I bring you all my dreams, O golden Maeve,
There are no dreams in all the world like these
The dreams of Spring, the golden fronds that wave
In faery land beneath dark forest-trees,—
I bring you all my dreams.
I bring you all my dreams, Fionavar,
From that dim land where every dream is sweet,
I have brought you a little shining star,
I strew my primroses beneath your feet,
I bring you all my dreams.
There is yet another style in which the heroic tales are occasionally treated, and it is directly contrasted with either of those which we have just considered. Examples of it may be found in Miss Alice Milligan's book of Hero Lays, where it will be seen that the poet's chief concern is with the story itself, rather than with the manner of telling. In such a piece as "Brian of Banba," for instance, the action is clear and moves rapidly. There is a sense of morning air and light in the poem which is very refreshing after the atmosphere of golden afternoon, or evening twilight, in which we have been wandering. It comes partly from the blithe swing of the rhythm: partly from the vigour and clear strength of diction. And a true dramatic sense imparts the life and movement of quickly changing emotion.
Banba is one of the many beautiful old names for Ireland; and Brian was perhaps her greatest king. He lived about the time of our English Alfred and, like him, Brian fought continually against the invading Dane. He, too, when a young man, lived for a long time the life of an outlaw—outcast even from his own clan because he would not suffer the Danish yoke. The poem relates an incident of Brian's appearance at the palace of his brother, King Mahon, after a long absence. He strides into the gay assembly alone, his body worn thin by privation and his garments ragged.
"Brian, my brother," said the King, in a tone of scornful wonder,
"Why dost thou come in beggar-guise our palace portals under?
Where hast thou wandered since yester year, on what venture of love
hast thou tarried?
Tell us the count of thy prey of deer, and what cattleherds thou hast
harried.
.....
"I have hunted no deer since yester year, I have harried no neighbour's
cattle,
I have wooed no love, I have joined no game, save the kingly game of
battle;
The Danes were my prey by night and day, in their forts of hill and
hollow,
And I come from the desert-lands alone, since none are alive to follow.
Some were slain on the plundered plain, and some in the midnight
marching;
Some were lost in the winter floods, and some by the fever parching;
Some have perished by wounds of spears, and some by the shafts of
bowmen;
And some by hunger and some by thirst, and all are dead; but they
slaughtered first
Their tenfold more of their foemen."
The King impulsively offers him gifts for a reward, but Brian declines them:
"I want no cattle from out your herds, no share of your shining
treasure;
But grant me now"—and he turned to look on the listening warriors'
faces—
"A hundred more of the clan Dal Cas, to follow me over plain and pass:
To die, as fitteth the brave Dal Cas, at war with the Outland races."
It must not be supposed, however, that these poets are working solely upon romantic themes, more or less in the epic manner. On the contrary, direct treatment of the saga is declining, even with the poets who, like those we have named, were formerly preoccupied with it. Mr Cousins' volume of 1915 is sharply symptomatic of the change. Subjects of more social and more immediate interest are engaging attention, and legendary material is passing into a phase of allusion and symbol. Concurrently, there is a development of the pure lyric which gives great promise, being sound and sweet and vigorous. It has all the signs of vitality, drawing its inspiration directly from life, keeping close to the earth, as it were, and often dealing with the large and simple things of existence.