CONNOR MAC-NESSA—AN IRISH LEGEND
| siege | tourney | falconry | anxious |
| relief | anguish | tranquil | crucify |
| chieftain | emerald | generous | vigorous |
Loud roared the din of battle, fierce,
Bloody and wild,
With Ulster men and Connaught men
The field was piled.
Connor Mac-Nessa, Ulster’s King,
In the mad fray
Wounded to death and well-nigh spent
And dying lay.
A Druid came with healing balm
Of herb and leaf,
He poured it in the gaping wound,
To give relief;
The wound was healed, “Yet,” said the leech,
“Beware, my Liege!
Of war’s alarm or battle fray,
Sally or siege;
“No more o’er mere and fen with thee,
Oh! noble king,
Brave Knight and Lady fair will strive
For bittern’s wing;
No more thou’lt ride thy prancing steed
After the doe,
No more thou’lt tilt at tourney brave
’Gainst gallant foe;
“For thee the fireside’s tranquil calm,
Lest sudden rift
Of wound break forth and cause thy death
In anguish swift!”
Quiet and calm, in war or peace,
No more to roam,
Connor Mac-Nessa, Ulster’s King,
Abode at home.
One day, when woods were green and fair,
And hearts were light,
Swiftly the gleaming mid-day sun
Grew dark as night;
Black portents unto Erin fair
It seemed to bring.
“What means this, mighty Druid?” asked
The anxious king.
“Far, far away, across the sea,”
The Druid said,
“Jesu, the Christ, upon a cross
Bends low His head.
Their King upon the shameful tree,
With mocking cry,
And scornful gibe, the cruel Jews
Now crucify.”
King Connor cried, “What crime had this
Man done, I pray?”
“But to be good were crime enough
For such as they,
My King,” the answer came. “He was
To death enticed,
Then broke His tender, loving heart,
This fair, white Christ!”
A generous flush o’erspread his cheek,
Mac-Nessa sprang
Quick to his feet; his quivering voice
In anger rang.
“Ah! wicked deed! Ah! poor, white Christ!
They murder Thee!
Why didst thou not unto the King
Of Erin flee?
“Thy battles he would fight to death,
Poor, guiltless One,
Ulster’s great chieftain ne’er could see
Injustice done!”
Then dashed he from the hall and seized
With vigorous hand
His keen and sharp-edged clevy—
A wondrous brand!
Under the turquoise sky, upon
The emerald turf,
His anger raged like foaming crest
Of frothy surf.
He hacked and hewed the giant trees
With his keen sword.
“Thus would I slay Thy foes, poor Christ,
With blood out-poured!”
Then quickly his forgotten wound
Sprung gaping wide.
He reeled and fell: “I go to Thee,
Oh! Christ!” he sighed,
For the King Christ he loved unseen,
With flowers bespread,
Connor Mac-Nessa, Ulster’s King
Lay cold and dead!
—M. F. N.-R.