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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
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THE POETRY 
 
 OF 
 
 SIK SAMUEL FERGUSON 
 
 KY 
 
 Mil. JUSTICE O’HAGAN vv 
 
 
 DUBLIN 
 
 M. H. GILL AND SON 
 
 O’CONNEH STEEET 
 
 1887 
 
 BOSTON COLLEGE LIBKAKY 
 CHESTNUT HILL, MASS, 
 
M. H. GILL AND SON, PRINTKRS, DUBLIN 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 I HAVE endeavoured to express in these pages 
 my sense, not only of Sir Samuel Ferguson’s genius 
 as a poet, but of his singular success in giving to 
 Irish legends and traditions, to the manners, feel- 
 ings, and distinctive features of the Irish race, due 
 expression in the English language — the language 
 which the vast majority of the Irish-born and 
 Irish-descended men do now and must in the 
 future speak. Were it not for efforts of this kind 
 it would be almost inevitable that the intellectual 
 tastes of Irishmen should be absorbed by the 
 modern literature of England — a literature which, 
 taken on the whole, I deem to be neither very 
 elevating nor purifying in its tendency. 
 
 However this may be, it is a certain good for 
 
 our country to possess a distinctive literature of 
 
 its own. Much has been already done. It would 
 
 2 
 
6 
 
 PEEFACE. 
 
 be superfluous to go through a bead-roll of honoured 
 names, to all of whom gratitude and admiration 
 are due. But Ferguson was amongst the earliest 
 pioneers in this path, and was a labourer in it to 
 the last. I rejoice that his widow. Lady Fer- 
 guson (herself the author of a delightful work on 
 early Irish history), has undertaken to republish 
 her husband’s works, verse and prose, in a cheap 
 and accessible form. 
 
 Little more than a year ago. Sir Samuel Fer- 
 guson entrusted to me a poem never yet published. 
 It was an address to a dear friend of his. Dr. 
 liobert Gordon, now long dead. It is written in 
 the style and language of Burns; a dialect as 
 native to many Ulstermen as to the inhabitants of 
 Ayrshire itself. Its date is 1845, when he was 
 just thirty-five years old. On the very day before 
 his death, I recalled it to his recollection, and he 
 pressed my hand in token how well he remembered 
 it. I was under the impression that he had given 
 me full discretion as to its publication after his 
 death ; but, on reperusal of the letter by which 
 it was accompanied, I find that he wished the 
 
PBEFACE. 
 
 7 
 
 publication to be delayed till farther on in the 
 century. However, with the full assent of Lady 
 Ferguson, I can give three stanzas, indicating 
 how strongly the pulse of his heart beat for Ireland 
 and how keen was his desire to serve her : 
 
 ‘ ‘ Lord for ae day o’ service done her, 
 
 Lord for ane hour’s sunlight upon her, 
 
 Here, fortune, take warld’s wealth and honour- - 
 You’re no my debtor, 
 
 Let me but rive ae link asunder 
 O’ Erin’s fetter. 
 
 “ Let me but help to shape the sentence 
 Will put the pith o’ independence, 
 
 O’ self-respect in self-acquaintance 
 And manly pride, 
 
 Intil auld Eber Scot’s descendants — 
 
 Take a’ beside. 
 
 Let me but help to get the truth 
 Set fast in ilka brother’s mouth. 
 
 Whatever accent, north or south. 
 
 His tongue may use ; 
 
 And then ambition, riches, youth — 
 
 Take which you choose.” 
 
•M^nrfy ; i . ; ‘ 
 
 
 
 I 
 
 3 
 
 r. . 
 
 '■'j' 
 
THE POETRY 
 
 OF 
 
 SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON. 
 
 I. 
 
 The poetry j)roduced in Ireland since Moore ceased to 
 write has certainly been of very remarkable quality, 
 and as certainly is destined to produce an effect 
 in the education of young minds in Ireland during 
 succeeding generations. There are, however, two 
 among these modern poets especially distinguished for 
 their success in fusing and interweaving Gaelic modes of 
 thought and turns of expression with their verse, and 
 thus rendering familiar to us the outward garb and 
 inner soul of the poetry of the Celt. These two are 
 Clarence Mangan and Sir Samuel Perguson. With the 
 former this power flowed from the prompt and intuitive 
 perceptions of genius. With the latter it was not the 
 result of genius alone, hut of extensive acquisition and 
 years of study devoted, in the intervals of his profes- 
 sional labours, to the mastery of all that was to he known 
 concerning the ways and fortunes, the religion, laws, and 
 habitudes of the varied branches of the great Gaelic stem 
 which from time to time have taken root in the soil of 
 Ireland. Hot himself a Celt, unless it be from some remote 
 
10 
 
 THE POETEY OF SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON. 
 
 Scottish strain, it has happened to him, as to others, Pro- 
 testant in religion and Teutonic by extraction, to have 
 his sympathies not exclusively hut deeply enlisted on 
 the side of his country and her native people. This 
 spirit breathes through his early translations of Irish 
 verse. What is there more beautiful, what more Irish 
 in soul, than the poem republished in Duffy’s ‘‘Ballad 
 Poetry of Ireland ” ? 
 
 A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer, 
 
 Uileachan dubh 0 ! 
 
 Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow 
 barley ear ; 
 
 Uileachan dubh 0 ! 
 
 There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand, 
 
 And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters 
 fanned, 
 
 There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i’ the 
 yellow sand 
 
 On the fair hills of holy Ireland.” 
 
 To those earlier productions it is our purpose to revert 
 in the second part of this study. 
 
 The greatest poem which Sir Samuel Perguson has 
 written is, in our estimation, his Congal, published in 
 1872. It is a genuine Irish epic, based, like other 
 epics, upon mingled history and legend, having its 
 roots in the deepest human passions^ — wrath, love, am- 
 bition, revenge, and with these passions shaped by 
 destiny to a fatal end. No poem so Homeric in the 
 march of the narrative, in the character of the heroes, 
 or in the resonant majesty of the versification, has 
 appeared in our time, and withal it is thoroughly and 
 
THE POETBY OF SIB SAMUEL FEBGESON. 
 
 11 
 
 in essence Celtic. It is not, perhaps, easy at a first 
 reading, unless the reader he singularly attentive, to 
 take in all the features of the story, and all the rela- 
 tions of the personages. We think it a pity that Sir 
 Samuel, instead of prefixing a condensed statement in 
 two lines, brief as the single lines at the head of each 
 hook of Homer, did not give us a comprehensive epitome 
 of the whole poem, and then a prose argument of the 
 contents of each book which would make the story 
 plain to everyone. We hope to see this done in a 
 future edition. 
 
 The theme is the battle of Muigha Eath or Moyra 
 (the modern Moira), fought in the seventh century of 
 our era, between Congal Claen, hereditary sub-king of 
 Ulster, and Domnal, Ardrigh (high-king) of Ireland, in 
 which the invading forces of Congal are utterly routed 
 and overthrown, and the hero himself is slain. The 
 facts leading up to the catastrophe are these : — 
 
 Congal was the son of the renowned Scallan of the 
 Broad Shield. Scallan’ s ancestors had reigned over 
 the wide Eudrician realm of Ulster ; but great portion 
 of it, Tirowen, Tirconnell, and Emain Madia (Armagh) 
 had been torn from them and had passed into the 
 power of other sub-kings. Scallan, though not in pos- 
 session of all the patrimony of his fathers, yet by 
 strength of character dominated over Ulster and proved 
 himself a redoubted warrior and king. His wife was 
 daughter of Eochaid Buie, King of Alba (Scotland). 
 
 Sweeny Menn was, in those days, King of Erin, and 
 
12 
 
 THE POETEY OE SIE SAMUEL EEEGUSOH. 
 
 Domnal, son of King Aed, was at feud with, him, 
 desirous to usurp his place. "With that object he 
 sought the alliance of Scallan of Ulster, and, to hind 
 the alliance faster, took young Con gal into his fosterage 
 and nurtured him at his Court of Dunangay, in Meath. 
 
 At last, defeated and driven out hy the superior 
 power of his head-king, Domnal took refuge with 
 Eochaid Buie in Scotland, bringing the youthful 
 Congal with him. When seven years had flown, 
 and Congal had grown into a daring warrior strip- 
 ling (Scallan of the Broad Shield being dead), Dom- 
 nal and he, with a small force, returned to Ireland, 
 and when they landed Domnal vowed to Congal, at 
 least the latter so asserted, that if hy force or strate- 
 gem, allowed hy the laws of war, he should slay King 
 Sweeny Menn, and Domnal should sit in his stead as 
 King of Erin, he would restore to Congal not only the 
 dominion held hy his father Scallan, hut wide Ulster, 
 the realm of his forefathers. Congal, elate in the 
 pride of youth, sought King Sweeny Menn as he sat 
 before his royal palace ; and, first raising the warrior 
 shout, which announced and justified the blow, he 
 drove his sword, Garr-Congail, through the heart of 
 Sweeney Menn with such force that it struck the stone 
 bulwark behind him. So terrified were Sweeny’s 
 attendants at the blow and the cry, that they believed 
 Congal had a host behind him, and they fled. Sweeny 
 Menn being slain, Domnal reigned in his place as King 
 of Ireland ; yet he did not keep his pact. Fearful of 
 
THE rOETKY OF SIE SAMUEL FERGESO^. 
 
 13 
 
 creating too great a power in tlie King of Ulster, lie 
 restored to Congal only the territory Scallan of the 
 Broad Shield had held, leaving Ultan Long-hand King 
 of Orior and Tir-Owen, and yielding to the fierce 
 Malodhar the realm of Emain Macha (Armagh). 
 
 Congal, hound by the ties of fosterage, did not then 
 break with his foster-sire, and he soon became entram- 
 melled by a softer tie. He had become deeply ena- 
 moured of, and was betrothed to Lafinda, sister of his own 
 tributary sub-king. Sweeny, King of Down, whose 
 palace fortress of Eath-Keltar (Downpatrick) shows, 
 even at this day, by its splendid outline, what it must 
 have been in its undiminished grandeur. Lafinda had 
 been brought up as a princess under the tutelary care 
 of the Huns of St. Brigid, and she was as pious as she 
 was gentle and beautiful. CongaPs love for her and 
 his anticipation of domestic joys had almost subdued 
 in him the impulses of ambition and vengeance. But 
 these passions were destined to a terrible reawakening. 
 
 King Domnal was about to hold a high festival in 
 his royal castle of Dunangay, in Heath, and he had 
 sent his envoy, Garrad Gann, to hid Congal with his 
 vassal and future kinsman. Sweeny of Down, to the 
 feast. The poem opens with their departure, attended 
 by their retinue, and accompanied by the envoy, 
 Garrad Gann. Congal bids a hiief adieu to Lafinda, 
 assuring her of his speedy return, after having enjoyed 
 the hospitality of his foster-sire. Their bridal should 
 then take place forthwith. So, on a bright May mom- 
 
14 
 
 THE POETEY OF SIE SAMUEL FEEGUSO]^. 
 
 ing, Congal, elate as the lark and radiant as the day, 
 rode forth from the keep of Eath-Keltar upon his south- 
 ward journey. 
 
 But his journey lay through Mourne, and there, in 
 the wild mountain fastnesses, reigned another kinsman, 
 Kellach, the brother of Scallan of the Broad Shield. 
 Kellach was a stern old heathen. Aged, maimed, and 
 crippled, borne in a litter on the shoulders of men, he 
 still nursed within him the fiery passions of pride and 
 wrath. He hated Bomnal with all his strength, re- 
 garding him as a priest-led hypocrite, who shaped all 
 his actions to some sinister and selfish end. But Kel- 
 lach was magnanimous as he was fierce. He had 
 bestowed, with ungrudging hand, the hospitality of his 
 mountains upon the scattered remnant of the once 
 famous corporation of the hards of Erin, formidable for 
 their organisation, for their terrible powers of invective, 
 and the unscrupulous use they had made of those 
 powers. They were not unnaturally regarded by the 
 Christian clergy as a potent agency of evil. At the 
 Synod of Drumkeat, held some forty years before the 
 era of our poem, under the presidency of King Aed, 
 father of Domnal, the bards had been condemned and 
 dispersed. This decree was ratified at subsequent 
 synods, though St. Columha, who looked to reformation 
 rather than extirpation, had raised his voice in their 
 favour. After many wanderings the remnant of the 
 hards now found protection and the necessaries of life 
 from Kellach amid the Mourne solitudes. Despising 
 
THE POETEY OF SIE SAMEEL FEKGUSOX. 
 
 15 
 
 Christian observances, they held communion rather with 
 the misty dmnities of old Celtic heathendom. 
 
 When Congal and his train were riding by Mourne, 
 there came messengers from Kellach, beseeching that 
 he would rest for a day and accept his hospitality. 
 T^ot withstanding the remonstrances of Garrad Gann, 
 who had a presentiment of evil to arise from this visit, 
 Congal deemed that it neither became him as a king nor 
 as a kinsman to decline the invitation. So they passed 
 on to the castle gate of Kellach, who was borne out in 
 his litter, and greeted his nephew with overflowing 
 affection. But, immediately after, he broke out into 
 virulent invective against King Domnal. To this Con- 
 gal replied, with dignity and courtesy, that all quar- 
 rels between him and his foster-sire had been appeased, 
 and that he went to ratify that peace at the banquet 
 of Dunangay, as a preliminary to his peaceful and 
 happy nuptials with the Princess Laflnda. 
 
 But now, when they passed into the feast and justice 
 had been done to the \dands which Kellach had com- 
 manded to be spread for them in teeming measure, the 
 bards, by rightful custom, were called on for their 
 songs, and they sang in praise of Erin, her kings and 
 mighty men, and of her growth in the aiTs of war and 
 peace, until at last the greatest among his brethren, the 
 arch-bard Ardan, seized his harp and attuned its mighty 
 strain to one single theme. That theme was Ulster 
 and the lost rights of her lawful King, Congal Claen. 
 He sang of the beauty and fertility of the land, the 
 
16 
 
 THE POETEY OF STE SAMUEL FEEGUSOX. 
 
 noble hills, the great belts of woods, the rich grassy 
 plains, the deer-abounding forests, and the fishy -teem- 
 ing lakes and bays. Then he recalled the glorious 
 days of Scallan, when he gave the law over that wide 
 lludrician realm, from the tumultuous waves of Moyle 
 southward to Dundalga and the waters of Boyne, and 
 from Gweebarra and the cataract of Eas-Eoe, eastward 
 to the sea. But this must be given to our readers in 
 the poet’s own words : — 
 
 “ Thiid, Ardan sang. ^ To God who made the elements, I 
 raise 
 
 First praises humbly as is meet, and Him I lastly praise ; 
 Who sea and land hath meted out beneath the ample sky 
 For man’s inhabitation, and set each family 
 To dwell within his proper bounds; who for the race re- 
 nowned 
 
 Of Rury from old time prepared the fair Ultonian ground, 
 Green- valley ’d, dear-stream’ d, fishy-bay’d, with mountain- 
 mirroring lakes 
 
 Belted, with deer-abounding woods and fox-frequented brakes 
 Made apt for all brave exercise ; that, till the end of time, 
 Each true Rudrician fair-haired son might from his hills sub- 
 lime 
 
 Look forth and say, “ Lo, on the left, from where tumultuous 
 Moyle 
 
 Heaves at Benmore’s foot-fettering rocks with ceaseless surg- 
 ing toil, 
 
 And, half-escaping from the clasp of that stark chain of 
 stone, 
 
 Tlie soaring Foreland, poised aloft, as eagle newly flown, 
 Hangs awful on the morning’s brow, or rouses armed Cantyre, 
 Red kindling 'neath the star of eve the Dalriad’s warning fire ; 
 South to the salt, sheep-fattening marsh and long-resounding 
 bay 
 
THE POETEY OF SIE SAMUEL FEEGUSO^f. 
 
