Читать книгу Elves and Heroes - Donald Alexander Mackenzie - Страница 5

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.

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