BY AUBREY DE VERE.
II.
THE DEATH OF OSCAR.[80]
“Sing us once more of Gahbra’s fight,
Old bard, that fight where fell thy son:”
Thus Patrick spake to vexed Oisin,
And the old man’s wrath was gone.
“Thou of the crosier white! whoe’er
Had seen that plain with carnage spread.
Or friend or foe, had wept for Eire,
And for her princes dead!
“There lay the arms of mighty chiefs:
There kings in death with helms unbound.
A field of doom it was; a place
By deadly spells girt round!
“Upon his left hand leaned my son:
His shield lay broken by his side:
His right hand clutched his sword: the blood
Rushed from him like a tide.
“I stayed my spear-shaft on the ground:
O’er him I stooped on bended knee:
On me my Oscar turned his eyes:
He stretched his hands to me.
“To me my Oscar spake—my son—
The dying man, and all but dead:
‘Thou liv’st! For this I thank the gods!
O father!’ thus he said.
“‘Rememberest thou that day we fought
Far westward at the Sith of Mor?’
Caoilte spake: ‘I healed thee then,
Though deep thy wounds and sore:—