 17 
 
 Where yomig Cuchullin camped his last on dread Muir- 
 thevne’s day ; 
 
 And southward still to where the weird De Danaan kings lie 
 hid, 
 
 High over Boyne, in cavern’d cairn and mountain pyramid ; 
 And on the right hand from the rocks where Balor’s bellowing 
 caves 
 
 Up through the funnelled sea- cliffs shoot forth the exploding 
 waves. 
 
 South to where lone Gweebarra laves the sifted sands that 
 strow 
 
 Dark Boylagh’s banks ; and southward still to where abrupt 
 Eas-Roo 
 
 In many a tawmy heap and whirl, by dancing salmon track’t, 
 Casts down to ocean’s oozy gulfs the great sea-cataract. 
 
 The land is ours ! — from earth to sea, from hell to heaven 
 above, 
 
 It and its increase, and the crown and dignity thereof ! ” 
 Therefore to God, who gave the land into our hand, I sing 
 First praises, as the law commands ; next, to my lawful King, 
 Image of God, with voice and string, I chant the loyal strain, 
 Though well-nigh landless here to-day I see thee, Congal 
 Claen ; 
 
 Spoiled of Orgallia’s green domain, of wide Tir- Owen’s w^oods. 
 Of high Tir-Conal’s herdful hills and fishy-teeming floods ; 
 
 Of all the warm vales, rich in goods of glebe-manuring men. 
 That bask against the morning sun along the Royal Glen, 
 These are no longer ours : the brood of Baedan’s sons in these 
 Shoot proudly forth their lawless barques, and sweep unhost- 
 aged seas 
 
 Through all the swift keel-clasping gulfs of ocean that enfold 
 Deep-bay ’d Moy Inneray and the shores of Dathi’s land of 
 gold. 
 
 In law-defying conscious strength aloft in Dunamain 
 Rude Ultan Long-hand owns no lord onOrior’s pleasant plain; 
 While o’er Ardsallagh’s sacred height, and Creeve Roe’s 
 flowery meads, 
 
 Molodhar Macha reigns alone in Emain of the steeds. 
 
18 
 
 THE POETEY OF SIE SAMUEL FEEGUSOX. 
 
 But come ; resound the noble deeds, and swell the chant of 
 praise 
 
 In memory of the men who did the deeds of other days ; 
 
 The old bard-honouring, fearless days, exulting Ulster saw, 
 When to great Rury’s fair-haired race, tall Scallan gave the 
 law ; 
 
 When, from Troy-Rury to Ardstraw was neither fort nor field 
 But yielded tribute to the king that bore the ell-broad shield. 
 Hark ! what a shout Ben Evenagh pealed ! how flash from sea 
 to shore 
 
 The chariot sides, the shielded prows, bright blade and drip- 
 ping oar ; 
 
 How smoke their causeways to our tramp : beneath our oars- 
 men’s toil 
 
 How, round the Dalaradian prows, foam down the waves of 
 Foyle ! 
 
 Come forth, ye proud ones of Tir Hugh, your eastern masters 
 wait 
 
 To take their tribute rights anew at broad-stoned Aileach’s 
 gate ; 
 
 A hundred steeds, a hundred foals, each foal beside its dam, 
 A hundred pieces of fine gold, each broad as Scallan’s palm. 
 And thick as thumb-nail of a man of churlish birth who now 
 The seventh successive seedtime holds a fallow-furrowing 
 plough : 
 
 Three hundred mantles ; thirty slaves, all females, young and 
 fair. 
 
 Each carrying her silver cup, each cup a poet’s share 
 Who sings an ode inaugural. — Alas ! I fondly rave: 
 
 Dead, tribute-levying Scallan lies ; and dead in Scallan’s grave 
 Glory and might and prosperous days. The very heavens 
 that pour’d 
 
 Abundance on our fields and streams, while that victorious lord 
 Of righteous judgments ruled the land ; the stars that, as they 
 ranged 
 
 The bounteous heavens, shed health and wealth, above our 
 heads are changed.’ ” 
 
THE POETEY OF SIE SAMUEL FEEGUSON. 
 
 19 
 
 The bard then sang of the brightness and bounty of 
 the heavens and abundance of the fields and streams, 
 now, as it were, blighted and sickened by decadence, 
 and at last bursts forth into a tremendous invective and 
 malediction against the perjured Domnal, and a pas- 
 sionate cry for the return of justice, wealth, and song 
 with the restored and reintegrated throne of King Con- 
 gal Clacn. 
 
 Heaven cannot hold it ; but the curse outbursting from on 
 high 
 
 In blight and plague, on plant and man, blasts all beneath 
 the sky. 
 
 Bursts, blackening clouds that hang aloof o’er perjured 
 Dorn rial’s halls ! 
 
 Dash down, with all your flaming bolts, the fraud-cemented 
 walls, 
 
 Till through your thunder-riven palls heaven’s light anew 
 be pour’d 
 
 In Law and Justice, Wealth and Song, on Congal’s throne 
 restored !” 
 
 No wonder that the heart of Congal was stirred to its 
 inmost depths by this passionate appeal to his hidden 
 impulses of ambition and revenge. But not even so did 
 he lose his self-control. Taking his golden torque from 
 his neck, he sent it as a present to the bard, thanking 
 him for all he had said in praise of the race of Bury and 
 the realm of IJladh, but thanking him not for aught 
 that fostered strife or tended to break the lately sworn 
 peace between himself and his foster-father. 
 
 Next morning Congal, with Sweeny and their at- 
 tendants, pursued their southward way by Narrow 
 
20 
 
 THE POETEY OF SIE SAMUEL FEEGUSOJ?-. 
 
 Water and the yew trees of Kewry and St. Erigid’s 
 ce\l of Killea^y, at the base of Slieve Gullion, on by 
 the fords of Eoyne to the royal seat of Domnal, King of 
 Erin, at Dnnangay, in Meath. 
 
 Tara of the kings was no longer the seat of royalty. 
 It had fallen under the curse of St. Euan, nearly a 
 century before the date of our story, and lay deserted 
 and lone, and thenceforth, as MacGeoghegan relates. 
 
 Every one of the kings of Erin chose himself such a 
 place as in his own discretion he thought fittest and 
 most convenient for him to dwell in.” Of DomnaTs 
 Castle of Dnnangay no trace remains, but it was then a 
 royal fortress in fashion of the time, with earthworks 
 of dyke and mound, forming seven mighty ramparts, 
 with a vast middle hall of timber for the king and his 
 household, a fair assembly hall for each provincial king, 
 and, fairest work of all, a single pillared chamber, emu- 
 lating that which the famous Cormac in other days had 
 erected at Tara. 
 
 Amid the throng of steeds and chariots and the con- 
 course of noble guests, Congal rode into the courtyard 
 of Dunangay ; for his youth, stateliness, and beauty, 
 the observed of all observers. 
 
 King Domnal stepped down from the threshold of his 
 gate to greet him, kissed him fondly on the cheek, and 
 asked of him that, in token of love and fosterage, he 
 would take at the banquet the place next to his heart 
 at the left hand of the royal throne. ‘‘Sire,” said 
 Congal, “ when the monarch of Ireland is descended, as 
 
THE POETRY OF SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON. 
 
 21 
 
 thou art, from the race of the ITorthern Hy-Mall, the 
 place of Ulster should be at thy right hand, but be it 
 according to the prompting of thy love.’^ 
 
 So the banquet-hall was thronged and every place 
 therein full save two. Congal sat to the left of the throne. 
 Beside him, to his left, was King Sweeny, of Dalaradia, 
 the brother of his betrothed, and next him Garrad 
 Gann, the envoy, who sought by every art to soothe and 
 pacify the rising gorge of Congal and Sweeny. The 
 two vacant places were the monarch’s throne and the 
 seat to his immediate right. The latter was not left 
 long unfilled. Malodhar of Ardmacha came striding 
 into the hall, and looking round with calm audacious 
 glance, seated himself in the right-hand seat, as if 
 already the sovereignty of Ulster were his rightful in- 
 heritance. Sweeny could not refrain from arousing 
 Congal’ s thought to the pride of this upstart, who 
 usurped what was his own rightful place. But again 
 Garrad Gann intervened with honeyed words, and Congal 
 repressed his passion until another seemingly trilling 
 circumstance caused the cup to overflow. 
 
 Last of all came King Domnal into the banquet-hall, 
 the herald proclaiming his greatness and illustrious 
 pedigree; and the Bishop, Eonan Finn, invoked a bless- 
 ing on the feast. 
 
 In that feast, as in the luxurious suppers of the Eo- 
 mans, the first entry was the egg {ab ovo usque ad mala) ^ 
 and an egg of the wild goose was placed before every 
 guest. It was the right of the provincial kings at 
 
 3 
 
22 
 
 THE POETEY OF SIE SAMUEL FEEGUSON^. 
 
 royal banquets to be served on silver, and, while this 
 observance was duly fulfilled in every other case, to 
 Congal alone, be it fate, or mischance, or ignorance, 
 his egg was served upon a mean wooden platter. To 
 Congal, whose heart was already full, this second slight 
 seemed but insult heaped upon insult. He sprang to 
 his feet, and, dashing down Garrad Gann, who strove to 
 restrain him, he turned to Domnal, and, in burning 
 words of wrath, recapitulated the tale of the splendid 
 services he had done him in fighting his battles, in 
 slaying his rival, and placing him on the throne of 
 Ireland. He dwelt upon the unfulfilled promises of 
 the ungrateful monarch and of his own forgiveness of 
 his foster-father, until he saw the matured design to 
 degrade and dishonour him in the sight of the Princes 
 of Erin. He would raise no affray, nor seek to shed 
 blood at the banquet, but he cast defiance to King 
 Domnal, and called upon his Ulidhian train to follow 
 him forth from that ungracious hall. So they passed 
 out and rode northwards. In vain did King Domnal 
 send after them the Bishop, Ronan Einn, to assure 
 Congal that he meant everything in love and kindness, 
 that he gave him the seat to the left as being truly 
 nearest to his heart, and meant the seat to the right to 
 remain vacant if it had not been seized unbidden by 
 Malodhar. To all these pleadings Congal in his passion 
 was deaf, and the bishop returned with purpose frus- 
 trate. The assembly of the royal bards followed him, 
 and to them Congal turned with gracious mien, express- 
 
IHE POETRY OF SIR SAMUEL FERGIJSOIS'. 
 
 23 
 
 ing his shame that, in his haste, he had departed from 
 the hall without bestowing the customary gifts upon 
 the sons of song. This omission he now nobly redeemed, 
 and rode on till he came again to the mountain fast- 
 nesses of Mourne. 
 
 With what delight he was hailed by Kellach, the im- 
 placable enemy of Domnal, may well he conceived. 
 
 Thank God I see my brother Scallan’s son in such 
 guise as befits a Eudrician prince, with his back to 
 slavery and his face to fortune. Tell me, recount to 
 me all the knave’s insidious overtures and wiles. Well 
 I knew him! Well I guessed with what treacherous 
 smiles that feast of his was dressed.” 
 
 As Congal proceeded in his tale, Kellach kept hand- 
 ling his sword, which none suspected the old cripple of 
 keeping ever beside him. At last he drew it forth. 
 
 Listen to my vow,” he cried ; many a time bps this 
 sword been sheathed in the breasts of foes ; it will find 
 its last bloody scabbard in my own bosom if ever you 
 receive from Domnal other recompense for these affronts 
 than full reckoning at the edge of the sword. Cause of 
 quarrel ! — ^it is abundant and overfiowing.” And 
 the old man narrated many instances of battles 
 fought and kingdoms overthrown on far more slender 
 provocation. I have seven brave sons,” he continued, 
 ‘ ‘ every one of whom shall bear arms in your hosting. I 
 myself am not as I was when I fought by Scallan’s 
 side : yet, maimed and palsied as I am, so far as I can 
 find men to bear me into the front of battle, in the front 
 
24 
 
 THE POETBY OF SIB SAMEEL FEBGESON. 
 
 of your battle 1 will be. And yet, dear nephew, this 
 war will need other aids and other councillors. You are 
 too weak for so mighty a strife ; depart at once to Scot- 
 land. King Eochaid Euie, your mother’s father, will 
 give welcome and succour to his grandson. Seek also 
 the King of Britain ; he, too, is a kinsman. Eeturn 
 with a great allied host ; we, in the meantime, will be 
 assiduous in making preparations among your vassals 
 and friends at home.” 
 
 Congal departed that very night amid encompassing 
 mists, escorted by the train of exiled bards, who at- 
 tended him with torches and with battle -song, herald- 
 ing victory. Erom the summit of Ben Borcha (highest 
 of the Mourne range after Slieve Donard) was heard a 
 rushing sound, as of a multitude of cattle driven, and 
 with it a whistle and a call. It seemed as if Borcha — in 
 heathen times the spirit herdsman of Ulster — was en- 
 larging his borders and driving in the cattle of wider 
 pastures. Congal, in his cherished desire to be King of 
 all Ulster, as his fathers had been, hailed it as an omen ; 
 but the bards went farther. Ardan (heathen at heart) 
 directly invoked the aid of Borcha, addressing him as 
 one who, like the bards themselves, had fallen from a 
 higher place. 
 
 Kow, in Congal there was a strain of irreverence, if 
 not of impiety, which had been shown in some acts 
 and expressions on his route to Dunangay, and will be 
 manifested in darker relief hereafter. But he stood 
 appalled at this adjuration of unhallowed powers, and 
 
THE EOETBY OE SIE SAMEEL EEEGUSOJT. 
 
 25 
 
 declared aloud that he would seek no demon’s aid, hut 
 begin this enterprise, trusting in the might of valour 
 and of human arms alone. 
 
 The mist rolled off, and Congal pursued his way, 
 beneath the stars, hack to the fort of Eath Eeltar ; 
 and there, at earliest morn, he sought an interview 
 with his betrothed, Lafinda. He found her superin- 
 tending the work of her handmaidens, in fulling a 
 cloak. The scene is truly Homeric, and reminds us of 
 Ulysses and Hausicaa — 
 
 ‘‘The Princess with her woman-train without the fort he 
 found, 
 
 Beside a limpid running stream, upon the primrose ground, 
 
 In two ranks seated opposite, with soft alternate stroke 
 
 Of bare, white, counter-thrusting feet, fulling a splendid 
 cloak 
 
 Fresh from the loom : incessant rolled athwart the fluted 
 board 
 
 The thick web fretted, while two maids, with arms up- 
 lifted, poured 
 
 Pure water on it diligently ; and to their moving feet 
 
 In answering verse they sang a chant of cadence clear 
 and sweet. 
 
 Princess Lafinda stood beside ; her feet in dainty shoes 
 
 Laced softly ; and her graceful limbs in robes of radiant 
 hues 
 
 Clad delicately, keeping the time: on boss of rushes made. 
 
 Old nurse Levarcam near them sat, beneath the hawthorn 
 shade. 
 
 A grave experienced woman she, of reverend years, to 
 whom 
 
 Well known were both the ends of life, the cradle and the 
 tomb ; 
 
26 
 
 THE POETEy OF SIE SAMEEL FEllGESON. 
 
 Whose withered hands had often smoothed the wounded 
 warrior’s bed ; 
 
 Bathed many new-born babes, and closed the eyes of many 
 dead. 
 
 The merry maidens when they spied the warlike king in 
 view, 
 
 Beneath their robes in modest haste their gleaming feet 
 withdrew, 
 
 And laughing all surceased their task. Lafinda blushing 
 stood 
 
 Elate with conscious joy to see so soon again renewed 
 
 A converse, ah, how sweet, compared with that of nurse or 
 maid I 
 
 But soon her joy met cruel check.” 
 
