THE LEGEND
OF THE
BLEMISHED KING
AND OTHER POEMS.
A FEW COPIES REMAINING.
The Little Library—Vol. I.
IDYLLS
By LAURA JEAN DOUGLAS.
MODERATOR says:—“Some of the most exquisite prose we have read for many a day.”
IRISH NEWS (Belfast) says:—“In the ten ‘Idylls’ which Miss Douglas contributes, we have a group of the sweetest prose poetry possible.... A gallery of lovely pictures.... A thing of beauty and a joy for ever.... The turn-out of the book is equal to anything of the same kind produced in London.”
MRS. ALICE A. PITMAN, author of “TALES FROM LONDON LIFE,” says:—“The pictures are beautifully conceived, and elegantly portrayed.”
IRISH FIGARO says:—“I am grateful to all who essay in a sincere spirit the difficult task of making Dublin a book-producing place. In ‘The Little Library,’ author, editor, publisher, and draughtsman have combined in an honest endeavour to attain that desirable end. The writer of ‘Idylls’ gives us ten short prose-poems, of which I take the liberty to give the first in its entirety as a specimen. It is entitled, ‘A Rose Garden.’... This is a beautiful picture.”
JAMES H. COUSINS says:—“Beautiful prose fancies.”
IRISH DAILY INDEPENDENT says:—“The book is beautifully produced, and a credit to Dublin.”
SCOTTISH SOCIETY says:—“The weirdly-covered little book with the strange frontispiece which comes to us under the title of ‘Idylls,’ will be read with great enjoyment by all whose sense of literary quality is sufficiently educated to appreciate the extreme delicacy of word-painting in water-colours, if it may be so expressed.... In every sense of the word, they are perfect representations of the idyll in its purest form,... impossible to criticise, and difficult properly to praise.”
THE LITTLE LIBRARY.—VOL. 2.
EDITED BY M. J. KEATS.
BY
JAMES H. COUSINS.
WITH COVER DRAWN BY LOUIS H. VICTORY.
Dublin:
BERNARD DOYLE, FRANKLIN PRINTING WORKS,
9 Upper Ormond Quay.
——
1897.
AND
TO THE COMPANION OF MY WANDERINGS
AMONG MOST
OF THE SCENES HEREIN MENTIONED,
WHOSE PRESENCE
GILDED THE SUN THAT SHINES UPON,
AND PAINTED THE FLOWERS THAT BEDECK
THE
“FAIR HILLS OF HOLY IRELAND.”
EDITOR’S NOTE.
Wordsworth, writing a sonnet, having for its subject the sonnet-form, said:—
“To me,
In sundry moods, ’twas pastime to be bound
Within the sonnet’s scanty plot of ground;”
and all those who have essayed the task of composing in this particular form will admit that Wordsworth’s definition—“scanty plot of ground”—characterises the sonnet’s limitations precisely.
As will be observed in the following pages, Mr. Cousins not only excels as a sonneteer; but in “The Legend of the Blemished King” he performs the remarkable feat of producing a poem of classical character, containing forty-eight stanzas, cast perfectly in the no less difficult mould known as the Spenserian stanza—eight heroic lines, followed by an Alexandrine, rhyming thus:—1, 3; 2, 4, 5, 7; 6, 8, 9.
The subject, however more than the technique, is remarkable. It will have an especial attraction for all who are interested in the ancient literature of Ireland; and, indeed it should be of universal interest, because of the fact that this story of Fergus bears a strong resemblance to the Scriptural narrative of Eden and the Fall of Man. It is a kind of allegory common to all ancient races, containing in its heart an unobtruded moral, wrapped in dramatic incident and decorated with charming pictures of land and sea.
It is, in short, what Fiona M’Leod would call a “legendary morality.”
The other poems are equally admirable; and, indeed, however considered, I think that this book should prove a valuable addition to the best literary products of Ireland.
Deirdre.
Illan, what King was he dwelt here of yore?
Illan.
