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GUARE
Now Marvan, hermit of the
grot, Why sleep'st thou not on quilted feathers? Why on a pitch-pine floor instead At night make head against all weathers? MARVAN I have a shieling in the wood, None save my God has knowledge of it, An ash-tree and a hazelnut Its two sides shut, great oak-boughs roof it. Two heath-clad posts beneath a buckle Of honeysuckle its frame are propping, The woods around its narrow bound Swine-fattening mast are richly dropping. From out my shieling not too small, Familiar all, fair paths invite me; Now, blackbird, from my gable end, Sweet sable friend, thy notes delight me. With joys the stags of Oakridge leap Into their clear and deep-banked river, Far off red Roiny glows with joy, Muckraw, Moinmoy in sunshine quiver. With mighty mane a green-barked yew Upholds the blue; his fortress green An oak uprears against the storms, Tremendous forms, stupendous scene. [36] Mine apple-tree is full of fruit From crown to root—a hostel's store— My bonny nutful hazel-bush Leans branching lush against my door. A choice, pure spring of cooling draught Is mine. What prince has quaffed a rarer? Around it cresses keen, O King, Invite the famishing wayfarer. Tame swine and wild and goat and deer Assemble here upon its brink, Yea! even the badger's brood draw near And without fear lie down to drink. A peaceful troop of creatures strange, They hither range from wood and height, To meet them slender foxes steal At vesper peal, O my delight! These visitants as to a Court Frequent resort to seek me out, Pure water, Brother Guare, are they The salmon grey, the speckled trout; Red rowans, dusky sloes and mast— O unsurpassed and God-sent dish— Blackberries, whortleberries blue, Red strawberries to my taste and wish; Sweet apples, honey of wild bees And after them of eggs a clutch, Haws, berries of the juniper; Who, King, could cast a slur on such? A cup with mead of hazelnut Outside my hut in summer shine, Or ale with herbs from wood and spring Are worth, O King, thy costliest wine. [37] Bright bluebells o'er my board I throw— A lovely show my feast to spangle— The rushes' radiance, oaklets grey, Brier-tresses gay, sweet, goodly tangle. When brilliant summer casts once more Her cloak of colour o'er the fields, Sweet-tasting marjoram, pignut, leek, To all who seek, her verdure yields. Her bright red-breasted little men Their lovely music then outpour, The thrush exults, the cuckoos all Around her call and call once more. The bees, earth's small musicians, hum, No longer dumb, in gentle chorus. Like echoes faint of that long plaint The fleeing wild-fowl murmur o'er us. The wren, an active songster now, From off the hazel-bough pipes shrill, Woodpeckers flock in multitudes With beauteous hoods and beating bill. With fair white birds, the crane and gull The fields are full, while cuckoos cry— No mournful music! Heath-poults dun Through russet heather sunward fly. The heifers now with loud delight, Summer bright, salute thy reign! Smooth delight for toilsome loss 'Tis now to cross the fertile plain. The warblings of the wind that sweep From branchy wood to beaming sky, The river-falls, the swan's far note— Delicious music floating by. [38] Earth's bravest band because unhired, All day, untired make cheer for me. In Christ's own eyes of endless youth Can this same truth be said of thee? What though in Kingly pleasures now Beyond all riches thou rejoice, Content am I my Saviour good Should on this wood have set my choice. Without one hour of war or strife Through all my life at peace I fare; Where better can I keep my tryst With our Lord Christ, O brother Guare? GUARE My glorious Kingship, yea! and all My Sire's estates that fall to me, My Marvan, I would gladly give, So I might live my life with thee. |
ON ÆNGUS THE CULDEE
Author of the Felire Ængusa or Calendar of Church Festivals. He was a Saint, his appellation Culdee [Céile dé] meaning "Servant of God." He lived at the end of the eighth and beginning of the ninth century.
| Delightful here at
Disert Bethel, By cold, pure Nore at peace to rest, Where noisy raids have never sullied The beechen forest's virgin vest. For here the Angel Host would visit Of yore with Ængus, Oivlen's son, As in his cross-ringed cell he lauded The One in Three, the Three in One. To death he passed upon a Friday, The day they slew our Blessed Lord. Here stands his tomb; unto the Assembly Of Holy Heaven his soul has soared. 'Twas in Cloneagh he had his rearing; 'Tis in Cloneagh he now lies dead, 'Twas in Cloneagh of many crosses That first his psalms he read. |