 In brief words Congal told ber all — tbe impending 
 storm of war, and the inevitable delay of their nnptials. 
 Like the daughter of a king, Lafinda accepted what 
 her lover’s honour demanded ; but as a Christian maiden, 
 she lamented the pride of men who, for a rash word or 
 glance of scorn, jeopardised all they hold dear, and 
 brought war and mourning upon the innocent : — 
 
 ‘‘ Oh, me ! what hearts ye own, 
 Proud men, for trivialest contempt in thoughtless moment 
 shown, 
 
 For rash word from unguarded lips, for fancied scornful eye, 
 That put your lives and hopes of them you love in jeopardy. 
 Yet deem not I, a princess, sprung myself from warrior sires. 
 Repine at aught in thy behoof that Honour’s law requires. 
 Nor ask I what affront, or how offended, neither where 
 Blame first may lie. Judge thou of these: these are a war- 
 rior s care. 
 
 Yet, oh, bethink thee, Congal, ere war kindles, of the ties 
 Of nurture, friendship, fosterage ; think of the woful sighs 
 
College ubrar^ 
 
 €bestwut hill, mabb ., 
 
 THE POETEY OF SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON. 27 
 
 Of widows, of poor orphans’ cries ; of all the pains and griefs 
 That plague a people in the path of battle- wagering chiefs. 
 See, holy men are ’mongst us come with message sweet of 
 peace 
 
 From God Himself, and promise sure that sin and strife shall 
 cease ; 
 
 Else wherefore, if with fear and force mankind must ever 
 dwell. 
 
 Raise we the pardon-spreading cross and peace-proclaiming 
 cell ? ” 
 
 Congal, full of. liis purpose, answered with, light 
 words, and that evening set sail from Bealfarsad of the 
 ships (Belfast) with his chosen companions in a galley 
 hound for Scotland. 
 
 From his grandsire of Scotland Congal received royal 
 welcome and promise of abundant succour. From his 
 uncles, sons of the king, he received the pledge to 
 accompany him and combat by his side. From his 
 kinsmen of Britain he obtained a like pledge. At the 
 court of the latter he was the means of discovering, 
 among rival claimants, the true son of the king, Conan 
 Rodd, who became the most devoted as he was the 
 bravest of his adherents. And he even found auxiliaries 
 in the kings of the lands of the Frank and the Saxon, 
 the Bane and JSTorwegian. "With the great host thus 
 collected, Congal sailed in an evil hour for Erin. 
 
 In evil hour, and escorted by evil omens. As the 
 fleet drew nigh to the coast, a cloud of blood seemed to 
 hang over the Balaradian hills, its edges dropping gore. 
 Scarce had the warriors completed their landing, when 
 a thunderstorm of terriflc magnitude burst upon them. 
 
28 
 
 THE POETHT OF SIE SAMHEL FERGUSOJ^. 
 
 So fierce was tlie liglitning-flame that it set their ships 
 ablaze. From barque to barque the conflagration 
 spread, defying all their power to quench it. An 
 evil augury,’’ cried the Frankish King. “ ^ay,” said 
 Congal, ‘‘be of good cheer, we have shipwrights and 
 carpenters in Ulster skilful and abundant enough to 
 fit out another fleet before our war is over and your 
 time of returning is at hand. Be of good cheer, a 
 stumble at the start is oft the winning of the race.” 
 
 But old Kellach, who had himself borne to he present 
 at the landing, cried out: “Lift me up, companions; 
 raise me on high, that all may see me, and hear my 
 words. It is a good omen and a great augury this 
 burning of the ships. The hand of heaven has done 
 for you what you should have had spirit to do for 
 yourselves. The great warriors and mighty men of 
 yore never landed on a coast for conquest, hut they 
 burned their barques, that flight might he impossible. 
 Then would the fighter break down the bridge behind 
 him, and slay the very steed that bore him to battle, 
 that there might he no issue hut victory or death. 
 Exult in what has befallen, and let the rolling cloud 
 above us, with all its red embers, announce to the 
 coward King of Tara that the heroes of the Korth have 
 once more burned their barques on the coast of Erin.” 
 This was loudly applauded, and the host marched 
 inland, and southward. 
 
 All that night there was heard a tramp as of giant 
 footsteps around their leaguer. King Congal sprang 
 
THE POETBY OF SIB SAMEEL FEBGESOH. 
 
 29 
 
 from his couch, and taking spear in hand, and calling 
 his fierce red hound to his side, walked forth into the 
 white mist. He became aware of a monstrpus shape 
 striding round the camp, of giant size, with a huge 
 mantle depending from his shoulders, which ever and 
 anon struck against his thighs with a sound as of main- 
 sail fiapping upon mast. It was invisible to all save 
 Congal. Three times the monstrous thing made its 
 rounds, and only on the third round did Congal’ s hound 
 spring forward, and then he himself accosted the shape. 
 The giant form passed on in silence, and Congal then 
 pursued him, calling on him with opprobrious words. 
 
 The giant turned for a moment, and opening the 
 folds of his cloak, sent forth such a prodigious blast of 
 wind, that Congal and his hound were swept before it 
 down into the valley. 
 
 This apparition was Mananan Mac Lir, the sea-god 
 of the Tuatha de Hanaan."^' Banished by the more 
 potent spirits of the Druids, who came with Milesius, 
 banished more effectually by the Cross, the demon still 
 made his appearance on dread occasions, and he who 
 then met him, and spoke with him, learned what 
 would befall within the coming year. But he who 
 bespake him, and received no reply, would within the 
 jrear infallibly die. So Bard Ardan expounded to 
 Congal, and Congal answered, ^^Be it so.” 
 
 * “ Their ocean-god was Mananan Mac Lir, 
 
 Whose angry lips 
 
 In their white foam full often would inter 
 Whole fleets of ships.” 
 
 Thomas Darcy ID Gee, 
 
30 
 
 THE POETEY OE SIE SAMUEL EEEGUSON. 
 
 Eut he had not yet supped his fill of horrors. Next 
 morning, as the host marched over the ford of Ullarva 
 (Larne water), they beheld a spectacle which might 
 well freeze the blood within their veins. A hag stood 
 in the middle of the ford up to her knees, engaged in 
 washing the bloody corpses, the severed limbs and 
 heads of innumerable men. Down to her the stream 
 flowed pure and pellucid ; when it passed her, it was 
 red as gore. The soldiery shrank hack appalled. 
 Kellach hade his hearers carry him on into the stream, 
 hut they dared not for fear. Congal himself came 
 forth and addressed the hideous apparition; and 'she 
 thus replied : — 
 
 “ ‘ I am the Washer of the Ford/ she answered ; ‘ and my race 
 Is of the Tuath de Danaan line of Magi ; and my place 
 For toil is in the running streams of Erin ; and my c ive 
 For sleep is in the middle of the shell-heaped Cairn of 
 Maev, 
 
 High up on haunted Knocknarea ; and this fine carnage- 
 heap 
 
 Before me, in these silken vests and mantles which I steep 
 Thus in the running water, are the severed heads and hands 
 And spear-torn scarfs and tunics of these gay-dressed, 
 gallant bands 
 
 Whom thou, 0 Congal, leadest to death. And this,’ the 
 Fury said. 
 
 Uplifting by the clotted locks what seemed a dead man’s 
 head, 
 
 ‘ Is thine head, 0 Congal.’ 
 
 Therewith she rose in air. 
 And vanished from the warrior's view, leaving the river 
 bare 
 
 Of all but running water. But Congal drew his sword 
 
THE POETBY OP SIB SAMEEL FEBGESOH. 
 
 31 
 
 And with a loud-defying shout, plunged madly in the ford, 
 
 Probing the empty pools ; then stood, and from the middle 
 flood 
 
 Exclaimed : 
 
 ‘ Here stand I, and here swear that till the tide of 
 blood 
 
 Thus laves my knees, I will not turn for threat of Devil or 
 Ghost, 
 
 Fairy or lying Spirit accurst, while one of all this host 
 
 Follows my leading.’ ” 
 
 One alone accompanied Congal — Conan Eodd, son of 
 the King of Britain. Kellach, from his litter, cried 
 out upon the burning shame to the sons of Ulster, to 
 see their king confronting that ghastly vision with none 
 to second him save the son of the stranger. ‘‘Well I 
 know her, the accursed hag,” he said. “It is now 
 fourteen years since I beheld her as now, seeking to 
 terrify brave men with her spells. It was at Troy- 
 Brena, in Donegal, when I fought by the side of Dom- 
 nal and Scallan Broad-Shield, against King Sweeny 
 Menu. As we crossed the quagmire near the lock- 
 head, we saw her engaged in washing, and we shook 
 to see the grisly pile of carnage before her. Every man 
 deemed he saw his own head lying in the stream. I 
 saw my own, and yet from that fight came I scathless 
 forth, and I hold her prophecies in scant regard. Would 
 to heaven my limbs had been then as stiff as now they 
 are before I fought in thankless DomnaPs battle ; or 
 would they were now swift and supple as then, or else 
 you should never see me here and Conan Bodd there.” 
 
32 
 
 THE POETBY OF SIR SAMUEL FERGUSOJT. 
 
 The abashed Ulstermen plunged into the stream, and 
 the host continued its southward march. But it seemed 
 as if heaven itself had joined with the unhallowed 
 powers to deter Congal from his enterprise. His own 
 Lafinda came to meet him in her open chariot, driven 
 by her ancient nurse, Laverca. As he sprang to greet 
 her, she implored him in earnest tones to proceed no 
 further. That night her patroness, the holy Brigid of 
 Kildare, had appeared to her, and commanded her to 
 warn Congal of the impending wrath of heaven if he 
 persisted in his warfare against his countrymen. 
 
 Congal put her vision lightly aside, treating it as an 
 idle dream, and besought her to take such refreshment 
 as his tent could afford, and then accept princely escort 
 hack to her brother’s palace, and when the short-lived 
 war would be over, and the pride of Domnal abated, 
 they would hold their nuptials in royal pomp. 
 
 “ ^ Congal,’ the Princess pale, replied, ‘ no bridal pomp for me 
 Is destined, if thou hearkenest not to Brigid’s embassy ; 
 
 Save haply such a bridal pomp as, entering Brigid’s cell, 
 
 A handmaiden of Christ may hope.’ 
 
 Said he, ‘ The powers of hell 
 Have sought to turn me, and have failed ; and though in thee 
 I find 
 
 My only heaven, yet neither thou shalt bind my steadfast 
 mind.’ 
 
 ‘ Ah, me,’ she cried. ‘ What fate is mine ! The daughter of 
 a king, 
 
 Wooed by a king, and well content to wear the marriage ring ; 
 Who never knew the childish want nor granted, nor desire 
 Of maiden bosom, but good saints and angels would conspire 
 
THE POETRY OF SIR SAMUEL FERGUSOJI. 
 
 33 
 
 To bring the innocent wish to pass : who with the streams and 
 flowers, 
 
 So happy was I, turned to joy the very passing hours 
 From flowery earth and fragrant air, and all sweet sounds and 
 sights 
 
 Filling my heart, from morn to eve, with fresh and pure de- 
 lights — 
 
 Just when, in bloom of life, I said ‘this world is wondrous 
 fair,’ 
 
 Now in one hour see nothing left, to live for, but despair.’” 
 
 Old Kellacli cried out scornfully from his chair: 
 ^ ‘ Princess, these are but the dreams of maidens, which 
 vanish when they are wed, and they will all vanish 
 when, after this battle won, thou art brought home to 
 the royal bed of the King of Ulster.” The nurse re- 
 buked him in stern language for his profanity, and he 
 in turn, with redoubled scorn, told her that they had 
 that morn defi.ed even an older and uglier hag than 
 she. 
 
 The nurse wheeled round the steeds and impelled 
 them to depart, but in departing her presence stood re- 
 vealed. It was St. Brigid herself, who in the form of 
 the nurse had accompanied Lafinda to make this last 
 and fruitless dissuasion. 
 
 Congal cried aloud in his pride, and wrath, and irre- 
 verence : Thou robber saint, restore my bride.” He 
 
 flung his spear with all his might at one of the horses 
 that drew the car of the saint; but Brigid, with a gesture 
 of her hand, waved the spear aside, so that it fell 
 
34 
 
 THE POETEY OE SIE SAMUEL FEEGUSOH. 
 
 wide and harmless. She and Lafinda then vanished 
 from their sight. 
 
 These supernatural visitations filled the host with 
 awe. The Prankish king declared that he had taken 
 up arms to aid Congal against King Domnal hut not 
 against the King of Heaven, and he counselled them to 
 proceed no further, hut, on the spot, to found a splendid 
 cell and dedicate it to St. Brigid, and then, in her 
 name, profess peace to King Domnal, claiming from 
 him safe conduct and ships to convey them home. In 
 the meantime, he said, let us encamp and fortify our- 
 selves on this spot to await what may betide. Various 
 were the opinions, discordant the words. Soine were 
 for drawing back to the coast and fortifying themselves 
 there until their friends could send ships to succour 
 them. Others applauded the idea of appeasing the 
 wrath of Brigid, but, that done, to prosecute the war. 
 But when Conan Eodd, son of the King of Britain, 
 sprang to his feet, all were hushed in silence. He de- 
 clared aloud that such preternatural warfare as was 
 now surrounding them was his dream from his earliest 
 youth ; that, in the legends of the days of old, he had 
 heard of the strife of heroes with gods and giants, and 
 burned to partake of such adventures, but had never 
 realised them until he touched the mystic soil of Ire- 
 land, nor had he seen a hero or captain whom he could 
 follow heart and soul until he looked upon the face of 
 Congal Claen, 
 
THE POETEY OF'SIE SAMUEL EEEGUSOJ?'. 
 
 “ Wherefore with awful joy elate, I stand ; and bid thee hail, 
 
 Last hero-stage of all the world, illustrious Innisfail ! 
 
 Land of the lingering gods ! green land, still sparkling fresh 
 and fair 
 
 With morning dew of heroism dried up and gone elsewhere ! 
 
 The battle was now at hand. King Domnal, with 
 all the powers of Erin, was marching to the plain of 
 Moira. 
 
 Domnal had the better cause. He fonght for his 
 country against a host of barbarian invaders; for Chris- 
 tianity and the rites of Patrick and Brigid against a 
 refluent wave of heathenism. Kor was his character 
 such as his enemies, in their hatred, portrayed it. He 
 was, in truth, a valiant and sagacious leader. He sin- 
 cerely lamented the war. The insult to Congal was 
 either undesigned or meant as a test of character, and 
 he would almost at any price have won him back. 
 
 The rival kings made he art -stirring addresses to their 
 followers. Congal, at the head of many nations, pagan 
 and Christian, bespoke them, recalling the various 
 memories of their national glories and exploits, with a 
 special exhortation to his own lludrician kinsmen. But 
 the evil element of pride and impiety latent in him had 
 now grown to a head. He vowed that if victory were 
 given to his standard he would reverse the decrees of 
 Drumkeat, restore the bards to all their ancient honours, 
 and disperse the Christian clergy, so that within a twelve - 
 month there should not exist one of those proud 
 curse -fulminers’^ within the land. 
 
36 
 
 THE POETEY OF SIB SAMUEL FEBGUSON. 
 
 DomnaPs troops were all the sons of Erin from her 
 many provinces — Lagenia, Connacia, Momonia, and Ul- 
 tonia itself westward of the Eann. lS"ot one of these 
 hut had its own heroic legend and spirit-stirring history. 
 To each in turn he addressed appropriate words of fiiu, 
 but, above all, he appealed to the more sacred cause 
 which he defended, their eternal hope and faith in 
 Christ. 
 
 ‘‘ ‘ For surely never yet 
 
 Was juster war defensive waged than this, wherein, beset 
 As deer in hunter’s narrowing ring, or ring’d bull at his stake, 
 We needs must fight for leave to live, if not for glory’s sake. 
 Behold, there breathes not on the earth the creature born so 
 base 
 
 But will, to spending of its life, defend its dwelling-place ; 
 
 Be it the wolf’s leaf-bedded lair, the rook’s dark tops of trees, 
 Or bare shelf of the barren rock, where, over yeasty seas. 
 
