THE CHASE, A POEM TRANSLATED FROM THE IRISH.

OISIN. O son of Calphruin! thou whose ear Sweet chant of psalms delights to hear, Hast thou ere heard the tale, How Fionn urged the lonely chase, Apart from all the Fenian race, Brave sons of Innisfail? PATRICK. O royal born! whom none exceeds In moving song, or hardy deeds, That tale, to me as yet untold, Though far renown’d, do thou unfold In truth severely wise, From fancy’s wanderings far apart: For what is fancy’s glozing art But falsehood in disguise? OISIN. O! ne’er on gallant Fenian race Fell falsehood’s accusation base: By faith of deeds, by strength of hand, By trusty might of battle-brand, We spread afar our glorious fame, And safely from each conflict came. Ne’er sat a monk in holy chair, Devote to chanting hymn and prayer, More true than the Fenians bold: No chief like Fionn, world around, Was e’er to bards so gen’rous found, With gifts of ruddy gold. If lived the son of Morné fleet, Who ne’er for treasure burned; Or Duiné’s son to woman sweet, Who ne’er from battle turned, But fearless with his single glaive A hundred foemen dared to brave: If lived Macgaree stern and wild, That hero of the trenchant brand; Or Caoilte, Ronan’s witty child, Of liberal heart and open hand; Or Oscar, once my darling boy, Thy psalms would bring me little joy. If lived, the Fenian deeds to sing, Sweet Fergus with his voice of glee; Or Daire, who trilled a faultless string, Small pleasure were thy bells to me. If lived the dauntless little Hugh, Or Fillan, courteous, kind and meek, Or Conan bald, for whom the dew Of sorrow yet is on my cheek, Or that small dwarf whose power could steep The Fenian host in death-like sleep— More sweet one breath of theirs would be Than all thy clerks’ sad psalmody. PATRICK. Thy chiefs renowned extol no more, O son of kings—nor number o’er; But low, on bended knee, record The power and glory of the Lord; And beat the breast, and shed the tear, And still his holy name revere, Almighty, by whose potent breath Thy vanquished Fenians sleep in death. OISIN. Alas! for Oisin—dire the tale! No music in thy voice I hear; Not for thy wrathful God I wail, But for my Fenians dear. Thy God! a rueful God I trow, Whose love is earned by want and woe! Since came thy dull psalm-singing crew, How rapid away our pastimes flew, And all that charmed the soul! Where now are the royal gifts of gold, The flowing robe with its satin fold, And the heart-delighting bowl? Where now the feast, and the revel high, And the jocund dance and sweet minstrelsy, And the steed loud-neighing in the morn, With the music sweet of hound and horn, And well-armed guards of coast and bay? All, all like a dream have passed away; And now we have clerks with their holy qualms, And books, and bells, and eternal psalms, And fasting—that waster gaunt and grim, That strips of all beauty both body and limb. PATRICK. Oh! cease this strain, nor longer dare Thy Fionn, or his chiefs, compare With him who reigns in matchless might, The King of kings enthroned in light. ’Tis he who frames the heavens and earth; ’Tis he who nerves the hero’s hand; ’Tis he who calls fair fields to birth, And bids each blooming branch expand: He gives the fishy streams to run, And lights the moon and radiant sun. What deeds like these, though great his fame, Canst thou ascribe to Fionn’s name? OISIN. To weeds and grass his princely eye My sire ne’er fondly turned; But he raised his country’s glory high, When the strife of warriors burned. To shine in games of strength and skill, To breast the torrent from the hill, To lead the van of the bannered host— These were his deeds and these his boast. Where was thy God, when o’er the tide Two heroes hither bore Of Lochlin, king of ships, the bride, And carnage heaped the shore? When Tailk on Fenians hacked his brand, ’Twas not thy God’s, but Oscar’s hand That hero prostrate laid; When rough-voiced Manus swept the coast, If lived thy God, the Fenian host Had triumphed by his aid. When Aluin, Anver’s son of fame, Round Tara rolled the bickering flame, Not by thy King’s, but Oscar’s glaive The warrior sank in a bloody grave. When haughty Dearg advanced in pride With his shields of gold o’er Lochlin’s tide, Why lingered then thy cloud-borne Lord To save our host from his slaughtering sword? Oh! glorious deeds arise in crowds, Of the gallant Fenian band; But what is achieved by thy King of the clouds— Where reddened he his hand?[2] PATRICK. Here let this vain contention rest, For frenzy, Bard, inspires thy breast. Supreme in bliss God ever reigns: Thy Fionn groans in hell’s domains— In penal fire—in lasting chains. OISIN. Small glory to thy potent King His chains and fires on our host to bring! Oh! how unlike our generous chief, Who, if thy King felt wrong or grief, Would soon in arms, with valour strong, Avenge the grief, redress the wrong. Whom did the Fenian king e’er see In thraldom, pain, or fear, But his ready gold would set him free, Or the might of his victor spear? This arm, did frenzy touch my brain, Their heads from thy clerks would sever, Nor thy crozier here, nor white book remain, Nor thy bells be heard for ever.