XV.
So chafe Restriction’s fetters. So within
Dwelleth for ever ancient Adam’s will.
Sweet though the tasted fruit, the fruit unseen,
Or seen but yet forbid, is sweeter still.
Lord of the land, of river, vale, and hill,
King Fergus stood, and “Wherefore,” thus said he,
“This circumscription? What of greater ill
Dwelleth within the breast of mine own sea
Than those whose farthest caves have felt the foot of me?
XVI.
“I will descend to Rory: haply there
May dwell some secret whose resistless charms,
Bent to my kindred’s service, danger, care
Shall put apart, and shield from hurt or harm
In council grave or battle’s loud alarm.
What ho, Muëna. Haste my charioteer.
Who boasts that weak has grown my kingly arm
To sweep its path of all restriction clear?
Fergus is Fergus still—and Fergus knows no fear!”
XVII.
Muëna heard, and answered word by deed.
Soon rolled the chariot round the palace hall,
And Eastward toward the ocean; steed by steed
Stretched to the task his limbs; their hoofs did fall
Like rain on summer noons. The curlews’ call
Gave token of the near-approaching end,
And soon before their eyes the ocean wall
Shouldered the shock of waters that extend
To meet the sky. The King did to the marge descend.
XVIII.
Know you the Loch of Rory? Sages tell
How, when the sons of Adam felt the force
Of watery judgments, came a vagrant swell
And burst round shores of Eireann. Man and horse,
King, chief, and clansman, in the widening course
Of high, resistless billows, sank from sight
’Mong cries from throats in sudden anguish hoarse
That called, and called, and ceased when fell the night,—
And on a stranger shore soft broke the morning’s light.
XIX.
Across this shore Ultonia’s King now passed.
The waves that rattled up the pebbled strand
Rose in their ranks, then low before him cast
Themselves, and stood aside on either hand.
The King moved forward. Never magic wand
More swift compelled submission. Thro’ the spray,
As tho’ he trod upon the level land,
He took, ’twixt watery walls, a deepening way,
Till o’er his head the waves shut out the light of day.
XX.
Forward he fared. No swimmer’s opened eye
E’er scanned so sweet a sight. In glimmering green
Slow lightening upward to the watery sky
That arched the watery world, in softer sheen
Than mortals wot of, lay the fairy scene:—
Fantastic rocks, sea-flowers that rose and fell
As brushed by silent shapes that moved between
Him and the darkening distance, fairy cell,
And beds of ocean bloom more sweet than Asphodel.
XXI.
There sat the King adown to scan the world
Of more than wonder. Thither came to sue
For explanation things that swam, and curled,
Then circled round, and passed away from view.
Here stood as ’twere a camp, and there a few
Forms, not of ocean, human arms outspread.
King Fergus wept to make the sad review
Where those who faced the flood, now dumb and dead,
Slept out the tale of time upon the ocean’s bed.
XXII.
Short space he sat when, from athwart the deep,
There came a sound of horror! Far and near
A wild commotion rose, as things that creep,
Or climb, or swim, smitten with sudden fear,
Darkened the depths that erst had been so clear.
King Fergus started upward to his feet,
And saw, but dimly, toward him quickly steer
A dreadful shape that came like lightning fleet,
And chilled the monarch’s blood such fearful foe to meet.
XXIII.
It was the Muirdris!! Nought that men have known
Could match its awful visage: high upheld
On ogrish limbs, one moment ape-like grown,
It flew along, till, lo! it sank, and swelled
To size gigantic, while it yelped and yelled
In sound that spake of fury, fiendish ire.
In tremulous awe the King the beast beheld
Bent in its course on devastation dire,
While from its eyeballs streamed malignant lines of fire.
XXIV.
Round turned the King, and flew as ’twere from Death!
Swift sped the beast within his foamy track.
Wreathed round his form the King could feel its breath,
Nor dared he glance one smallest moment back.
Behind the twain, like tempest-driven rack,
Spread clouds of foam, pointing the path of each.
Above, white billows lashed the shore. His neck
Muëna, wondering, strained,—till on the beach
Swooned the swift-fleeing King beyond the monster’s reach.
XXV.