 The artless gull intends her brood ; »and baser than the beasts 
 Were we; if, having to defend our homes of love, our feasts 
 joyous friendship, our renown, our freedom, and above 
 All else, our heavenly heritage of Christ’s redeeming love, 
 From this rude inroad unprovoked of Gentile robbers, we 
 Fought not the fight of valiant men to all extremity ; 
 
 As well beseeming those for whom the sacred lay was sung : 
 
 '{C ^ 'it 'it 
 
 Up, God ? and let the foes of God, and them that hate him, 
 fly : 
 
 As wax consumes within the fire, as smoke within the sky, 
 
 So let them melt and perish quite : but he who loves thy laws 
 His head in battle cover Thou, and vindicate his cause.’ 
 
 ‘ Amen,’ Cloc-Pa trick’s clerks replied; and clear above the 
 swell 
 
 Of thousand hoarse-applauding throats, was heard the Stand- 
 ard-Bell.” 
 
THE POETRY OE SEE SAMIIEL EERGUSOH. 
 
 37 
 
 “And, as when fire by chance has caught a furzy mountain 
 side, 
 
 Behind its bickering front of flame, in blackness swift and 
 wide, 
 
 The spreading ruin onward rolls ; so down King Domnal’s 
 van, 
 
 Flashed back from glittering helm and shield, the morning 
 radiance ran ; 
 
 So, dark behind their fiery front, in far evolving throng 
 
 The enlarging legions spread, and poured their serried strength 
 along 
 
 And as, again, when Lammas floods from echoing up- 
 lands go 
 
 Down hurrying to the quaking vale that toils in foam 
 below ; 
 
 So wide, so deep, so terrible, so spreading, swift and vast. 
 
 With tempest-tramp from Congal’s camp the adverse columns 
 pass’d ; 
 
 Every phalanx like a castle ; every captain, at its head. 
 
 Like pillar of a castle-gate, when camping kings have spread 
 
 Their leaguer to the rampart-foot, and pick and broad-axe 
 play 
 
 Kebounding on the sounding plank that holds the war at 
 bay. 
 
 Ah ! many a brave young son was there, to hang on whose 
 broad breast 
 
 Was joy to the proud mother ; many a brother much 
 caressed 
 
 By white-arm ’d smiling sisters ; many a lover who yet bore 
 
 The parting kiss from virgin lips his lips should meet no 
 more ; 
 
 And sons who stood by fathers’ sides, with pious ardour 
 warm. 
 
 Each deeming death were well incurred to shield that head 
 from harm, 
 
 Blooming in love and manly strength ; and many a faithful 
 pair 
 
 4 
 
38 
 
 THE POETRY OF SIR SAMUEL FERGUSOII. 
 
 Of milk-united fosterers and ancient friends was there. 
 
 Swiftly they cleared the narrowing space of plain ground 
 interposed ; 
 
 And, bearing each an even front, from wing to wing they 
 closed. 
 
 A shudder at the closing shock thrill’d through the grassy 
 plain, 
 
 And all the sedgy-sided pools of Lagan sighed again.” 
 
 The details of the battle are told in true Homeric 
 style. At the very beginning another terrible omen 
 fell upon the TJltonian ranks. King Sweeny, of Hath 
 Keltar, brother of Congahs bride, had, in the return 
 from Dunangay, struck down an aged hermit. Ere, 
 who, on the hanks of Boyne, stood to warn them of the 
 wrath of heaven. Sweeny struck him and flung him 
 into the waters of Boyne where he was drowned ; and 
 now, when he stood face to face with his foes, he could 
 see nothing but the awful figure of Ere confronting him 
 with uplifted hand. Seized with a preternatural frenzy 
 of fear, he burst through the ranks behind him and fled 
 with the speed of the wind. 
 
 "We cannot pause upon the incidents of the battle, as 
 it raged and swayed to and fro. Congal himself out- 
 shone every hero in the field, and the noblest and 
 bravest of the Irisli went down before him. Kext to 
 him in valour was his brother-in-arms, Conan Eodd. 
 The latter met a glorious end at the hands of the son of 
 King Malcova, of Meath. But Congal was reserved for 
 a strange and almost ignominious fate. The story pre- 
 sents something of those grotesque features which mark 
 
THE POETRY OF SIR SAMUEL EERGTJSON. 39 
 
 and at times deform our Celtic legends. He was slain 
 by an idiot, by Cuanna, son of King TJltan Long-band. 
 Taunted by bis step-motber with remaining idly at 
 borne, while bis father and other brave men were fight- 
 ing for their country, Cuanna, after a vain demand to 
 give him arms, seized upon a bill -hook for a weapon 
 and the lid of a cauldron for a shield, and, thus ap- 
 parelled, rushed from Dunamain to the plains of Moyra, 
 arriving in the very heat of the battle, nor did he stop 
 nor stay until he found himself face to face with Con- 
 gal. Congal laughed aloud and cried out in scorn of 
 King Domnal, who brought lunatics and fools in such 
 array to battle. Cuanna said to him, “ Ho not mock me 
 or any man’s son who comes here to do his best.” 
 ‘^Forgive me,” said Congal, and take not my words 
 in anger, but battle is no concern of thine.” And he 
 would have passed on, but Cuanna raised his bill-hook, 
 and, with mighty stroke, drove it into Congal’ s side, 
 piercing the rings of his mail. 
 
 Congal knew that he had received his death-wound, 
 but he scorned to take vengeance on the idiot youth. 
 He drew out the weapon and girt tight his belt around 
 the wound, standing erect to continue the fight while 
 life was in him. The son of Malcova, the same who 
 had slain Conan Eodd, proffered him quarter, but just 
 at that moment a fearful tempest descended from heaven, 
 and the invaders, who had everywhere been broken 
 and driven back by the forces of Erin, now seized with 
 a universal panic, turned and fled, bearing the dying 
 
40 
 
 THE POETEY OE SIE SAMUEL FEEGUSOH. 
 
 Congal with them in their flight. The only man who 
 did not and would not fly was old Kellach. His seven 
 sons had all been slain one by one before him, and he 
 sat in his litter awaiting death, thanking God that no 
 son of his had trod or could now tread the path of 
 shame. But even for him King Domnal had compas- 
 sion. 
 
 ‘‘ But keen-eyed Domnal, where he stood to view the rout, ere 
 long 
 
 Spying that white unmoving head amid the scattering throng, 
 Exclaimed, ‘ Of all their broken host one only man I see 
 Not flying ; and I therefore judge him impotent to be 
 Of use of limb. Go : take alive,’ he cried, ‘ and hither fetch 
 The hoary-haired unmoving man : ’tis Kellach, hapless 
 wretch. 
 
 The very author of the war. There lives not on the face 
 Of earth a man stands so in need of God’s forgiving grace : 
 And— for he was my father’s friend, and that white helpless 
 head 
 
 Stirs my compassion— though my foe, I would not see him 
 sped 
 
 Unshrived to that accounting dread ; if yet your pious care, 
 0 Pontiffs, may prevail to bend his stubborn heart to 
 prayer.’ ” 
 
 Kellach’ s heart remained stubborn and unmoved. He 
 died in his pride and hate under the ban of the Church, 
 unshriven and unrepentant. 
 
 But God had mercy upon Congal. When the flight 
 began, he had swooned from his hurt, and Bard Ardan 
 caught him up into his car, and the steeds bore him 
 unconscious hack into his native vales of Antrim. Then, 
 
THE POETEY GF SIE SAMUEL FEEGUSOJ^". 
 
 41 
 
 taken from the car, and laid upon the ground, reviving 
 sense came hack, bringing with it but anguish and de- 
 spair. 
 
 Yet other thoughts, ‘‘how sent let faith divine,’’ 
 came upon the unhappy Congal. He thought of his 
 own pride, of his unjust and sacrilegious war against 
 his native land, of all the generous friends who, through 
 him, had perished, and of their bereaved wives and 
 orphans. And tears, repentant tears, “ let faith divine 
 their source,” burst plentifully forth. 
 
 The spot to which, by the care of Providence, he had 
 been borne was close beside a cell of St. Brigid, and, 
 when now calmed by repentance, he was aware of a 
 veiled religious maid coming across the lawn. He knew 
 a,t once the peerless gesture and indelible grace, but she 
 at first knew him not. 
 
 “ She, when she saw the wounded man was Congal, stood and 
 prayed 
 
 A little space, and trembled much : then came, and meekly 
 said, 
 
 ‘ Sir, thou art wounded ; and I come from Brigid’s cell 
 hard by 
 
 To tend thy wants, if thou wilt brook a sister’s charity.’ 
 
 ‘ And is my aspect also, then, so altered,’ Congal cried, 
 
 ‘ That thou, Lafiiida, kiiowest me not, that shouldst have 
 been my bride ? ’ 
 
 ‘Bride now of Christ,’ she answered low ; * I know thee 
 but as one 
 
 For whom my heavenly Spouse has died.’ 
 
 ‘ And other nuptials none 
 
 Desire I for thee now,’ he said ; ‘ for nothing now is mine, 
 
 Save the fast-fleeting breath of life I hasten to resign.’ ” 
 
42 
 
 THE POETEY OE SIR SAMUEL EERUUSON. 
 
 She bound his wounds, gently tended him, and then 
 asked him if his heart had repented of its sins. 
 
 “ She bound his wounds, and asked him ! ‘Has thy heart 
 At all repented of its sins, unhappy that thou art ?’ 
 
 ‘ My sins,’ said Congal, ‘ and my deeds of strife and blood- 
 shed seem 
 
 No longer mine, but as the shapes and shadows of a dream ; 
 And I myself, as one oppressed with sleep’s deceptive shows, 
 Awaking only now to life, when life is at its close.’ 
 
 ‘Oh, grant,’ she cried, with tender joy, ‘Thou, who alone 
 canst save. 
 
 That this awaking be to light and life beyond the grave ! ’ 
 ’Twas then the long-corroded link of life’s mysterious 
 chain 
 
 Snapped softly, and his mortal change passed upon Congal 
 Claen.” 
 
 In the foregoing pages we have sought rather to 
 enlist the reader’s interest in the march of the narra- 
 tive and the picture of ancient Irish manners and ideas 
 which the poem presents, than to direct his attention to 
 its beauties of imagery and diction. But there is one pas- 
 sage which we cannot refrain from extracting. When 
 Congal was dying, a shape seemed to pass before his eyes, 
 the vision of which affected him as one long pent within 
 doors would be touched at heart by the joy of behold- 
 ing some incomparable panorama ranging over land and 
 sea, while every sense is fed by pure delights. Some- 
 thing of the same thoughts is in Gray, hut it is far more 
 fully and richly elaborated here and with a masterly 
 pencil, while the thought with which it is concluded — 
 
tflE POEfEY OF SIE SAMFEL EEEGIJSOI^. 
 
 43 
 
 the feeling of humility and repentance which the very 
 contemplation of the unsullied glories of the Creator’s 
 works brings home to sinful man — is as true as it is 
 beautifully expressed. 
 
 “ No longer soiled with stain of earth, what seemed his mantle 
 shone 
 
 Rich with innumerable hues refulgent, such as one 
 
 Beholds, and thankful-hearted he, who casts abroad his 
 gaze 
 
 O’er some rich tillage-country side, when mellow autumn 
 days 
 
 Gild all the sheafy foodful stooks ; and, broad before him 
 spread, — 
 
 He looking landward from the brow of some great sea- 
 cape’s head, 
 
 Bray or Ben-Edar — sees beneath in silent pageant grand, 
 
 Slow fields of sunshine spread, o’er fields of rich corn-bearing 
 land ; 
 
 Red glebe or meadow-margin green commingling to the 
 view 
 
 With yellow stubble, browning woods, and upland tracts of 
 blue ; — 
 
 Then, sated with the pomp of fields, turns, sea- ward, to the 
 verge 
 
 Where, mingling with the murmuring wash made by the 
 far-down surge. 
 
 Comes up the clangorous song of birds unseen, that low 
 beneath, 
 
 Poised off the rock, ply underfoot ; and, ’mid the blossom- 
 ing heath. 
 
 And mint-sweet herb that loves the ledge rare-aired, at ease 
 reclined, 
 
 Surveys the wide pale-heaving floor crisped by a curling 
 wind ; 
 
44 
 
 THE POETEY OE SIR SAMUEL EERGUSOH. 
 
 With all its shifting, shadowy belts, and chasing scopes of 
 green, 
 
 Sun-strown, foam-freckled, sail-embossed, and blackening 
 squalls between, 
 
 And slant, cerulean-skirted showers that with a drowsy 
 sound, 
 
 Heard inward, of ebullient waves, stalk all the horizon 
 round ; 
 
 And — haply, being a citizen just ’scaped from some disease 
 
 That long has held him sick indoors, now, in the brine- 
 fresh breeze. 
 
 Health-salted, bathes ; and says, the while he breathes re- 
 viving bliss, 
 
 ‘ I am not good enough, 0 God, nor pure enough for this !”’ 
 
THE POETKY OF SIR SAMUEL FEROUSOX. 
 
 45 
 
 II. 
 
 Iji the ‘‘JS’octes Ambrosianse ’’ of JBlachwood^ Christo- 
 pher ISTorth (Professor Wilson) vehemently combats the 
 class of critics who deny that poetry, poetry of a high 
 order, can arise from art, even mechanical art, when 
 blended with and elevated to the ideal. One would 
 have thought that to sustain his position against such 
 ‘‘shallow and senseless critics,” as he names them, 
 Christopher needed but to have referred to the forging 
 of the shield of Achilles in Homer, or to Schiller’s 
 “Lay of the Bell.” However, he relies on neither 
 of these, hut he recites at length, to the admira- 
 tion of his friends, a poem, then for the first time 
 published, “The Porging of the Anchor.” When he 
 had finished, the second great personage of the “Hoctes” 
 asks him : “Is the ‘ Porging of the Anchor ’ your own, 
 Kit ? ” to which Christopher replies : “I wish it were. 
 But the world will yet hear of the writer. Belfast 
 gave him birth, and he has the same name with a true 
 poet of our own — ^Perguson. Maga will he proud of 
 introdacing him to the world.” 
 
 The “ Porging of the Anchor ” has been reproduced 
 innumerable times. It is far too well known for us to 
 deem it necessary to lay any extract from it before our 
 readers. Our object, moreover, is not simply to mani- 
 fest Perguson as a poet of whom Ireland should be 
 
46 
 
 THE TOETEY OF SlH SAMUEL FEHOUSOi^. 
 
 justly proud, but as that poet whose aim and mission it 
 has been to clothe the old Gaelic life and Gaelic 
 thought in the tongue which Ireland now speaks. And 
 yet there is one of his early poems which we cannot 
 bring ourselves to omit. With nothing distinctly 
 Celtic in its structure or colouring it has that inde- 
 scribable charm of tenderness and delicacy {r)ioUe atque 
 facetum)^ the charm not only of feeling but of finish, 
 which, if we do not deceive ourselves, is found more 
 amongst the poets of Ireland than elsewhere. It is 
 termed the Forester’s Complaint : ” 
 
 “ Through our wild wood- walks here, 
 
 Sunbright and shady, 
 
 Free as the forest deer 
 Roams a lone lady : 
 
 Far from her castle-keep, 
 
 Down in the valley, 
 
 Roams she, by dingle deep, 
 
 Green holm and alley. 
 
 With her sweet presence bright 
 Gladd’ning my dwelling — > 
 
 Oh, fair her face of light, 
 
 Past the tongue’s telling ! 
 
 Woe was me 
 E’er to see 
 Beauty so shining ; 
 
 Ever since, hourly. 
 
 Have I been pining I 
 
 ‘ ‘ In our blithe sports’ debates 
 Down by the river, 
 
 I, of my merry mates, 
 
 Foremost was ever ; 
 
THE TOETHY OF SlH SAMUEL FEBGUSON. 
 
 47 
 
 Skilfullest with my flute, 
 Leading the maidens 
 Heark’ning by moonlight, mute, 
 To its sweet cadence : 
 Sprightliest in the dance 
 Tripping together — 
 
 Such a one was I once 
 Ere she came hither ! 
 
