Читать книгу A Celtic Psaltery - Alfred Perceval Graves - Страница 13

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An old Irish poem on the Hill of Alenn recording the disappearance of the Pagan World of Ireland and the triumph of Christianity by the establishment at Kildare of the convent of Brigit, Saint and Princess.

Safe on thy throne, Triumphing Bride, Down Liffey's side, Far to the coast, Rule with the host Under thy care Over the Children of Mighty Cathair. God's hid intents At every time, For pure Erin's clime All telling surpass. Liffey's clear glass Mirrors thy reign, But many proud masters have passed from his plain. When on his banks I cast my eyes thorough The fair, grassy Curragh, Awe enters my mind At each wreck that I find Around me far strown Of lofty kings' palaces gaunt, lichen-grown! Laery was monarch As far as the Main; Vast Ailill's reign! The Curragh's green wonder Still grows the blue under, The old rulers thereon One after other to cold death have gone. [23] Where is Alenn far-famed, How dear in delights! Beneath her what Knights What Princes repose How feared by her foes When Crimthan was Chief— Crimthan of Conquests—now passes belief! Proudly the triumph-shout Rang from his victor lords, Round their massed shock of swords; While their foes' serried, blue Spears they struck through and through; Blasts of delight Blared from their horns over hundreds in flight. Blithe, on their anvils Even-hued, blent The hammers' concent; From the Brugh the bard's song Brake sweet and strong; Proud beauty graced The field where knights jousted and charioteers raced. There in each household Ran the rich mead; Steed neighed to steed; Chains jingled again Unto Kings among men Under the blades Of their five-edged, long, bitter, blood-letting spear-heads. There, at each hour, Harp music o'erflowed; The wine-galleon rode The violet sea, Whence silver showered free, And gold torques without fail, From the land of the Gaul to the Land of the Gael. [24] To Britain's far coasts The renown of those kings On a meteor's wings O'er the waters had flown. Yea! Alenn's high throne, With its masterful lore, Made sport of the pomp of each palace before. But where, oh, where is mighty Cathair? Before him or since No shapelier Prince Ruled many-hued Erin. Though round the rath, wherein They laid him, you cry, The Champion of Champions can never reply. Where is Feradach's robe, Where his diadem famed, Round which, as it flamed, Plumed ranks deployed? His blue helm is destroyed, His shining cloak dust. Overthrower of kings, in whom now is thy trust? Alenn's worship of auguries Now is as naught! None thereof takes thought. All in vain is each spell The dark future to tell! All is vain, when 'tis probed, And Alenn lies dead of her black arts disrobed. Hail, Brigit! whose lands To-day I behold, Whither monarchs of old Came each in his turn. Thy fame shall outburn Their mightiest glory; Thou art over them all, till this Earth ends its story. [25] Yea! Thy rule with the King Everlasting shall stand, Apart from the land Of thy burial-place. Child of Bresal's proud race, O triumphing Bride,[A] Sit safely enthroned upon Liffey's green side.

[A]

Brigit; hence St. Bride's Bay.

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