Fergus, the son of Leide Lithe-o’-limb,
Ere yet he reigned at Eman, did dwell here.
Deirdre.
What, Fergus Wry-mouth? I have heard of him,
And how he came by his ill-favoured name.
Methinks I see him when he rose again
From combat with the monster, and his face,
That had that blemish till love wiped it off,
Serene and ample-featured like a King.
Illan.
Not love but anger, made him fight the beast.
Deirdre.
No, no, I will not have it anger. Love
Prompts every deed heroic. ’Tis the fault
Of him who did compose the tale at first,
Not to have shown ’twas love unblemished him.
. . . . . .
Fergus.
All Erin, shore to shore, shall ring with it
And poets in the ages yet to come
Make tales of wonder of it for the world.
The rugged rock against the sky
Heaves high a tower-topped crest,
Whence widens out beneath the eye
The realms of East and West.
Here lies a land but seldom sung,—
This crude, majestic crown,
And that white sea that moves among
The fertile fields of Down!
Unsung!—save when an alien lyre
A moment’s space was strung,
And Browning fanned a little fire,
And Helen’s Tower was sung.
Yet storied homes of sept and clan
Are here, and,—dim and vague,—
Anear and far, Ben Madighan,
And Keats-sung Ailsa Craig!
Unsung!—and wherefore? lovely land!
Hast thou not ample store
For song, from yonder ocean strand,
To Strangford’s shining shore?
Hast thou not throbbed to foamy flanks,
And sound of Saxon steel,
To crash of Cromwell’s rattling ranks,
And Clansmen of O’Neill?
And yet, not all thy songful crown
Is strife of right with wrong;
Here, limpid lark-streams trickle down
A hundred peaks of song;
There, silent sheep and lambkins lie—
A white, uncertain thing—
Like lingering snow that fain would spy
The secret of the spring.
The roaming robber breezes catch,
And hither upward float,
A lusty lilt and vagrant snatch
From some far rustic throat;
And blustering bye, with strident shout,
From scenes of festive glee,
That libertine of flower and sprout,
The bacchanalian bee.
All life is song:—and song is life
To souls with these akin,
Unfettered by yon city’s strife,
Unsullied by its sin!
Some part of these fair fields and coast,
Some waft of phantom wings,
Will haunt my heart, a welcome ghost,
A hint of higher things.
Dear land of love and happy lot
Of merry maids and swains,
Worthy the martial muse of Scott,
Or Virgil’s pastoral strains;
Loved land, this tongue thy song would share
This votive soul is thine:
Thy lips are loud with praise and prayer,—
Pray God they kindle mine!
[Note:—I am indebted to “The Ecclesiastical History of Down and Connor,” by Rev. James O’Laverty, for the story of the “Blemished King.” Believing it to be comparatively unknown, and desiring, as far as lay in my power, to spread a knowledge of the interesting stories and legends which abound in Irish History and Literature, I translated it into verse. I learn, however, that a poem on the same subject has been written by the late Sir Samuel Ferguson, under the title of “Fergus Wry-mouth.” I can only plead justification for running the inevitable gauntlet of comparison between a giant and a pigmy, on the ground that I had already committed myself to the publication of the present version of the legend before I became aware of the fact mentioned. I have not read the poem by Sir Samuel Ferguson, and I shall not do so until after this volume is in print; but I have written Lady Ferguson on the matter, and she very kindly refuses to see any possible objection to the publication of my rendering of the story, seeing that it contains almost as many stanzas as there are lines in Sir Samuel’s.
The Loch of Rory (
), the centre around which the following story moves, is Dundrum Bay. That bay is still remarkable for its roar, which has been frequently referred to by ancient writers. Even a modern poet (S. K. Cowan, in “Sung by Six”) has written of the bay, “where deep seas moan.” Other evidences point to the identity of Rory and Dundrum, in opposition to the conjectures of some that the present Belfast Lough was the scene of the incidents contained in the “Legend of the Blemished King.”—The Author.]