Читать книгу Lyra Celtica: An Anthology of Representative Celtic Poetry - Various - Страница 22

Table of Contents

O, lay me by the gentle stream

Which glides with stealing course;

Lay my head beneath the shady boughs,

And thou, O sun, be mild upon my rest.

There, in the flowery grass,

Where the breeze sighs softly on the bank,

My feet shall be bathed with the dew

When it falls on the silent vale.

There, on my lone green heap,

The primrose and the daisy shall bloom over my head,

And the wild bright star of St John

Shall bend beside my cheek.

Above, on the steeps of the glen,

Green flowering boughs shall spread,

And sweet, from the still grey craigs,

The birds shall pour their songs.

There, from the ivied craig,

The gushing spring shall flow,

And the son of the rock shall repeat

The murmur of its fall.

The hinds shall call around my bed;

The hill shall answer to their voice,

When a thousand shall descend on the field,

And feed around my rest.

The calves shall sport beside me

By the stream of the level plain,

And the little kids, weary of their strife,

Shall sleep beneath my arm.

Far in the gentle breeze

The stag cries on the field;

The herds answer on the hill,

And descend to meet the sound.

I hear the steps of the hunter!

His whistling darts—his dog upon the hill.

The joy of youth returns to my cheek

At the sound of the coming chase!

My strength returns at the sounds of the wood;

The cry of hounds—the thrill of strings.

Hark! the death-shout—“The deer has fallen!”

I spring to life on the hill!

I see the bounding dog,

My companion on the heath;

The beloved hill of our chase,

The echoing craig of woods.

I see the sheltering cave

Which often received us from the night,

When the glowing tree and the joyful cup

Revived us with their cheer.

Glad was the smoking feast of deer,

Our drink was from Loch Treig, our music its hum of waves;

Though ghosts shrieked on the echoing hills,

Sweet was our rest in the cave.

I see the mighty mountain,

Chief of a thousand hills;

The dream of deer is in its locks,

Its head is the bed of clouds.

I see the ridge of hinds, the steep of the sloping glen,

The wood of cuckoos at its foot,

The blue height of a thousand pines,

Of wolves, and roes, and elks.

DOMHNULL MAC FHIONNLAIDH

Like the breeze on the lake of firs

The little ducks skim on the pool,

At its head is the strath of pines,

The red rowan bends on its bank.

There, on the gliding wave,

The fair swan spreads her wing,

The broad white wing which never fails

When she soars amidst the clouds.

Far wandering over ocean

She seeks the cold dwelling of seals,

Where no sail bends the mast,

Nor prow divides the wave.

Come to the woody hills

With the lament of thy love;

Return, O swan, from the isle of waves,

And sing from thy course on high.

Raise thy mournful song—

Pour the sad tale of thy grief;

The son of the rock shall hear the sound,

And repeat thy strain of woe.

Spread thy wing over ocean,

Mount up on the strength of the winds;

Pleasant to my ear is thy sound,

The song of thy wounded heart.

O youth! thou who hast departed,

And left my grey and helpless hairs,

What land has heard on its winds

Thy cry come o’er its rocks?

Are the tears in thy eye, O maiden?

Thou of the lovely brow and lily hand;

Brightness be around thee for ever!

Thou shalt return no more from the narrow bed!

Tell me, O winds! since now I see them not,

Where grow the murmuring reeds?

The reeds which sigh where rest the trout

On their still transparent fins.

O raise and bear me on your hands,

Lay my head beneath the young boughs,

That their shade may veil my eyes

When the sun shall rise on high.

And thou, O gentle sleep!

Whose course is with the stars of night;

Be near with thy dreams of song

To bring back my days of joy.

My soul beholds the maid!

In the shade of the mighty oak,

Her white hand beneath her golden hair,

Her soft eye on her beloved.

He is near—but she is silent,

His beating heart is lost in song,

Their souls beam from their eyes—

Deer stand on the hill!

The song has ceased!—

Their bosoms meet;—

Like the young and stainless rose

Her lips are pressed to his!—

Blessed be that commune sweet!

Recalling the joy which returns no more—

Blessed be thy soul, my love!

Thou maid with the bright flowing locks.

Hast thou forsaken me, O dream!

Once more return again!

Alas! thou art gone, and I am sad—

Bless thee, my love—farewell!

Friends of my youth, farewell!

Farewell, ye maids of love!

I see you now no more—with you is summer still,

With me—the winter night!

O lay me by the roaring fall,

By the sound of the murmuring craig,

Let the cruit and the shell be near,

And the shield of my father’s wars.

O breeze of Ocean come,

With the sound of thy gentle course,

Raise me on thy wings, O wind,

And bear me to the isle of rest;

Where the heroes of old are gone,

To the sleep which shall wake no more

Open the hall of Ossian and Daol—

The night is come—the bard departs!

Behold my dim grey mist!—

I go to the dwelling of bards on the hill!

Give me the airy cruit and shell for the way—

And now—my own loved cruit and shell—farewell!