But tho’ Muëna wondered as he saw
His King, ’mid foamy spray, make sudden flight,
Far more he wondered as he scanned the flaw
Upon the King’s wan face, that made the sight
More dreadful than some horror-haunted night.
Lo! wide apart, and stretched from ear to ear,
In sudden aspect of tremendous fright,
Gaped, like a cave, his jaws: the eyes, once clear,
Stared as upon a sight of overmastering fear.
XXVI.
Muëna bore the King upon his breast
Into the chariot. There he laid him, dazed,
On ample couch, his fevered form to rest,
Soft shaded from the sun, that burned and blazed
High overhead,—then whipt the steeds, as crazed
From some pursuing phantom. Might and main
In lightning alternation high they raised
Sure-stepping foot, and over hill and plain
Toward far Emania’s walls their swiftest strength they strain.
CANTO III.
XXVII.
Not far the sun had fallen, when he drew
The chargers’ reins beside the circling sweep
Of Royal walls. The gathering clansmen knew
From foam and steam no slow and leisured creep
Had been their pace. Their thought took leap on leap
From sight to meaning. Then upon the floor
They spied the King recumbent as in sleep,
And as the form was borne within the door,
In others’ eyes they sought the secret o’er and o’er.
XXVIII.
Straightway into the council-room of chiefs
And sages was the limp-limbed body borne.
Then spake Muëna: “Lo! a grief of griefs,
Ultonia’s hearts are kingless and forlorn,
For know ye not how spake the wiseman, born
To wisdom?—‘Ne’er shall King with blemish marred
Reign’: and behold! alas! since this sad morn
King Fergus, from Ambition evil-starred,
Lies now before your eyes in visage sorely scarred.
XXIX.
“Choose ye a King, to reign within his stead.”
He ceased, but answer came not; rather, round
The silent throng flew questioning glance that said
Unstable vacillation. Not a sound
Broke cover till one bolder spirit wound
The trumpet-horn of speech; then left and right,
Leapt forth the hounds of thought, and roof and ground
Echoed impassioned tongues, and feet bedight
With thong and sandal, plied with each loud speaker’s might.
XXX.
Then spake the sons of wisdom, they who stood
Apart in silent conclave, while the din
Of ineffectual babblings drew no rood
More near conclusion: “Hear, Ultonian kin!
What arm so strong Ultonia’s wars to win,
Foster the strength of strong, inspire the weak?
Lives there a soul full fit to stand within
The Monarch’s room? What worthier do you seek
To guide the reins of peace, or would ye other? Speak!”
XXXI.
“None! none!” the multitudinous answer rang
Unanimous. (King Fergus, with a sigh,
Turned in his sleep. Perchance he dreamed there sang
Some bard of deeds their fathers did.) The cry
Thrilled through the chamber’s walls, and far and nigh
Found answer in a thousand throats, that gave
Their yet unmeaning plaudits to the sky;
And as, in sound like shoreward-shrieking wave
They shout, the secret they in others’ faces crave.
XXXII.
Without, the crowd swayed back and forth, with din
Low-muffled, as the sea doth surge and sway
In silken swell, from storm gone past. Within
Was calm, and brows determined sought a way
Through that old law to write emphatic “Nay!”
Then quoth the wisemen’s chief: “Our path is plain.
Our hearts upon our tongues have said their say,
And Fergus o’er Ultonia’s host shall reign,
If but to meet our thoughts your constant strength ye strain.
XXXIII.
“Let fools and babblers take their journey far,
And silent sit as sent’nel to your speech.
What wots the King of that which him doth mar
If but the knowledge in the breast of each
Be locked beyond a thought’s long-arméd reach
Till forced forgetfulness doth rust the key
Or haply lose it. E’en your art let teach
The water to forget his form to see
Or give it back, when to ablution cometh he.”
XXXIV.
Approval shone within their eyes. Their tongues
In loud assent gave forth: “Fergus is King!”
And once again without, untutored lungs
Caught up the cry, nor knew what meant the thing,
’Till, like a mighty bird, on fresh-plumed wing,
The Royal chariot once again did shake
Rampart and roof, as champing steeds did fling
Their heads on high, and sped by mount and brake
To scenes of less surprise when Fergus should awake.
