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By Eleanor Rogers Cox

Silent are the singers in the purple halls of Emain,

Silent all the harp-strings untouched of any hand,

Wan as twilight roses the radiant, royal women,

Black unto the hearthstone the erstwhile flaming brand.

Inward far from ocean the storm’s white birds are flying,

Darting, like dim wraith flames across the falling night.

Winds like a caoine through the quicken groves are sighing,

On no lip is laughter, in no heart delight.

For thitherwards witch-wafted athwart the sundering spaces,

Lo, a word doom-freighted unto Conchubar has come,

Whispering of one who in far-off, hostile places

Strikes a last defending blow for king and home.

And the King pacing lone in his place of High Decision,

Gazing with rapt eyes on that far-flung battle-plain,

Through the red rains rising beholds with startled vision

Sight such as man’s eye shall not see again.

For one there is dying, of his foes at last outnumbered,

One whose soul a sword was, shaped by God’s own hand,

One who guarded Ulaidh when all her knighthood slumbered,

Prone beneath the curse laid of old upon the land.

And dying so, alone, of all mortal aid forsaken,

Dead his peerless war steeds, dead his charioteer,

Yet the high splendor of his spirit all unshaken,

Shines morning-bright through the Death-mists drawing near.

And radiant round his brow yet the hero-flame is gleaming,

And firm yet his footstep upon the reddened sod,

As with sword uplifted towards the day’s last beaming,

Forth goes the spirit of Cuchulain unto God.

Leaving to his land and the Celtic race forever

That which shall not fail them throughout the fading years,

Heritage of faith unchanged, of fear-undimmed endeavor,

And a quenchless laughter ringing down the edge of hostile spears.