 Woe was me 
 E’er to see 
 Beauty so shining ; 
 
 Ever since, hourly. 
 
 Have I been pining ! 
 
 “Loud now my comrades laugh 
 As I pass by them ; 
 Broadsword and quarter-staff 
 No more I ply them : 
 
 Coy now the maidens frown 
 Wanting their dances ; 
 
 How can their faces brown 
 Win one, who fancies 
 Even an angel’s face 
 Dark to be seen would 
 Be, by the Lily-grace 
 Gladd’ning the greenwood ? 
 Woe was me 
 E’er to see 
 Beauty so shining ; 
 
 Ever since, hourly, 
 
 Have I been pining ! 
 
 “ Wolf, by my broken bow 
 Idle is lying. 
 
 While through the woods I go 
 All the day, sighing, 
 
48 
 
 THE fOMUt OF SlH SAMTTEL FEEGTJSOI^. 
 
 Tracing her footsteps small 
 Through the moss'd cover, 
 
 Hiding then, breathless all, 
 
 At the sight of her. 
 
 Lest my rude gazing should 
 From her haunt scare her — 
 
 Oh, what a solitude 
 
 Wanting her, there were ! 
 
 Woe was me 
 E’er to see 
 Beauty so shining ; 
 
 Ever since, hourly. 
 
 Have I been pining ! 
 
 Still more tender and pathetic is “ The Fairy Thorn.” 
 The superstition on which it is founded is Ulster-Irish, 
 and it possesses no Gaelic colouring in the language, 
 but yet how Celtic it is in its dreamy and mystic super- 
 naturalism. A presence not of earth pervades and 
 breathes from the sinking twilight. 
 
 “ ‘ Get up, our Anna dear, from the weary spinning-wheel ; 
 For your father’s on the hill, and your mother is asleep ; 
 Come up above the crags, and we’ll dance a highland reel 
 Around the fairy thorn on the steep.’ 
 
 •SS- iC- iC- 
 
 * ‘ But solemn is the silence of the silvery haze 
 
 That drinks away their voices in echoless repose. 
 
 And dreamily the evening has still’d the haunted braes, 
 And dreamier the gloaming grows. 
 
 And sinking one by one, like lark-notes from the sky 
 
 When the falcon’s shadow saileth across the open shaw. 
 Are hush’d the maidens’ voices, as cowering down they lie 
 In the flutter of their sudden awe. 
 
THE POETEY OF SIE SAMUEL FEEGUSON. 
 
 49 
 
 “ For, from the air above, and the grassy ground beneath, 
 
 And from the mountain-ashes and the old white-thorn 
 between, 
 
 A Power of faint enchantment doth through their beings 
 breathe, 
 
 And they sink down together on the green. 
 
 ^ iC- 
 
 ‘‘Thus clasp’d and prostrate all, with their heads together 
 bow’d 
 
 Soft o’er their bosoms’ beating — the oidy human sound — 
 They hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy crowd, 
 
 Like a river in the air, gliding round. 
 
 “ No scream can any raise, nor prayer can any say. 
 
 But wild, wild, the terror of the speechless three — 
 
 For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently away, 
 
 By whom they dare not look to see. 
 
 “ They feel their tresses twine with her parting locks of gold. 
 And the curls elastic falling, as her head withdraws ; 
 They feel her sliding arms from their tranced arms unfold, 
 But they may not look to see the cause : 
 
 “For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment lies 
 
 Through all that night of anguish and perilous amaze ; 
 And neither fear nor wonder can ope their quivering eyes 
 Or their limbs from the cold ground raise, 
 
 “ Till out of night the earth has roll’d her dewy side, 
 
 With every haunted mountain and streamy vale below ; 
 When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow morning tide. 
 The maidens’ trance dissolveth so. 
 
 “ Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they may. 
 
 And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious friends in vain— 
 They pined away and died within the year and day. 
 
 And ne’er was Anna Grace seen again.” 
 
50 
 
 THE POETKY OF SIE SAMUEL FEEGUSOH. 
 
 If Sir Samuel Ferguson had continued to produce 
 compositions rivalling or excelling ‘^The Forging of 
 the Anchor,” The Forester’s Complaint,” ^‘The Fairy 
 Thorn,” the ballad of Willy Gilliland,” and other 
 poems of his youth, it cannot he questioned that he 
 would have earned, and would in the future have 
 achieved, a high place among the English poets of this 
 era. Whether he would have won it in his own day is 
 more questionable, when we consider the character of 
 the verse which finds favour with the English public 
 of this generation. It has happened now, as at other 
 periods, that fashion has for a time forsaken what is 
 essential and perennial in poetry for the worship of 
 artificial and temporary form. Height, tenderness, 
 grace, simplicity, originality, are little thought of, and 
 in their place what is laboriously sought after is a 
 certain conventional twining of words and phrases, a 
 frigid idolatry of sensual passion, and alliteration abso- 
 lutely run mad. The ‘^raging rocks and shivering 
 shocks ” of the great Bully Bottom, whatever they may 
 have meant to satirize in Shakespeare’s day, are hut 
 mild ridicule of much that finds favour in our own. 
 Could a greater proof of the degeneracy of English taste 
 in poetry be found than this, that every poetaster 
 who is able to string together some imitative verbal 
 extravagances, thinks himself entitled to speak con- 
 temptuously of Thomas Moore. With writing of this 
 kind Sir Samuel Ferguson could have no part or lot. 
 Moreover, his true mission lay elsewhere. 
 
THE POETRY OE SIR SAMUEL EERGTJSOH. 
 
 51 
 
 We spoke in a former page of the wondei’ful at- 
 traction which the Celtic nature always had for him : 
 snch attraction it never fails to exercise over men of 
 genins, in whose composition the refined and tender 
 elements predominate. Those by whom the Celt is 
 despised and spurned are the worshippers of strength, 
 domination, and success. With what affectionate yearn- 
 ings the poet of whom we write turns not only to his 
 own countrymen, hut to their kith and kin beyond the 
 seas, may he read in his beautiful Adieu to Brittany,” 
 portion of which we give : 
 
 “ Rugged land of the granite and oak, 
 
 I depart with a sigh from thy shore, 
 
 And with kinsman’s affection a blessing invoke 
 On the maids and the men of Arvor. 
 
 “ For the Irish and Breton are kin, 
 
 Though the lights of Antiquity pale 
 In the point of the dawn where the partings begin 
 Of the Bolg, and the Kymri, and Gael. 
 
 “ But, though dim in the distance of time 
 Be the low-burning beacons of fame. 
 
 Holy Nature attests us, in writing sublime 
 On heart and on visage, the same. 
 
 ‘‘ In the dark-eyelash’d eye of blue gray, 
 
 In the open look, modest and kind. 
 
 In the face’s fine oval reflecting the play 
 Of the sensitive, generous mind. 
 
 Till, oft as by meadow and stream 
 With thy Maries and Josephs I roam, 
 
 In companionship gentle and friendly I seem. 
 
 As with Patrick and Brigid at home. 
 
52 
 
 THE POETEY OF SIE SAMUEL FEEGITSON, 
 
 “ Green, meadow-fresh, streamy-bright land ! 
 
 Though greener meads, valleys as fair, 
 
 Be at home, yet the home-yearning heart will demand, 
 Are they blest as in Brittany there ? 
 
 Demand not — repining is vain : 
 
 Yet, would God, that even as thou 
 In thy homeliest homesteads, contented Bretagne, 
 Were the green isle my thoughts are with now I 
 
 “ But I call thee not golden : let gold 
 Deck the coronal troubadours twine, 
 
 Where the waves of the Loire and Garomna are roll’d 
 Through the land of the white wheat and vine, 
 
 And the fire of the Frenchman goes up 
 
 To the quick-thoughted dark-flashing eye : 
 
 AVhile Glory and Change quafiing Luxury’s cup. 
 Challenge all things below and on high. 
 
 “ Leave to him — to the vehement man 
 
 Of the Loire, of the Seine, of the Bhone — 
 
 In the Idea’s high pathways to march in the van. 
 
 To o’erthrow, and set up the o’erthrown. 
 
 “ Be it thine in the broad beaten ways 
 
 That the world’s simple seniors have trod. 
 
 To walk with soft steps, living peaceable days. 
 
 And on earth not forgetful of God, 
 
 ** Nor repine that thy lot has been cast 
 With the things of the old time before, 
 
 For to thee are committed the keys of the past, 
 
 0 gray monumental Arvor ! ” 
 
 We must pass to Sir Samuel Ferguson’s adaptation and 
 treatment of tLe Celtic legends. Amongst these by far 
 the most famous is the Tain Bo Cmilgne^ or Cattle 
 
THE POETRY OF SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON. 
 
 53 
 
 Spoil of Cooley,” the inyasion of Ulster by Meav, 
 Queen of Connaught, and the repelling of the inyasion, 
 through the glorious yalour of Cuchullin, the Celtic 
 Achilles. Sir Samuel has not dealt with the central 
 story of this cycle hut has rather deyoted himseK to 
 the earlier incidents and collateral branches of the 
 mythus, including the narratiye of the betrayal of the 
 Children of Usnach, which in its tragic and fateful 
 character may riyal one of the stories of the destiny 
 befalling great houses, which formed the themes of 
 early Grecian poetry and diuma. 
 
 The time is before the Christian era, yet close on its 
 approach. In those days Uergus Mac Eoy was King of 
 Ulster. Yaliant and skilful in war, ardent in the chase, 
 loying the songs of hards and his own tuneful thoughts, 
 loying also the royal banquet and carouse, Fergus was 
 deficient in the greatest of kingly qualities — the apti- 
 tude for patient and painful labour in the discharge of 
 his royal duties. Thus the long sitting at the council 
 hoard, the weighing and deciding of the intricate claims 
 of suitors and litigants who appealed to the tribunal of 
 the king were to him distasteful and repulsiye. And 
 this distaste increased as he became deeply enamoured 
 of Kessa, the widow of Prince Pathna, and the mother 
 by him of Conor, afterwards known as King Conor Mac 
 Kessa, who made that name famous and infamous. 
 Fergus wooed the fascinating jSTessa to he his wife, and 
 he won her upon the terms that her son, a youth of the 
 brightest promise, should sit at his right hand at the 
 
 5 
 
54 
 
 THE POETEY OE SIE SAMUEL FEEGHSOK. 
 
 council board. Conor, thoughtful, ambitious, cool, self- 
 centred, possessed the qualities in which Fergus was 
 wanting. And so it chanced that one day at council 
 there arose a litigated question, weighty and involved, 
 in which the decision upon the right and the wrong 
 demanded the most minute and patient attention to the 
 details, and the clearest judgment as to the arguments. 
 The dreamy and uxorious Fergus felt that the case had 
 escaped him, and that to make a decision was impos- 
 sible. So, scorning an affectation of knowing what he 
 did not know, he turned to Conor and said, ‘‘Boy 
 judge, do thou decide.^’ How Conor fulfilled the task 
 thus east upon him we will let the poet tell in the 
 person of Fergus himself : 
 
 “ Conor, with unalter’d mien, 
 
 In a clear, sweet voice serene. 
 
 Took in hand the tangled skein 
 And began to make it plain. 
 
 “Asa sheep-dog sorts his cattle. 
 
 As a king arrays his battle, 
 
 So the facts on either side 
 He did marshal and divide. 
 
 “ Every branching side-dispute 
 Traced he downward to the root 
 Of the strife’s main stem, and there 
 Laid the ground of difference bare. 
 
 “ Then to scope of either cause 
 Set the compass of the laws. 
 
 This adopting, that rejecting. 
 
 Reasons to a head collecting — 
 
the EOETEY of SlE SAMUEL FEE6rUSOI?. 
 
 “ As a charging cohort goes 
 Through and over scatter’d foes, 
 
 So, from point to point, he brought 
 Onward still the weight of thought. 
 
 “ Through all error and confusion, 
 
 Till he set the clear conclusion 
 Standing like a king alone, 
 
 All things adverse overthrown, 
 
 ‘‘ And gave judgment clear and sound — 
 Praises fill’d the air around ; 
 
 Yea> the man that lost the cause 
 Hardly could withhold applause. 
 
 “ By the wondering crowd surrounded 
 I sat shamefaced and confounded. 
 Envious ire awhile oppress’d me 
 Till the nobler thought possess’d me ; 
 
 ‘‘ And I rose, and on my feet 
 Standing by the judgment-seat, 
 Took the circlet from my head, 
 Laid it on the bench, and said : 
 
 “ ‘ Men of Uladh, I resign 
 That which is not rightly mine, 
 That a worthier than I 
 May your judge’s place supply. 
 
 ‘‘ ‘Lo, it is no easy thing 
 For a man to be a king 
 Judging well, as should behove 
 One who claims a people’s love. 
 
56 
 
 ise poetry oe sir sameee eergesoj^. 
 
 “ ‘ Uladh’s judgment-seat to fill 
 I have neither wit nor will. 
 
 One is here may justly claim 
 Both the function and the name. 
 
 “ ‘ Conor is of royal blood ; 
 
 Fair he is ; I trust him good ; 
 
 Wise he is we all may say 
 Who have heard his words to-daj^ 
 
 “ ‘ Take him, therefore, in my room, 
 
 Letting me the place assume — 
 
 Office but with life to end — 
 
 Of his councillor and friend.’ 
 
 “ So young Conor gain’d the crown ; 
 
 So I laid the kingship down ; 
 
 Laying with it as I went 
 All I knew of discontent.” 
 
 And so Conor Mac Nessa ascended the throne of 
 Fergus Mac Eoy, and reigned over Ulster. Fergus 
 may well have doubted, like Tennyson’s earl, whether 
 he showed himself great or mean, noble or ignoble. 
 He retired willingly from the troubles of a throne 
 to the delights of the chase, and poetry, and domestic 
 happiness, his generous nature making him ever prompt 
 to aid his stepson with his mature counsel in every 
 difficulty. 
 
 Conor, as might be expected, proved himself a wise 
 and vigilant, resolute and cunning administrator of his 
 realm. But the evil that lurks in every selfish char- 
 acter was certain to manifest itself soon or late. And 
 this brings us to the fate of Heirdre and of the Sons of 
 Usnach. 
 
THE POETEY OF SIE SAHTJEL FEEGESOX. 
 
 57 
 
 ‘WTien King Conor Mac Nessa reigned over TJlster, 
 tlie great houses of the nobles or knights of the Eed 
 (or royal) Branch were the champions ard props of the 
 TJlidian throne ; and amongst these the house of IJsnach 
 was the first in nobility and valour. And to TJsnach 
 were given three goodly sons — Kaisi, Ainle, and Ardan. 
 The mutual love of Kaisi and the beautiful I) eirdre — a 
 love pure and honourable — was the cause that wrought 
 the woe and ruin which afterwards befell. 
 
 Beirdre was the daughter of Pelim, chief among the 
 bards at the coiui of King Conor Mac Kessa. Even 
 from her infancy her loveliness was a wonder. But 
 the banshee shrieked with despairing cry at her bii’th, 
 and the chief druid foretold that she was born for the 
 destruction of the princes of TJlster. And the babe 
 would have been put to death by the judgment of the 
 IJltonian nobles but that the two bravest among them, 
 Conall Carnach and the young Cuchullin, intervened 
 and forbade the sacrifice. Then King Conor decreed 
 that she should be brought up in a lonely island in a 
 lake, with a nui'se and dimid for her sole companions, 
 designing, if her ripening beauty corresponded with 
 her infant promise, to make her the partner of his own 
 royal bed. He had been deserted by his former Queen, 
 Maev, whose fierce and domineering temper found in 
 him neither a master nor a subject. Their marriage 
 had been one eternal warfare. So she left him and 
 became the wife of Ailill, and Queen of Connaught, 
 destined to lead invading hosts into the realm of fiei' 
 
58 
 
 THE POETBY OF SIB SAMUEL FEBGUSOH. 
 
 former spouse. But to return to Deirdre. In the lonely 
 island she grew to girlhood, more than realising her 
 predicted charms of form, and in mind quick, intelli- 
 gent, and inquisitive, learning all that her nurse and 
 tutor could teach her, and learning still more from all 
 of animate and inanimate in nature that surrounded 
 her. The king from time to time visited her to gaze 
 upon her growing loveliness; hut she shrank with 
 silent repulsion from his now grizzled aspect and stern 
 demeanour. And it chanced that in the winter the 
 white snow was crimsoned with the hlood of a wood- 
 pigeon which an eagle had slain. Presently a raven 
 came to taste the hlood, and the nurse, Levarcam, drew 
 Deirdre’ s attention to the three colours — black, white, 
 and red — which she said were the proper hues of love ; 
 and she discoursed to her of the young JSTaisi, eldest of 
 the sons of Dsnach, in whose raven hair and blooming 
 countenance those colours met. 
 
