Читать книгу A Reading Book in Irish History - P. W. Joyce - Страница 11

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Miserable was the abode and evil the plight of the children of Lir on the Sea of Moyle. Their hearts were wrung with sorrow for their father and their friends; and when they looked towards the steep rocky, far-stretching coasts, and saw the great, dark, wild sea around them, they were overwhelmed with fear and despair. They began also to suffer from cold and hunger, so that all the hardships they had endured on Lake Darvra appeared as nothing compared with their suffering on the sea-current of Moyle.

And so they lived, till one night a great tempest fell upon the sea. Finola, when she saw the sky filled with black, threatening clouds, thus addressed her brothers:—

"Beloved brothers, we have made a bad preparation for this night: for it is certain that the coming storm will separate us; and now let us appoint a place of meeting, or it may happen that we shall never see each other again."

And they answered, "Dear sister, you speak truly and wisely; and let us fix on Carricknarone,[12] for that is a rock that we are all very well acquainted with."

And they appointed Carricknarone as their place of meeting.

Midnight came, and with it came the beginning of the storm. A wild, rough wind swept over the dark sea, the lightnings flashed, and the great waves rose, and increased their violence and their thunder.

The swans were soon scattered over the waters, so that not one of them knew in what direction the others had been driven. During all that night they were tossed about by the roaring winds and waves, and it was with much difficulty they preserved their lives.

Towards morning the storm abated, the sky cleared, and the sea became again calm and smooth; and Finola swam to Carricknarone. But she found none of her brothers there, neither could she see any trace of them when she looked all round from the summit of the rock over the wide face of the sea.

Then she became terrified, thinking she should never see them again; and she began to lament them plaintively.

[On this incident Thomas Moore wrote the following beautiful song. A person is supposed to be listening to Finola, and—in the first four lines of the song—calls on the winds and the waves to be silent that he may hear.]

Silent, O Moyle!

Silent, O Moyle! be the roar of thy water,

Break not, ye breezes! your chain of repose, While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter Tells to the night-star her tale of woes. When shall the Swan, her death-note singing, Sleep with wings in darkness furl'd? When will Heav'n, its sweet bell ringing, Call my spirit from this stormy world?

Sadly, O Moyle! to thy winter-wave weeping,

Fate bids me languish long ages away;

Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping

Still doth the pure light its dawning delay When will that day-star, mildly springing, Warm our Isle with peace and love? When will Heaven, its sweet bell ringing, Call my spirit to the fields above?

At last, while she stood gazing in despair over the waste of waters, she saw her brothers swimming from different directions towards the rock. They came to her one by one, and she welcomed them joyfully: and she placed Aed under the feathers of her breast, and Ficra and Conn under her wings, and said to them:—"My dear brothers, though ye may think last night very bad, we shall have many like it from this time forth."

So they continued for a long time on the Sea of Moyle, suffering hardships of every kind, till one winter night came upon them, of great wind and of snow and frost so severe, that nothing they ever before suffered could be compared to the misery of that night. The swans remained on Carricknarone, and their feet and their wings were frozen to the icy surface, so that they had to strive hard to move from their places in the morning; and they left the skin of their feet, the quills of their wings, and the feathers of their breasts clinging to the rock.

"Sad is our condition this night, my beloved brothers," said Finola, "for we are forbidden to leave the Sea of Moyle; and yet we cannot bear the salt water, for when it enters our wounds, I fear we shall die of pain." And she uttered these words—

Our life is a life of woe;

No shelter or rest we find:

How bitterly drives the snow;

How cold is this wintry wind!

From the icy spray of the sea,

From the wind of the bleak north-east,

I shelter my brothers three,

Under my wings and breast.

The witch-lady sent us here,

And misery well we know:—

In cold and hunger and fear;

Our life is a life of woe![13]

They were, however, forced to swim out on the stream of Moyle, all wounded and torn as they were; for though the brine was sharp and bitter, they were not able to avoid it. They stayed as near the coast as they could, till after a long time the feathers of their breasts and wings grew again, and their wounds were healed.

After this the swans lived on for a great number of years, sometimes visiting the shores of Erin, and sometimes the headlands of Alban. But they always returned to the sea-stream of Moyle, for it was to be their home till the end of three hundred years.

One day they came to the mouth of the Bann, on the north coast of Erin, and looking inland, they saw a stately troop of horsemen approaching directly from the south-west. They were mounted on white steeds, and clad in bright-coloured garments, and as they wound towards the shore their arms glittered in the sun.

These were a party of the Dedannans who had been a long time searching for the children of Lir along the northern shores of Erin: and now that they had found them, they were joyful; and they and the swans greeted each other with tender expressions of friendship and love. The children of Lir inquired after the Dedannans, and particularly after their father Lir; and for Bove Derg, and for all the rest of their friends and acquaintances.

"They are well," replied the Dedannans; "but all are mourning for you since the day you left Lake Darvra. And now we wish to know how you fare on this wild sea."

"Miserable has been our life since that day," said Finola; "and no tongue can tell the suffering and sorrow we have endured on the Sea of Moyle." And she chanted these words—

Ah, happy is Lir's bright home to-day,

With mead and music and poet's lay:

But gloomy and cold his children's home,

For ever tossed on the briny foam.

Our wreathèd feathers are thin and light When the wind blows keen through the wintry night: Yet often we were robed, long, long ago, In purple mantles and furs of snow.

On Moyle's bleak current our food and wine

Are sandy sea-weed and bitter brine:

Yet oft we feasted in days of old,

And hazel-mead drank from cups of gold.

Our beds are rocks in the dripping caves;

Our lullaby song the roar of the waves: But soft rich couches once we pressed, And harpers lulled us each night to rest.

Lonely we swim on the billowy main,

Through frost and snow, through storm and rain:

Alas for the days when round us moved

The chiefs and princes and friends we loved!

My little twin brothers beneath my wings

Lie close when the north wind bitterly stings,

And Aed close nestles before my breast;

Thus side by side through the night we rest.

Our father's fond kisses, Bove Derg's embrace,

The light of Mannanan's godlike face, The love of Angus—all, all are o'er; And we live on the billows for evermore!

After this they bade each other farewell, for it was not permitted to the children of Lir to remain away from the stream of Moyle.