, falling fast,
It drifted o'er the darkened slopes and bare,
And snow-flakes swirled in the chill morning air—
Then o'er the sea, the sun leapt large and bright,
Scatt'ring the storm. And moor and crag lay white,
As westward o'er the hills the Fians all
In quest of Garry sped.
 
 
                        At even-fall
They found him … On the bald and rocky side
Of steep Scour-Vullin, Garry lay to hide
Within a cave, which, backward o'er the snow,
He entered, that his steps might seem to show
He had fled eastward by the path he came.
All day he sought to flee them in his shame,
Watching from lofty crag or deep ravine,
And crouching in the heath, with haggard mien—
He sought in vain to hide till darkness cast
Its blinding cloak betwixt them.
 
 
                                 When at last
Finn cried, "Come forth, thou dog of evil deeds,
Nor respite seek!" … His limbs like wind-swept reeds
Trembled and bent beneath him; so he rose
And came to meet his friends who were his foes—
Then unto Finn he spake with accents meek,
"One last request I of the Fians seek,
Whom I have loved in peace and served in strife"—
"'Tis thine," said Finn, "but ask not for thy life,
For thou art 'mong the Fians." … "I would die,"
Said Garry, "with my head laid on thy thigh;
And let young Alvin take thy sword, that he
May give the death that will mine honour be."
 
 
'Twas so he lay to die … But as the blade
Swept bright, young Alvin, keen for vengeance, swayed,
And slipped upon the sward … And his fierce blow
That Garry slew, the Fian chief laid low—
A grievous wound was gaping on his thigh,
And poured his life-blood forth … A low, weird cry
The great Finn gave, as he fell back and swooned—
In vain they strove to stanch the fearsome wound—
His life ebbed slowly with the sun's last ray
In gathering gloom … And when in death he lay,
The glory of the Fians passed away.