 Naisi, one day returning from the chase, came upon 
 the causeway which united the island of Deirdre with 
 the mainland. There he met the maiden, and in that 
 hour their fate was sealed. Ere they parted they were 
 betrothed. Such was the power of the Knights of the 
 Bed Branch, such the popularity of the house of Dsnach, 
 that Conor was forced to dissemble his resentment and 
 permit Naisi to bring home his bride with all pomp 
 and pageantry. But, as Homer truly says, dreadful is 
 the wrath of a king when it is inflamed against a sub- 
 ject; for, though he may cover his enmity for a time. 
 
THE POETEY OF SIE SAMUEL FEEGUSOH. 
 
 59 
 
 he always lies in wait for the destruction of those whom 
 he hates. Conor never relinquished his passion for 
 Deirdre, nor forsook his design of getting her into his 
 power. The character of Deirdre, as portrayed in the 
 legend, shines forth with singular beauty. All the 
 romance of nature which she had hived and secreted in 
 her insular seclusion was poured forth without stint 
 upon her husband. But she was gifted with an in- 
 tellectual discernment far beyond his — with that femi- 
 nine insight which penetrates the real designs of men, 
 and is prescient of coming danger. She felt that the 
 king was spreading a net for their destruction, and she 
 prevailed upon IN’aisi to take refuge in flight. His two 
 brothers, devoted and loyal to him, accompanied them, 
 and they fled to Scotland and made their home in the 
 solitudes of Glen Etive. There, in the excitement of 
 the chase, in one another’s society and conversation, and 
 the indoor recreation of chess, they passed their exist- 
 ence. All were happy but Haisi himself. Eondly 
 loving Deirdre, truly appreciating and returning the 
 devotion of his brothers, he yet pined in exile : he 
 yearned to be back in Erin, to take his part in war and 
 council, in all the struggles of a virile, civil, and mar- 
 tial career. It is in the midst of this tranquil life 
 in the highland loughs and glens that Sir Samuel 
 Eerguson’s poem flnds them. It is cast in the form of 
 a drama. Thus are the natural and blameless but ill- 
 fated repinings of Haisi described : — - 
 
60 
 
 THE POETHY OF SIH SAMUEL EEEGUSOK. 
 
 DEIEDRE. 
 
 << Were the world 
 
 Peopled but by us two, I were content. 
 
 NAISI. 
 
 “ Not so with me. Love makes the woman’s life 
 Within doors and without ; but, out of doors, 
 Action and glory make the life of man. 
 
 Here I have room for neither : here there’s room 
 Only for solitudes interminable, 
 
 For desert vastness and vacuity. 
 
 I see yon wave that never felt a keel. 
 
 Since first it rose, break white along the beach 
 So far beneath my feet, I hear it not. 
 
 The winds that whistle by me through the grass 
 Bring never sound of life but ’tis a beast 
 Or bird that sends it ; save, perchance, at times 
 My brothers’ or my house-knave’s hunting cry 
 May stir the silence to a moment’s life, 
 
 I am impatient to consort again 
 With men, my equals ; once again to speak 
 My thoughts in council, or in public court. 
 Swaying the judgments of attending throngs. 
 
 And charming minds to unanimity 
 With manly, warm-persuasive argument ; 
 
 Or in the front ranks of embattled hosts 
 To interchange the casts of flying spears 
 ’Mong bloody Mars’ high competitors. 
 
 With poets to record us standing by. 
 
 Nay, at the fair, the games, the feasting-board, 
 
 To look on friendly faces and to grasp 
 The trusted hands of other men, were joy 
 Worth even daring the worst, and back again. 
 Taking my ’customed place on Eman Green, 
 Though there he sat, and all his hosts were there.” 
 
THE POETRY OE SIE SAHTEL FEEGESO^f. 
 
 61 
 
 ileantime, there had arisen among the Ultonian 
 nobles a strong desire to see the exiles restored to 
 their native land. Theii' retreat was nnknown to all 
 save Fergus, the ex-king. Fergus, rising in his place 
 in council, declared aloud that if King Conor gave his 
 royal word that the sons of Fsnach should he permitted 
 to return free and unscathed to their inheiitance, he 
 himself would go foidh to seek them, and ere the then 
 rounding moon had attained the full would lead them 
 hack to the royal couid; of Emania. King Conor arose 
 and answered “ Yea ! ” Xone dreamed what treacheiy 
 lurked beneath his word. Fergus at once set sail from 
 the Antrim coast, found the exiles in Glen Etive, and 
 was received by Kaisi with joy and exultation, by 
 Deirdre with undefined and shiinking fear. In the 
 end they all accompanied him, and the full round moon 
 shone upon their brief voyage to the coast of Erin ; and 
 this was Deirdre’ s song during the passage : 
 
 “ ‘ Harp, take my bosom’s burthen on thy string, 
 
 And, turning it to sad, sweet melod}", 
 
 Waste and disperse it on the careless air. 
 
 “ ‘ Air, take the harp-string’s burthen on thy breast, 
 
 And softly thrilling soulward through the sense, 
 
 Bring my love's heart again in time with mine. 
 
 “ ‘ Bless'd were the hours when, heart in tune with heart, 
 My love and I desired no happier home 
 Than Etive’s airy glades and lonely shore. 
 
 “ ‘ Alba, farewell ! Farewell, fair Etive bank ! 
 
 Sun kiss thee ; moon caress thee ; dewy stars 
 Refresh thee long, dear scenes of quiet days ! ’ ” 
 
62 
 
 THE POETET OF SIE SAMUEL FEEGUSOH. 
 
 They landed upon the Antrim coast, and they were 
 met by Barach, Lord of Dnnseverick, who was a chief 
 among the society of the Bed Branch, accompanied by 
 the two sons of Fergus, Ilian the Fair, and Buino Borb 
 the Dark. Barach had a high feast of the brethren of 
 the Branch to ward in his castle, and he called upon 
 Fergus, by the secret and imperative pledges of the 
 brotherhood, to tarry for the banquet, while his two 
 sons would take his place as guardians and safe con- 
 ducts of the sons of Dsnach to Emania. Deirdre’s 
 keen insight discerns the meditated treachery, which 
 was designed to lure King Fergus to desert his charge. 
 She passionately appeals to him, as king and gentle- 
 man, not to forsake them; but Barach holds by his 
 advantage, relying upon the statutes of the Order, the 
 breach of which entailed the gaysh^ or ban, involving 
 not merely ignominy but evil destiny. Kaisi himself 
 declared that the first duty of Fergus was to his 
 knightly brethren, and that he was fully satisfied with 
 the attendance of his youthful guides. So they ride 
 on. Deirdre, with boding heart, seeks to make acquaint- 
 ance with and probe the minds of Ilian and Buino. She 
 recognises the pure and honourable character of the one, 
 the earthly, covetous and godless nature of the other. 
 She tried a last chance, imploring of her husband to 
 ride on straight to (Dundealga) Dundalk, where they 
 would be safe under the protection of the chivalrous 
 Cuchullin, rather than turn towards Emania and the 
 power of Conor. But in this also she was overruled, 
 
THE POETEY OF SIE SAMEEL FEEGESOH. 
 
 63 
 
 for so the Tates had decreed. They turned to the 
 rightward, and reached the city of King Conor. The 
 king did not come forth to meet them (ominous omis- 
 sion), nor did he invite them to his palace or his 
 banquet hut coldly sent to assigTi the Eed Branch 
 House as their residence. There Kaisi tranquilly sat 
 down to chess with his brother Ardan. The sons of 
 Tergus still remained with them. But Deirdre wrung 
 with doubts and fears, sent her nurse, Levarcam, to 
 penetrate to the hall of Conor and learn what was really 
 designed in their regard. Levarcam found her way to the 
 hall, where, the banquet being ended, she found the king 
 in council with his nobles', mooting a question the very 
 mention of which might well freeze her with horror. 
 The king asked whether since the sons of TJsnach had 
 not returned, according to the engagement of King 
 Tergus, before the full of the moon, he was not free 
 from any promise as to their safety Upon this the 
 council were divided; the greater number present, 
 among whom was the gallant Prince Cormac, son of 
 Conor, maintaining that the promise held good, and 
 was absolute, not conditional. In the midst of the dis- 
 cussion King Conor spied Levarcam, and, beckoning her 
 to him, inquired eagerly about Deirdre, whether she 
 still retained her ancient beauty. To this Levarcam, 
 with a falsehood dictated by love, answered that her 
 
 * It is curious that a quibble of precisely the same kind, the failure to 
 surrender before a particular day, though that failure was due merely to 
 accident and the elements, was made the pretext by King William III. and 
 the Master of Stair for the bloody and perfidious pnassacre of Glepcoe, 
 
64 
 
 THE POETEY OF SIE SAMUEL FEEGUSOH. 
 
 beauty was gone, and that sbe was a worn and faded 
 woman. But the king bad taken other means of ascer- 
 taining tbe truth. He bad sent a spy to climb to the 
 window of tbe ball of tbe Bed Branch House and bring 
 him tidings as to tbe aspect of Heirdi^e. Twice tbe 
 caitiff clomb to tbe casement ; but when Haisi saw, for 
 tbe second time, bis eyes too curiously fixed upon Deirdre, 
 be flung at him tbe ponderous chessman which be held 
 in bis band, cutting open tbe interloper s forehead and 
 felling him to tbe earth. Tbe wounded spy made bis way 
 back to Conor’s ball just at tbe moment when Levar- 
 cam was disparaging tbe charms of Deirdre. ‘‘It is a 
 lie,” be exclaimed. “ I have seen her, and sbe is more 
 radiant in beauty than ever.” Withal be narrated tbe 
 assault made upon him, and pointed to bis streaming 
 blood. These were tbe words of tbe eavesdropper : — 
 
 There lives not beauty on the earth’s expanse 
 Fit to compare with hers. I saw her sit, 
 
 A perfect goddess, lovely to behold, 
 
 Upon a silken couch : she flung her arms, 
 
 No ivory fairer, o’er her golden harp, 
 
 And played a merry and delightful air 
 So sweet, I stood as in an ecstasy ; 
 
 When that strongtraitor who consorts with her, 
 
 Spying me, snatched a chessman from the board 
 And flung it full at me: see here tbe wound.’” 
 
 Conor started up with tbe feigned passion which de- 
 liberate purpose puts on to gain its ends, and on tbe 
 spot despatched a pursuivant and guard to seize tbe 
 
'fHE PO£j?EY OF SIR SAMFEL FEEGFSOJJ-. 
 
 65 
 
 assailant of his messenger. Euino Borh was the first to 
 confront them. He declared himself the guardian of 
 his guests, and, planting a spear in the earth, swore 
 that he would strike dead whoever passed it. But 
 Conor’s envoy answered softly that he had a word for 
 his private ear, and prevailed on him to come forth and 
 speak with him. The broad domain of Dalwhinny had 
 been often dangled as a temptation by the crafty Conor 
 before the eyes of the greedy Buino. It was now 
 assured to him upon the terms of his deserting the sons 
 of TJsnach. Alas for valour and the gifts of intellect if 
 corruption and base desire lie at the root ! Illo, the 
 fair-haired hoy,- at first refused to believe in his brother’s 
 treachery, and, when it was too manifest, flung him- 
 self, sword in hand, upon the hands of Conor, striking 
 the mercenaries down at every blow, until he met his 
 death at the hands of the king himself, and of the king’s 
 son Cormac, who would have given his life for the 
 safety of the sons of TJsnach, hut who in the bewilder- 
 ment of the hour deemed it his first duty to stand by 
 his father’s side. "When Illo was slain, Haisi and his 
 brothers, still undaunted, resolved to shelter Deirdre 
 behind their shield and to cut their way to some place 
 of safety. As for Deirdre, she cherished no illusions. 
 She saw too clearly the end which she had from the 
 first foreboded, and she had prepared a cup for her 
 own drinking. The valorous onset of the three was 
 vain against overwhelming numbers, and their corpses 
 were carried in and laid on the floor of the Bed Branch 
 
66 THE POETEY OE SIE SAMHEL EEEGIJSOH. 
 
 House. Deirdre, before quaffing the poisoned cup — to 
 her the cup of hope, which would unite her with her 
 husband (remember, reader, that the time was heathen), 
 poured forth over him and over his devoted brothers her 
 fond lament. 
 
 The lament is given in the poem before us in stately 
 and sustained blank verse. But there is an earlier 
 version, by Sir Samuel, in rhyme, published in ‘‘The 
 Lays of the Western Gael,’’^' which, though not so 
 lofty in diction, is yet, we think, more melodious and 
 pathetic, and which we prefer to give to our readers. 
 
 “ The lions of the hill are gone, 
 
 And I am left alone — alone — 
 
 Dig the grave both wide and deep, 
 
 For I am sick, and fain would sleep ! 
 
 The falcons of the wood are flown, 
 
 And I am left alone — alone — 
 
 Dig the grave both deep and wide, 
 
 And let us slumber side by side. 
 
 “ The dragons of the rock are sleeping, 
 
 Sleep that wakes not for our weeping ! 
 
 Dig the grave, and make it ready ; 
 
 Lay me on my true love’s body, 
 
 ‘ ‘ Lay their spears and bucklers bright 
 By the warriors’ sides aright ; 
 
 Many a day the three before me 
 On their linked bucklers bore me. 
 
 It was first given in “ The Hibernian Nights’ Entertainment.’ 
 
THE POETEY OF SIE SAHTTEL FEEGTJSOA^. 
 
 67 
 
 ‘ ‘ Lay upon the low grave floor, 
 
 ’Neath each head, the blue claymore ; 
 Many a time the noble three 
 Redden’d these blue blades for me. 
 
 ‘‘ Lay the collars, as is meet. 
 
 Of their greyhounds at their feet ; 
 Many a time for me have they 
 Brought the tall red deer to bay. 
 
 In the falcon’s jesses throw. 
 
 Hook and arrow, line and bow ; 
 
 Never again by stream or plain 
 Shall the gentle woodsmen go. 
 
 “ Sweet companions ye were ever, 
 
 Harsh to me, your sister, never ; 
 Woods and wilds and misty valleys 
 Were, with you, as good’s a palace. 
 
 “ Oh ! to hear my true love singing. 
 Sweet as sound of trumpets ringing : 
 Like the sway of ocean swelling 
 Roll’d his deep voice round our dwelling. 
 
 “ Oh ! to hear the echoes pealing 
 Round our dear and fairy sheeling, 
 When the three, with soaring chorus. 
 Pass’d the silent skylark o’er us. 
 
 “ Echo now, sleep, morn and even — 
 Lark alone enchant the heaven ! 
 Ardan’s lips are scant of breath, 
 
 Naisi’s tongue is cold in death. 
 
 “ Stag, exult on glen and mountain— 
 Salmon, leap from loch to fountain— 
 Heron, in the free air warm ye — 
 Usnach’s sons no more will harm ye ! 
 
6B 
 
 THE POETEY OF SIE SAMUEL FEEGUSOI^. 
 
 “ Erin’s stay no more yon are, 
 
 Rulers of the ridge of war ; 
 
 Never more ’twill be your fate 
 To keep the beam of battle straight ! 
 
