"Those other two, equal with me in fate,
So were I equal with them in renown—"
or:
"Unchanged, though fallen on evil days;
On evil days though fallen, and evil tongues,
In darkness, and by dangers compassed round."
And Llywarch, or Oisin, would never have anticipated the blows of fate; when the blows fell, they would simply have been astonished at fate's presumption.
We might quote many instances of this proud pessimism in Homer:
Kai se, geron, to prin men, akouomen, olbion einai—
"Thou to, we hear, old man, e'en thou was at once time happy;"
Hos gar epeklosanto theoi deiloisi brotoisin
Zoein achnumenous. Autoi de l'akedees eisin—
"The Gods have allotted to us to live thus mortal and mournful,
Mournful; but they themselves live ever untouched by mourning."
Proud—no; it is not quite proud; not in an active sense; there is a resignation in it; and yet it is a kind of haughty resignation. As if he said: We are miserable; there is nothing else to be but miserable; let us be silent, and make no fuss about.—It is the restraint—a very Greek quality—the depth hinted at, but never wailed over or paraded at all—that make in these cases his grand manner. His attitude is, I think, nearer the Teutonic than the Celtic:—his countrymen, like the Teutons, were accustomed to the pralaya, the long racial night. But he and the Celts achieved the grand manner, which the Teutons did not. His eyes, like Llywarch's or Oisin's, were fixed on a past glory beyond the nightfall.