. . . . . .
XXXV.
What need to sing of deeds within the scope
Of thrice a dozen moons? What need to tell
How fared the King when, by the sanded slope
Where twice a day the sea-waves fret and swell,
He woke? Or devious deeds that oft befell
Clansman and chief in those high-sounding days
Of war-girt peace—a Heaven ringed round with Hell—
Or battle’s loud-lunged shout, or conquest’s blaze,
Or how the blemished King ne’er on his fault did gaze.
CANTO IV.
XXXVI.
’Twas thus—and thus, when thrice a year had sped
King Fergus of his blemish happed to know:—
“I go to mine ablutions (so he said
Unto his bond-maid), girl, the task you know
Of preparation. Haste you, for I go
On mighty mission!” P’r’aps ’twas Fate’s decree
The maiden’s arm in service seemed full slow,
And Fergus, strained of nerve, was swift to see
In microscopic faults, some slight of majesty.
XXXVII.
Howbeit,—the fire to firelike will give blaze,
And progeny of one small word or deed
Count thousand-thousand. Half in wide amaze,
And half in wild vexation that slow heed
The maiden gave to that his will decreed,
He strode into her presence: then on high
He raised the stinging lash his stout-skinned steed
Oft felt, and flinched, and, drawing swiftly nigh,
Its serpent hiss was drowned in the smit’ maiden’s cry.
XXXVIII.
“A curse upon your laggard form!” he hissed.
The smitten girl swift raised her flashing eyes
In scarlet indignation, nor was missed
The blemish on the Monarch’s face. She cries:
“King Fergus, heartless coward! I loathe, despise
Your craven hand, nor e’en a word would deign,
But that I deem your spirit’s shape and size
Must match your brute-like visage.” Purpling plain
With rage, he drew his sword and cut the maid in twain.
XXXIX.
A maddened moment’s deed! And when the storm
Was past, the King in calm the wreck surveyed
Of his own making. Towering o’er the form
Prostrate and purple, holding still the blade
Wet with her life, he stood as sore dismayed,
Muttering: “Visage! Visage!” still the word
Beat inward on his ’wildered brain, nor stayed
Till that grim truth, long hid, to sight restored,
Burst on his mind. He turned, still clasping tight the sword.
XL.
Three steps beyond the portal of the room
Where lay the maid, he stopped and cast a look
Backward,—a look portentous of dark doom
To all beneath its ban. Aloft he shook
The bleeding blade; then cried, till every nook,
E’en to the farthest of the farthest halls,
Trembled; and, as he called, his way he took
Down corridors that held his foot’s swift falls
Till cry and footfall blent without the castle walls.
XLI.
The cry was: “Visage! Visage! Death and blood
To what has wrought the ruin of yon maid,—
That hideous habitant of Rory’s flood
Who plies—mayhap not long—his secret trade;
And mine ambition that such depths essayed
As strained the strength of me. Yet, not for nought
The fiend was found, tho’ fled I sore dismayed:
Some lesson yet is there, tho’ anguish-taught;
Some profit yet remains, tho’ it in blood be bought.
XLII.
One falleth—that foul spirit: then is past
Temptation of ambition; but, perchance
Mine arm may fail: sobeit, then is cast
Away the secret.” On did he advance.
And one who saw his eyeballs’ lightning glance,
And marked his mood and manner, thro’ the crowd
Spread rumouring words, keen, swift as strong-threwn lance,
That drew them forth, a multitude, all browed
With wonderment that grew with each swift stride, till, loud
XLIII.
And deep before them, Rory swells and swings.
Behold! the King nor pauses, nor aside
Turns in his track.—Not mine to tell of things
Run riot in those minds that edged the tide,
Where late the billows did King Fergus hide,
Nor gave of him a token, save the swell
Of giant strivings in the waters wide,
And one wild wave that, as from heart of Hell,
Leaped for the shore and ’mong the wondering warriors fell.
XLIV.
And thereupon arose confusion, such
As ne’er was seen before, and ne’er again
Shall e’er be seen. With tops that seemed to touch
The heights of Heaven arose the strenuous main
In wild tumultuous strivings, till the brain
Of those beholders whirled, and they that spake
In terror seemed all voiceless, for in vain
Speech called at its own ears. All heaven did make
Sound at whose dreadful voice all earth did seem to shake.