 Woe is me ! by fraud and wrong, 
 
 Traitors false and tyrants strong, 
 
 Fell clan Uanach, bought and sold, 
 
 For Barach’s feast and Conor’s gold ! 
 
 “ Woe to Eman, roof and wall ! — 
 
 Woe to Red Branch, hearth and hall — 
 
 Tenfold woe and black dishonour 
 To the foul and false Clan Conor ! 
 
 “ Dig the grave both wide and deep, 
 
 Sick I am, and fain would sleep ! 
 
 Dig the grave and make it ready, 
 
 Lay me on my true love’s body !” 
 
 Her lamentation over, she drank of the cup and 
 escaped from Conor and his wiles. Fergus MacRoy 
 arrived from Dunseverick only in time to see the ruin 
 that had been wrought, wrought in great part by his 
 own softness and credulity. He cried out in anguish 
 against the perjured king, to whom he had yielded up 
 his own throne, renounced him, and defied him, and at 
 last betook himself to the court of Conor’s divorced 
 spouse, Maev, Queen of Connaught, whose chief captain 
 he became in the great war about to ensue, the theme 
 of the Tain-Bo- Cuailgne, 
 
 The ‘‘ Tain ” itself, as we have said, is not sung by 
 Sir Samuel Ferguson, but he has told us the story of 
 
THE rOETET OF SIE SAMEEL FEEGESOls^. 
 
 69 
 
 the mystic and preternatural recovery of the lost 
 legend. 
 
 The ‘‘ Tain ” was supposed to be the composition of 
 King Fergus himseK, who, like Taillefer and many of 
 the minstrels of the Middle Ages, was poet as well as 
 warrior. But in the course of ages the was 
 
 lost, and it was believed that the only remaining 
 copy, traced on vellum, had been cut in pieces and the 
 fragments carried to Rome in the days of St. Patrick. 
 But among the Bards of Erin the sacred law and usage 
 of their profession prescribed that when called on in 
 the hall of prince or chief for any of the famous lays of 
 the Gael he should be prepared to chant it. So in the 
 time of Guary, King of Connaught, in the sixth cen- 
 tury of our era, the king, in his hall at Gort, called on 
 the chief bard, Sanchan Torpest, to chant for them the 
 matchless Tain-Bo-Cmilgne, The king made this de- 
 mand of set purpose, for he knew that the knowledge 
 of the Tain ” was lost, and he was weary bestowing 
 lavish gifts upon the too-exacting College of the Bards. 
 Sanchan was stung to the heart with shame and ire, 
 that in the hall of the king the chief bard was called 
 on for a Tain'^'* he con Id not chant. He rose, exclaim- 
 ing that it was well known the lay was lost ; that in 
 full assembly of the ollaves of Erin they failed to find 
 any certain knowledge of it amongst them all ; that he 
 himself, dissatisfied with this decree, had roamed in 
 search of the Tain^'’ through all the fields and castles 
 of Erin — and not through Erin alone, but Alba’s hills 
 
70 
 
 THE POETEY OF SIE SAMEEL FEEGUSOT^. 
 
 and straths, to the very recesses of Glen Etive, where 
 Eergns had found the sons of Usnach, and Naisi had 
 shouted welcome to him. 
 
 “‘Wondrous shout, from whence repeated, even as up the 
 answering hills 
 
 Echo’s widening wave proceeded, spreads the sound of song 
 that fills 
 
 All the echoing waste of ages, tale and lay and choral 
 strain. 
 
 But the chief delight of sages and of kings was still the 
 
 “ Tainr 
 
 “ ‘Made when mighty Maev invaded Cuailgnia for her brown 
 bright bull ; 
 
 Fergus was the man that made it, for he saw the war 
 in full, 
 
 And in Maev’s own chariot mounted, sang what pass’d 
 before his eyes. 
 
 As you’d hear it now recounted, knew I but where Fergus 
 lies. 
 
 “ ‘ Bear me witness. Giant Bouchaill, herdsmen of the moun- 
 tain drove. 
 
 How with spell and spirit-struggle many a midnight hour 
 I strove 
 
 Back to life to call the author ! for before I’d hear it 
 said, 
 
 “ Neither Sanchan knew it,” rather would I learn it from 
 the dead ; . - 
 
 ‘ ‘ ‘ Ay, and pay the dead their teaching with the one price 
 spirits crave, 
 
 When the hand of magic, reaching past the barriers of 
 the grave, 
 
 Brags the struggling phantom lifeward : — but the Ogham 
 on his stone 
 
 Still must mock us undecipher’d ; grave and lay alike un- 
 known. 
 
THE POETET OF SIE SAHTEL FEEGESOX. 
 
 71 
 
 “ ‘ So that put to shame the direst, here I stand and own, 0 
 King, 
 
 Thou a lawful lay requirest Sanchan Torpest cannot sing. 
 
 Take again the gawds you gave me — cup nor crown no more 
 will I ; 
 
 Son, from further insult save me : lead me hence, and let 
 me die.’ ” 
 
 ^lurgen, the younger son of Sanchan, seeing his 
 father’s anguish, vowed that he would make his way to 
 Tours (seat of St. Martin, kinsman of Patrick), or even 
 to Rome itself, to the Coarh of the Keys,” wherever 
 hope could deem that tidings of the lay might he 
 found. His brother, Eimena, insisted upon accompany- 
 ing him, and they set forth together from the west ; 
 but it was decreed that the ‘‘ Tam” should he re- 
 covered before they left their native soil. As they 
 were traversing Ireland from west to east, Murgen grew 
 faint on the shore of Loch Ein, near a standing head- 
 stone, and his brother left him in search of needful 
 food. In his absence Murgen began to spell the Og- 
 ham inscription on the stone, and, to his amazement, 
 found it was the very hurying-place of Fergus, son of 
 Roy. Murgen, ignorant of spell or incantation, yet 
 thought that if adjured in some potent name the spirit 
 of Fergus might appear to him and give him what he 
 yearned for. He invoked him by every adjuration 
 which he could fancy would have power over such a 
 spirit. He appealed to him in the name of his dear son 
 Illo, who fell at the hand of Conor MacXessa. At last 
 he invoked him in the name of sacred song : 
 
72 
 
 THE POETEY OE SIE SAMUEL FEEGTJSOX. 
 
 “‘Still he stirs not. Love of woman, thou regard’st not 
 Fergus now : 
 
 Love of children, instincts human, care for these no more 
 hast thou : 
 
 Wider comprehensions, deeper insights to the dead belong: 
 
 Since for Love thou wakest not, sleeper, yet awake for 
 sake of Song ! 
 
 “ ‘ Thou, the first in rhythmic cadence dressing life’s discord- 
 ant tale, 
 
 Wars of chiefs and loves of maidens gavest the poem to 
 the Gael : 
 
 Now they’ve lost their noblest measure, and in dark days 
 hard at hand. 
 
 Song shall be the only treasure left them in their native 
 land. 
 
 “ ‘ Not for selfish gawds or baubles dares my soul disturb 
 the graves : 
 
 Love consoles, but Song ennobles ; song less men are meet 
 for slaves : 
 
 Fergus, for the Gael’s sake, waken !— never let the scorn- 
 ful Gauls 
 
 ’Mongst our land’s reproaches reckon lack of song within 
 our walls ! ’ 
 
 “Fergus rose. A mist ascended with him, and a flash was 
 seen 
 
 As of brazen sandals blended with a mantle’s wafture green ; 
 
 But so thick the cloud closed o’er him, Eimena, return’d 
 at last. 
 
 Found not on the field before him but a mist-heap gray 
 and vast.” 
 
 That niglit within the encompassing mist, the spirit 
 of Fergus Mac Eoy thrice repeated to Murgen the 
 words of the great lay, and they remained deeply 
 
THE POETEY OF SIE SAMUEL FEKGUSOX. 
 
 73 
 
 graven on his memory. They hurried hack to Sanchan, 
 that he in his turn might learn the words of the “ Tain ” 
 from the lips of his devoted son. That accomplished, 
 once more they sought King Guary and the royal halls 
 of Goii:. Again the king called on Sanchan for the 
 ‘‘ TainT 
 
 ‘ Yea, with voice and string I’U chant it.’ Murgen to hi 
 father’s knee 
 
 Set the harp : no prelude wanted, Sanchan struck the 
 master key. 
 
 And, as bursts the brimful river all at once from caves of 
 Cong, 
 
 Forth at once, and once for ever, leap’d the torrent of the 
 song. 
 
 “ Floating on a brimful torrent, men go down and banks 
 go by: 
 
 Caught adovm the lyric current, Guary, captured, ear and 
 eye. 
 
 Heard no more the courtier’s jeering, saw no more the walls 
 of Gort, 
 
 Creeve Roe’s meads instead appearing, nnd Emania’s royal 
 fort. 
 
 “Vision chasing splendid vision, Sanchan rol d the rhythmic 
 scene ; 
 
 They that mock’d in lewd derision now, at gaze, with won- 
 dering mien. 
 
 Sate, and, as the glory mg master sway’d the tightening 
 reins of song, 
 
 Felt emotion's pulses faster — fancies faster bound along. 
 
 'VYhen the magTiificent strain had ended there re- 
 mained the fated price to be paid for the appeal to the 
 
74 
 
 THE POETRY OF SIR SAMHEL FERGESOX. 
 
 world of spirits. The ghostly shape of King Pergus 
 passed in mist and icy silence through the hall, and 
 when the spectre had departed, young ^lurgen sate 
 upon his chair, a form of lifeless clay. Such price was 
 paid for the recovery of the 
 
 Another exceedingly remarkable poem of the heathen 
 era is ^‘Conary.” Conary was Arch-King of Erin in 
 days not long after those of Maev and Conor Mac 
 Kessa. Conall Carnach, the foremost of the Ulidian 
 champions next after the mighty Cuchullin, was still 
 living. Conary, the valiant und magnanimous, was 
 compelled to banish his three foster-brothers, Eerger, 
 Eergel, and Pergohar, for treason, and his own two 
 brothers in blood, Perragon and Lomna Druth, accom- 
 panied their exile. Strange to say, considering the 
 more than brotherly tie of fosterage, Pergohar was far 
 the bitterest in hate against him. All five joined the 
 British pirate, Ingcel, in his invasion of Erin. They 
 had taken a great spoil in Britain from the kinsmen of 
 Ingcel, and they had promised him in return a corres- 
 ponding spoil upon the Irish coast. After their landing 
 they advanced close to the spot where Conary, on his 
 return from Thomond to his palace of Tara, was resting 
 for the night in one of the great hostelries or caravansa- 
 ries of the time. This hospitable place of reception was 
 
 * We cannot part from the Tain-Bo-Cuailgne^' without mention of 
 Mr. Auhrey de Vere’s very beautiful poems of “ The Sons of IJsnach” and 
 “The Foray of Queen Maev,” which together embrace the whole legend 
 from the birth of Deirdre to the death of Cuchullin. Mr. Joyce has also 
 attuned his lyre, with great skill, to the same theme. 
 
THE POETRY OF SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON. 
 
 75 
 
 at Bohernabreena, near the source of the Dodder, among 
 the heights that suiTonnd Eblana. There the king- 
 rested with his nobles and warriors and minstrels. 
 Amongst the latter were little men in red caps and 
 mantles, men of the Sidh, or fairy race, whose evil -tuned 
 minstrelsy that night was fatal to the king. This poem 
 brings out in much more prominent relief than the 
 ‘^Deirdre” the superstition of gaysh. T\iq gaysh 
 was something prohibited, as being of evil omen — some- 
 thing that was not to be done either at all or at certain 
 times and places, or under certain circumstances. The 
 penalty was some calamitous visitation from the unseen 
 powers. Some such superstition wonld appear to be of 
 almost universal prevalence, but in those days it was 
 extended and ramified until it was hard to know what 
 action might not come under the evil ban. King 
 Conary, broad and joyous of nature, made light of 
 these things, and had that day committed many viola- 
 tions of the gaysh. Ingcel sent out his spies, and they 
 reported to him all that they had seen of the king and 
 his attendants. As the spies described each, Ingcel 
 asked of Kerragon concerning them, and Perragon made 
 answer truly. These descriptions are, we conceive, 
 the most finished and complete endeavour to represent 
 in modern language the life and manners that existed 
 in Ireland 2,000 years ago. As the spy narrated 
 the looks, the costumes, and the arms of the mighty 
 men who surrounded Conary, the hearts of the king’s 
 brothers melted within them, and they appealed to the 
 
76 
 
 THE POETEY OF SIE SAMUEL FEEOUSON. 
 
 fear of Ingcel, telling him how helpless was the strife 
 against such adversaries. But Ingcel was steel and 
 flint, exulting, as he heard each detail, in the thought 
 of the glory he would win and the spoils he would 
 carry off. When Perragon and Lomna Druth found 
 all their remonstrances unavailing, they slew them- 
 selves rather than draw fratricidal swords against King 
 Conary. Ingcel spurned their bodies with contempt, 
 and sounded the onset. In the battle that ensued the 
 invaders would have been annihilated but for the malice 
 of the fairy minstrels, who, by their deluding music, led 
 Conall Carnach and his men far away from the foes 
 and permitted the pirate to regain his ships. Conary 
 himseK, sorely wounded, was carried hack to the 
 hostelry, and died of thirst while his little son went in 
 search of a draught of water for him, hut brought it 
 too late. Prom this flne poem we can make hut few 
 extracts. Here is the description of Conall Carnach : — 
 
 ‘‘ ‘ A single warrior on a separate bench 
 I saw. Methinks no man was ever born 
 So stately built, so perfect of bis limbs, 
 
 So hero-like is he. Fair-haired he is 
 And yellow-bearded, with an eye of blue. 
 
 He sits apart and wears a wistful look, 
 
 As if he missed some friend’s companionship.’ 
 
 Then Ferragon, not waiting question, cried : 
 
 ‘ Gods ! all the foremost, all the valiantest 
 Of Erin’s champions, gathered in one place 
 For our destruction, are assembled here ! 
 
 That man is Conall Carnach, ; and the friend 
 He looks for vainly with a wistful eye 
 
THE POETEY OF SIE SAHEEL FEEGUSOX. 
 
 77 
 
 Is great Cuchullin : he no more shall share 
 The upper bench with Conall ; since the tomb 
 Holds him by hand of Conall well avenged. 
 
 The foremost this, the mightiest champion this 
 Left of the Red Branch, since Cuchullin’s fall. 
 
 Look you, as thick as fragments are of ice 
 When one night’s frost is crackled underfoot, 
 
 As thick as autumn leaves, as blades of grass, 
 
 Shall the lopp’d members and the cloven half-heads 
 Of them that hear me, be, by break of day. 
 
 Before Da-Derga’s doors, if this assault 
 Be given while Conall Camach waits within ! ’ ” 
 
 We add but the remonstrance, beautifully conceived 
 and phrased, of the king’s brothers, Perragon and 
 Lomna, against the meditated destruction of the king 
 and his nobles, and with them of all that was of worth 
 in the realm : — 
 
 “ ‘ Pity to slay this king,’ said Lomna Druth : 
 
 * Since he has reigned there has not fallen a year 
 Of dearth, or plague, or murrain on the land ; 
 
 The dew has never left the blade of grass 
 One day of Conary’s time, before the noon ; 
 
 Nor harsh wind ruffled hair upon the side 
 Of grazing beast. Since he bega,n his reign 
 From mid-spring to mid-autumn cloud nor storm 
 Has dimm’d the daily-shining, bounteous sun ; 
 
 But each good year has sent its harvests three, 
 
 Of blade, of ear, of fruit, apple, and nut. 
 
 Peace until now in all his realm has reigned, 
 
 And terror of just laws kept men secure. 
 
 What though, by love constrained, in passion’s hour, 
 
 I joined my fortunes to the desperate fates 
 Of hapless kinsmen, I repent it now, 
 
 And wish that rigorous law had had its course 
 Sooner than this good king should now be slain.’ ” 
 
78 
 
 THE POETEY OF SIE SAMUEL FEEGUSON. 
 
