A year after the battle, Malachy assaulted Dublin, and burned all the buildings outside the fortress, within which Sitric lay secure. In 1018, Sitric blinded Bran or Braoin, his own first cousin, son of Maelmordha, thus incapacitating him to rule. The poor prince subsequently went abroad and died in a monastery at Cologne. This Bran was ancestor of the Ua Brain or O'Byrn of Wicklow. Next year he went on enlarging his bad ways by plundering Kells, slaying many people in the very church, and carrying away spoils and prisoners. In 1021, his Danes and himself got a signal defeat at Derne Mogorog, (Delgany,) by the son of Dunlaing, King of Leinster. In 1022, he was again defeated by King Malachy in a land battle, and at sea by Niall, son of Eochaidh, (pr. Achy or Uchy,) king of Hy Conaill. In 1027, he made an unsuccessful raid into Meath, and next year went on a pilgrimage to Rome. Two years later he attended the funeral of his mother Gormflaith. His pilgrimage had not quenched his thirst for forays, for in 1031 he plundered Ardbraccan, and carried off much cattle. Next year he was victorious at the mouth of the Boyne over the men of Meath, Louth, and Monaghan. In 1035, twenty-one years after the great fight, he abdicated in favor of his nephew Eachmarcach, (Rich in Horses,) and went abroad, (where is not said.) His death as well as that of his daughter Fineen, a nun, is recorded in 1042, the last seven years of life having probably been spent in religious retirement.
Irish historians and archaeologists will find valuable assistance in the appendix, whenever they are occupied with the genealogies of the Irish or foreign kings and chiefs who flourished during the two centuries preceding the day at Clontarf.
From The Month.
Rhoda.
A Devonshire Eclogue.
"I am declined
Into the vale of years; yet that's not much."—Othello.
It was the deep midsummer; the calm lake
Lay shining in the sun; the glittering ripples,
That scarce bare record of the wind's light wings,
Reached not the shore, where, shadowed by huge oaks,
The clear still water blended with the land
In undistinguished union. All was still,
Save where at little distance a bright spring
Leapt out from a fern-coroneted rock,
And ran with cheerful prattle its short course
(Making the silence deeper for its noise)
To quiet slumber in the quiet lake.
Down to the margin of the water, slow
Pacing along the shadow-dappled grass
Into the trees' green twilight, steadfastly
The while his eyes bent down upon the ground,
Sir Richard Conway came. No longer young;
A statesman of repute; in council wise;
Of bitter speech, but not unkindly heart;
Of stately presence still. He in his youth
Had wooed and wedded a fair girl; so fair,
So gentle, and so good that when she died
His heart and love died too, and in her grave
Lay down, and he came forth a stricken man.
But this was long ago: his children grew;
He watched them, but they never saw his heart;
They dreamed not of the proud man's tenderness,
But went into the highway of the world,
And left him to his utter loneliness.
Years passed: sometimes his solitary heart
Sent out a cry of agony for love;
But no one heard—he sternly stifled it:
Treading his path with dignity, he lived
In pride and honor, and he lived alone.
He prayed for love, and in his autumn days
Love came upon him; but in such a sort
As, if a man had told him it would come,
He would have laughed in scorn. But so it is;
God gives us our desire, and sends withal
Sharp chastening as his wisdom sees most fit.
Rhoda, the fairest of a sisterhood
Who were all fair, lived hard by the great house,
Near to the lake; the daughter of a pair
Not rich, yet blessed with slender competence.
And sometimes in the park, or in the house,
Whereto chance errands brought her, she would meet
Sir Richard, who to such as her showed ever
A gracious kindness, and would give to her
A friendly greeting, sometimes with a word
Of question of her needs or her desires,
Followed by such slight interchange of talk
As might befit such meetings—nothing more.
Indeed he could not fail, as time wore on,
To note that with each year she lovelier grew:
A pale and delicate fairy, exquisite
As some rare picture, with pathetic eyes
Veiled underneath long lashes; their shy glance
Seemed to reveal a soul whose tender depths
Were unprofaned by any earthly thought.
Nor was it seeming only: she was good;
And fenced her beauty with simplicity,
Meek sense, and modest wisdom.
This he saw—
He could not choose but see it; and he felt,
When she was near, as if some soothing strain
Breathed round him; and his secret soul was swayed
With unseen power, as sways the billowy corn
Swept by the warm caresses of the wind.
He knew what this portended. All in vain
The proud man struggled with his heart: he loved,
And knew that he loved, Rhoda; all in vain
He strove to turn away from her fair face;
He only gazed more tenderly: in vain
Strove to speak coldly when he met her; still
His deep voice trembled, as his heart beat fast,
And from his eyes looked out his yearning soul.
Of all this conflict Rhoda saw but little;
The less, belike, for conflict of her own:
Mysterious longings kindled by his voice;
Shy pleasure in his presence; constant thought
(Half reverence, half compassion, tender always)
Of this grave, courteous, noble, lonely man,
Who looked so great, so sorrowful, but still
With many a mute yet clearly speaking sign
Sued for her love with sad humility.
These things she never uttered to her heart;
And if her thoughts half spoke, unwaveringly
She put them by, and simply went her way.
But he could fight no longer; and to-day
He waited by the water, for he knew
Rhoda would pass that way, and he resolved
To tell her all his secret, and to learn
His future from her lips, whether they spoke
Hope or despair.
He had not waited long,
When through the park, along the trembling lake,
Into the oaks' soft shadows, Rhoda came;
So bright, so fresh, so beautiful, she seemed
To bring a golden light into the gloom.
Sir Richard trembled, and his breath came quick,
His pulse throbbed wildly, and his eyes grew dim;
Yet, mastered by his iron will, his words
Came calmly forth to greet her: at the sound,
Surprised to find him here, she started back,
Then murmuring something hurriedly, went on.
He gently staid her, saying in tenderest tones:
"One moment, Rhoda—one—could you but know—"
She looked into his face with wondering eyes,
Then bashfully withdrew them; for she knew
At once his secret from his pleading voice
And his dark eyes' ineffable tenderness.
"I did not mean to startle you," he said;
"Nay, do not tremble; could you see my soul,
The tempest there would make your own show calm.
Oh! stay—forgive me when the heart beats fast.
The tongue is slow—I love you! Fewest words
Are best for such confession. Can you love?"