XLV.
And far across the world a tempest bore
Sounds of a conflict such as never yet
Man’s eyes beheld,—e’en to the cloudy shore
Of distant Britain: there did they beget
Vague words of wonder. Ere the sun had set
Within a stormy west nor man nor maid
Of all Ultonia but with spray was wet
As, lo! from each far hill, each distant glade
Long thousands shoreward drew with wide-eyed wonder swayed.
XLVI.
And when it seemed as if the heavens swam
In wild bewilderment,—each starry sphere
Would topple earthward, straightway fell a calm
That laid a hush upon the heart of fear,
And soothed both sea and sky, till softest tear
Would drop with sound of cataracts in the glen.
And thus they waited what should next appear,
Uncounted thousands of full-armëd men,
Bards, chieftans, clansmen, women, maids, youths, children:—then
XLVII.
As if the sea had stolen half the glow
Of the sunk sun, the quiet Loch flushed red,
And lengthened day, e’en tho’ the day did go
To other lands. “Some portent this,” they said,
“Of the fight’s finish: one hath joined the dead—
Which, shall appear full soon.”—Lo! on the sea
What form is yon that waves a hideous head
Within its hand? They gaze, they shout: “’Tis he,
Fergus, Ultonia’s King. Fergus hath victory!”
XLVIII.
Then that red glory brightened, and they scanned
The King’s marred visage—marred?—nay, pure and bright
As erst in youth! He called: “With this right hand
Nerved with the fury of revengeful might,
I fought—and won! I’ve lived my day; now night
Doth wrap its blackness round me: I but pay
The price of mine own deed.” And from their sight
He sank beneath the waters of the bay
Which rolled in waves of blood for many a devious day!
To J. A. Gregg.
——
[Note.—Saint Mahee (
) was born about 420 A.D., founded the Abbey of Endrim (
—the single ridge), on the beautiful island bearing that name, about 450, and died in the year 496 or 497. For several centuries the Abbey, in which education and religion were combined, occupied a prominent position, and turned out a number of subsequent founders of similar institutions. Between 974 and 1178 history is silent in regard to it, but it is certain that, from its position on Cuan (
—a lough, now Strangford), which was infested by Danish marauders, it came in for a large share of their devastating attentions. From the date of its affiliation with an English educational establishment, 1178, it seems to have fallen on evil days, and in 1450 it is simply noted as a Parish Church in the charge of the Bishop of Down.
The Island of Endrim—or, as it is now called, in memory of its Patron Saint, Mahee—is situated most picturesquely on Strangford Lough, about seven miles from Comber, Co. Down, and is approachable on foot or car by a modern causeway-road, which crosses an intervening island. On the shoreward end of the island may be seen many remnants of the stone buildings which superseded the original wooden structures. These remnants include the stump of a round tower; traces of extensive foundations once laid bare by the late Bishop Reeves, but now almost entirely hidden from view; the site of the harbour where anchored “ships from Britain;” evidences of a hallowed God’s-acre, and a fairly complete castle of a later period. The circuit of the island can be made on foot leisurely in a couple of hours, and the walk affords a view of the extensive waters of the once Dane-infested lough, the distant hoary walls of Greyabbey, the haunts of Saint Patrick, the reputed scene of the death of Ollav Fola (
, the lawgiver of Erin), and the martial deeds of De Courcey.
Ballydrain, about half-way between Comber and Mahee Island, is so-called from
, a townland, and
, a blackthorn tree; and the reader will observe the connection between this place and the Island of Mahee. No trace of a church has yet been discovered at Ballydrain.
The idea contained in the Legend has been variously rendered by several eminent authors. The incident in which it is here embodied may, however, be fairly claimed as the oldest version—the original, in fact.—The Author.]
Lo! right and left, in calm repose,
Are spread unnumbered isles,
Between whose shores the bluff breeze blows,
And sungilt Strangford smiles.
The shoreward way our feet have left
Below, still winds along
Where strenuous waves, in eddy and cleft,
Croon low their iterant song.