 And in answer to Ingcel’s stern rejoinder that for the 
 spoil which, with his help, they had taken in Britain 
 they had sworn to permit him to take a spoil in Ireland, 
 Lomna replied : — 
 
 “ ‘ We gave thee licence,’ Lomna said, ‘ and I 
 Grieve that we gave it, yea, or took the like, 
 
 To take a plunder ; but we gave thee not 
 Licence to take the life, the soul itself. 
 
 Of our whole nation, as you now would do. 
 
 For, slay our reverend sages of the law. 
 
 Slay him who puts the law they teach in act ; 
 
 Slay our sweet poets, and our sacred bards. 
 
 Who keep the continuity of time 
 By fame perpetual of renowned deeds ; 
 
 Slay our experienced captains who prepare 
 The youth for martial manhood, and the charge 
 Of public freedom, as befits a state 
 Self-governed, self-sufficing, self-contained ; 
 
 Slay all that minister our loftier life, 
 
 Now hy this evil chance assembled here, 
 
 You leave us hut the carcass of a state, 
 
 A rabble ripe to rot, and yield the land 
 To foreign masters and perpetual shame.' ” 
 
 So far these are the legends of Ireland in the days 
 of the pagans and druids, and we ask our readers to 
 consider them in connexion with Hume’s statement 
 that, from the earliest dawn of time down to the 
 English invasion, Ireland had been sunk in the deepest 
 barbarism and savagery. Barbarism it may, indeed, 
 in one sense be called, but it is such barbarism as 
 Homer has painted. Here were men who in wild acts 
 
THE POETEY OF SIE SAMUEL FEEGUSON. 
 
 79 
 
 and wild reprisals resembled the men of what are 
 termed the heroic ages in all lands, but who were 
 acquainted with architecture, ship -building, weaving 
 of cloth and linen, working in metals, the rule and 
 councils of princes, the just administration of law, and 
 all the features and germs of a primitive but real civi- 
 lisation. 
 
 There are other poems of the heathen period, especi- 
 ally ‘‘Mesgedra” and ‘‘The JNTaming of Ciichullin,” 
 which we would fain dwell upon if space permitted, 
 but to which we can only refer our readers. 
 
 On the myths of the Ossianic cycle Sir Samuel Fer- 
 guson has dwelt but little ; and, sooth to say, though 
 an additional interest is given to these later legends by 
 the introduction of the Christian idea, and the part 
 which in them St. Patrick fills, yet in greatness of con- 
 ception and true human interest they, in our judgment, 
 fall short of the earlier lays of Cuchullin, and King 
 Fergus, and Feirdre. Put there is one composition of 
 great melody and beauty, the poem on the grave of 
 Queen Aideen, daughter of Angus of Pen-Edar, who 
 died of grief for the loss of her husband, Oscar, son of 
 Ossian, slain at the battle of Gavra in the year 284 of 
 our era. She was buried at what is now termed the 
 Cromlech, in Lord Howth’s demesne. Her funeral 
 song was sung by Ossian. This poem, we may men- 
 tion, has been beautifully illustrated by Miss Stokes. 
 We have only space to extract the earlier stanzas. 
 
80 
 
 THE POETRY OF SIR SAMFEL FERGUSON. 
 
 “ They heaved the stone ; they heap’d the cairn : 
 Said Ossian, ‘ In a queenly grave 
 We leave her, ’mong her fields of fern, 
 
 Between the cliff and wave. 
 
 ‘ ‘ ‘ The cliff behind stands clear and bare, 
 
 And bare, above, the heathery steep 
 Scales the clear heaven’s expanse, to where 
 The Danaan Druids sleep. 
 
 “ ‘ And all the sands that, left and right. 
 The grassy isthmus-ridge confine. 
 
 In yellow bars lie bare and bright 
 Among the sparkling brine. 
 
 “ ‘ A clear pure air pervades the scene. 
 
 In loneliness and awe secure ; 
 
 Meet spot to sepulchre a queen 
 Who in her life was pure. 
 
 “ ‘ Here, far from camp and chase removed, 
 Apart in Nature’s quiet room, 
 
 The music that alive she loved 
 Shall cheer her in the tomb. 
 
 “ ‘ The humming of the noontide bees. 
 
 The lark’s loud carol all day long. 
 
 And, borne on evening’s salted breeze. 
 
 The clanking sea-bird’s song, 
 
 “ ‘ Shall round her airy chamber float. 
 
 And with the whispering winds and streams 
 Attune to Nature’s tenderest note 
 Tlie tenor of her dreams. 
 
THE POETEY OP SIE SAlIIJEL FEEGTJSOX. 
 
 81 
 
 “ ‘ And oft, at tranquil eve’s decline 
 
 When full tides lip the old Green Plain 
 The lowing of Moynalty’s kine 
 Shall round her breathe again, 
 
 “ ‘ In sweet remembrance of the days 
 When, duteous, in the lowly vale, 
 
 Unconscious of my Oscar’s gaze. 
 
 She filled the fragrant pail.’ ” 
 
 Of the noble epic of Congal, whose period is the 
 sixth century, and which depicts the last struggle of 
 reviving heathenism with the Christian idea, we have 
 spoken in a former article. Coming down to the Middle 
 Ages and the time subsequent to the English invasion, 
 we have the graphic and striking ballad of the Welsh- 
 men of Tirawley, narrating the deadly feud between the 
 two clans of the Barretts and the Lynotts, both Welsh 
 by origin, who came over in the wake of Stronghow, 
 and who were among the feudatories of Mac William 
 Bourke. Erom this singular tale of vengeance and re- 
 tribution we can only extract the stanzas which relate 
 how the blinded Emon Lynott nursed and trained his 
 son, Emon Oge, amid the solitudes of Ben Nephin that 
 he might become the instrument of his revenge upon 
 the Barretts. 
 
 “ And ere the bright-orb’d year its course had run. 
 
 On his brown round-knotted knee he nurs’d a son, 
 
 A child of light, with eyes 
 As clear as are the skies 
 In summer, when sunrise 
 Has began ; 
 
 So the Lynott 
 
 Nursed his vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley. 
 
82 
 
 THE POETEY OF SIE SAHHEL FEEGIJSOX. 
 
 “ And, as ever the bright boy grew in strength and size. 
 Made him perfect in each manly exercise, 
 
 The salmon in the flood, 
 
 The dun deer in the wood, 
 
 The eagle in the cloud 
 To surprise, 
 
 On Ben Nephin, 
 
 Far above the foggy fields of Tirawley. 
 
 “ With the yellow-knotted spear-shaft, with the bow, 
 With the steel, prompt to deal shot and blow. 
 
 He taught him from year to year 
 And train’d him without a peer, 
 
 For a perfect cavalier. 
 
 Hoping so — 
 
 Far his forethought — 
 
 For vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley. 
 
 And, when mounted on his proud-bounding steed, 
 
 Emon Oge sat a cavalier indeed ; 
 
 Like the ear upon the wheat 
 When winds in Autumn beat 
 On the bending stems, his seat ; 
 
 And the speed 
 Of his courser 
 
 Was the wind from Barna-na-gee o’er Tirawley ! ” 
 
 Sir SamHel’s versions from tbe Irish would of them- 
 selves deserve a separate comment. They represent 
 but too faithfully the sorrow and disaster, the lamenta- 
 tion and woes of the days of defeat and spoliation. 
 What can be more melancholy, but at the same time 
 more musical, than The Downfall of the Gael,” of 
 which the Irish original was written by O’Gnive, bard 
 of the 0']!leills, in the days of Queen Elizabeth. 
 
THE POETKY OF SIE SAMUEL FEEGUSON. 
 
 83 
 
 “ My heart is in woe, 
 
 And my soul deep in trouble— 
 
 For the mighty are low, 
 
 And abased are the noble. 
 
 ‘ ‘ The sons of the Gael 
 Are in exile and mourning, 
 
 Worn, weary, and pale, 
 
 As spent exiles returning ; 
 
 “ Or men who, in flight 
 From the field of disaster. 
 
 Beseech the black night 
 On their flight to fall faster ; 
 
 ‘‘ Or seamen aghast 
 
 When their planks gape asunder, 
 
 And the waves fierce and fast 
 Tumble through in hoarse thunder; 
 
 “ Or men whom we see 
 
 That have got their death-omen — 
 
 Such wretches are we 
 In the chains of our foemen ! ” 
 
 Coming down two hundred years later, to the days 
 of the Penal Laws, we have the lament over the ruins 
 of the Abbey of Timoleague : — 
 
 “ As I stood before the portals, 
 
 Where of old were wont to be, 
 
 For the blind, the halt, and leper, 
 
 Alms and hospitality. 
 
 Still the ancient seat was standing, 
 
 Built against the buttress gray, 
 
 Where the clergy used to welcome 
 W eary travellers on their way. 
 
84 
 
 THE POETBY OF SIB SAMEEL FEBGESOK-. 
 
 “ Was a time when bells were tinkling, 
 Clergy preaching peace abroad, 
 Psalms a-singing, music ringing 
 Praises to the mighty God. 
 
 “ Empty aisle, deserted chancel, 
 
 Tower tottering to your fall. 
 
 Many a storm since then has beaten 
 On the gray head of your wall ! 
 
 “ Many a bitter storm and tempest 
 Has your roof -tree turned away, 
 Since you first were form’d a temple 
 To the Lord of night and day. 
 
 “ Holy house of ivied gables, 
 
 That wert once the country’s pride, 
 Houseless now in weary Avandering 
 Roam your inmates far and wide. 
 
 a- ic- 
 
 “ Where the lark to early matins 
 Used your clergy forth to call, 
 There, alas ! no tongue is stirring, 
 Save the daw’s upon the wall. 
 
 “ Refectory cold and empty. 
 
 Dormitory bleak and bare. 
 
 Where are now your pious uses. 
 Simple bed and frugal fare? 
 
 Gone your abbot, rule and order, 
 Broken down your altar stones ; 
 Nought see I beneath your shelter. 
 Save a heap of clayey bones. 
 
THE POETEY OE SIE SAMUEL EEEGUSON’. 
 
 85 
 
 “ Oh ! the hardship, oh ! the hatred, 
 
 Tyranny and cruel war, 
 
 Persecution and oppression 
 That have left you as you are ! ” 
 
 We cannot fitlier close this essay than with the 
 lament for Thomas Davis. How truly patriotic it is, 
 how musical in its sorrow, how Irish to the heart’s 
 core in feeling, illustration, flow, and diction ! 
 
 “ I walked through Ballinderry in the Spring-time, 
 
 When the bud was on the tree ; 
 
 And I said, in every fresh-ploughed field beholding 
 The sowers striding free. 
 
 Scattering broadcast forth the corn in golden plenty 
 On the quick seed-clasping soil. 
 
 Even such, this day, among the fresh-stirred hearts of Erin, 
 Thomas Davis is thy toil ! 
 
 “ I sat by Ballyshannon in the summer, 
 
 And saw the salmon leap ; 
 
 And I said, as I beheld the gallant creatures 
 Spring glittering from the deep, 
 
 Through the spray, and through the prone heaps striving 
 onward 
 
 To the calm clear streams above. 
 
 So seekest thou thy native founts of freedom, Thomas 
 Davis, 
 
 In thy brightness of strength and love ! 
 
 “ I stood on Derry bawn in the autumn. 
 
 And I heard the eagle call. 
 
 With a clangorous cry of wrath and lamentation 
 That filled the wide mountain hall, 
 
 7 
 
86 
 
 THE POETRY OF SIR SAMEEL FERGUSON. 
 
 O’er the bare deserted place of his plundered eyrie ; 
 
 And I said, as he screamed and soared, 
 
 So callest thou, then wrathful-soaring Thomas Davis, 
 For a nation’s rights restored ! 
 
 ‘‘ And, alas ! to think but now, and thou art lying, 
 Dear Davis, dead at thy mother’s knee ; 
 
 And I, no mother near, on iny own sick-bed. 
 
 That face on earth shall never see ; 
 
 I may lie and try to feel that I am not dreaming, 
 I may lie and try to say Thy will be done ” — 
 But a hundred such as I will never comfort Erin 
 For the loss of the noble son ! 
 
 Young husbandman of Erin’s fruitful seed-time, 
 
 In the fresh track of danger’s plough ! 
 
 Who will walk the heavy, toilsome, perilous furrow 
 Girt with freedom’s seed-sheets now ? 
 
 Who will banish with the wholesome crop of knowledge 
 The flaunting w eed and the bitter thorn, 
 
 Now that thou thyself art but a seed for hopeful planting 
 Against the resurrection morn ? 
 
 ‘ Young salmon of the flood -tide of freedom 
 That swells round Erin’s shore ! 
 
 Thou wult leap against their loud oppressive torrent 
 Of bigotry and hate no more : 
 
 Drawn downward by their prone material instinct. 
 
 Let them thunder on their rocks and foam — 
 
 Thou hast leaped, aspiring soul to founts beyond their 
 raging, 
 
 Where troubled waters never come ! 
 
THE POETEY OF SIE SAMHEL FEEGUSOX. 
 
 87 
 
 “ But I grieve not, eagle of the empty eyrie, 
 
 That thy wrathful cry is still : 
 
 And that the songs alone of peaceful mourners 
 Are heard to-day on Erin’s hill ; 
 
 Better far, if brothers’ war be destined for us 
 (God avert that horrid day, I pray !) 
 
 That ere our hands be stained with slaughter fratricidal 
 Thy warm heart should be cold in clay. 
 
 “ But my trust is strong in God, who made us brothers, 
 
 That he will not suffer those right hands 
 Which thou hast joined in holier rights than wedlock, 
 
 To draw opposing brands. 
 
 Oh, many a tuneful tongue that thou mad’st vocal 
 Would lie cold and silent then ; 
 
 And songless long once more, should often-widowed Erin 
 Mourn the loss of her brave young men. 
 
 ‘‘ 0 brave young men, my love, my pride, my promise, 
 
 ’Tis on you my hopes are set, 
 
 In manliness, in kindliness, in justice, 
 
 To make Erin a nation yet : 
 
 Self-respecting, self-relying, self-advancing, 
 
 In union or in severance, free and strong — 
 
 And if God grant this, then, under God, to Thomas Davis 
 Let the greater praise belong.” 
 
 Thus traversing all the ages, from the shadowy 
 gigantic fonns and mystic lays of the earliest epoch 
 down to our own times, from Cuchullin and Fergus 
 Mac Eoy to Thomas Davis, may we not say that Sii 
 Samuel Ferguson has achieved a great work for his 
 country ? Be it no disparagement to other labourers 
 in the same field, whom we honour and admire, to say 
 
88 
 
 THE POETRY OF SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON. 
 
 that he is in the front of them all. It has been urged 
 upon us that it is almost a pity that we did not devote 
 ourselves to make his great gifts as a poet better known 
 through the pages of some English periodical.^' We do 
 not adopt this view. In the present condition of 
 English taste our words would he addressed to cold, 
 reluctant, and unsympathetic cars. Here and there a 
 man of genius, like Matthew Arnold, may appreciate 
 the treasures that lie in Celtic poetry and legend, hut 
 to the ordinary English mind they are extraneous and 
 repulsive. However that may he, the first thing is to 
 make our poet more known and more prized by his 
 own countrymen. If a distinctive national Irish litera- 
 ture in the English tongue is, as we hope and believe, 
 an achievement of which the foundations have been 
 already laid, and which one day, in fair and stately 
 proportions, will body forth all that is best and noblest 
 in the character and aspirations of the Gael, and not of 
 the Gael alone, hut of the Gael as interfused and blended 
 with the Dane, the Saxon, and the Herman, according 
 to the noble language of Davis himself, then to Sir 
 Samuel Eerguson may the greater praise belong. Be 
 this the pillar of his fame. 
 
 * These essays appeared in The Irish Monthly^ May and August, 1884. 
 
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