THE CHASE, A POEM TRANSLATED FROM THE IRISH—CONCLUDED.

PATRICK. O son of kings, adorned with grace, ’Twere music to my ear, Of Fionn and his wondrous chase The promised tale to hear. OISIN. Well—though afresh my bosom bleeds, Remembering days of old— When I think of my sire and his mighty deeds— Yet shall the tale be told. While the Fenian bands at Almhuin’s towers, In the hall of spears, passed the festive hours, The goblet crowned, with chessmen played,[1] Or gifts for gifts of love repaid; From the reckless throng Finn stole unseen, When he spied a young doe on the heath-clad green With agile spring draw near: On Sceolan and Bran his nimble hounds He whistles aloud, and away he bounds In chase of the hornless deer. With his hounds alone and his trusty blade, The son of Luno’s skill, On the track of the flying doe he strayed To Guillin’s pathless hill. But when he came to its hard-won height No deer appeared in view; If east or west she had sped her flight Nor hounds nor huntsman knew. But those sprang westward o’er the sod, While eastward Fionn press’d— Why did not pity touch thy God To see them thus distress’d? There while he gazes anxious round, Sudden he hears a doleful sound, And by a lake of crystal sheen Spies a nymph of loveliest form and mien: Her cheeks as the rose were crimson bright, Her lips the red berry’s glow; Her neck as the polished marble[2] white, Her breast the pure blossom’s full blow; Downy gold were her locks, and her sparkling eyes Like freezing stars in the ebon skies. Such beauty, O Sage, all cold as thou art, Would kindle warm raptures of love in thy heart. Nigh to the nymph of golden hair With courteous grace he drew— “O hast thou seen, enchantress fair, My hounds their game pursue?”[3] NYMPH. “Thy hounds I saw not in the chase, O noble prince of the Fenian race; But I have cause of woe more deep, For which I linger here and weep.” FIONN. “O, hast thou lost a husband dear? Falls for a darling son thy tear, Or daughter of thy heart? Sweet, soft-palmed nymph, the cause reveal To one who can thy sorrows feel, Perchance can ease thy smart?” The maid of tresses fair replied— “A precious ring I wore; Dropped from my finger in the tide, Its loss I now deplore: But by the sacred vows that bind Each brave and loyal knight, I now adjure thee, Chief, to find My peerless jewel bright.” He feels her adjuration’s ties; Disrobes each manly limb, And for the smooth-palmed princess hies The gulfy lake to swim. Five times deep-diving down the wave, Through every cranny, nook, and cave, With care he searches round and round, Till the golden ring at length he found; But scarce to shore the prize could bring, When by some blasting ban— Ah! piteous tale—the Fenian king Grew a withered, grey, old man! Meanwhile the Fenians passed the hours In the hall of spears, at Almhuin’s towers; The goblet crowned, with chessmen played, Or gifts for gifts of love repaid, When Caoilte rose and asked in grief, “Ye spearmen, where is our gallant chief? O, lost I dread is the Fenians’ boast— Then who shall lead our bannered host?” Bald Conan spoke—“A sweeter sound Ne’er tingled on my ear; If Fionn be lost, may he not be found Till end the distant year! But, Caoilte of the nimble feet, Ye shall not want a chieftain meet; In me, till Fionn’s fate be told, The leader of your host behold!” Although the Fenian bands were torn With agony severe, We burst into a laugh of scorn Such arrogance to hear. To urge the quest, we then decree, Of Finn and his hounds the joyous three That still to triumph led; And soon from Almhuin’s halls away, With Caoilte, I, and our dark array, North to Slew Guillin sped. There, as with searching glance the eye O’er all the prospect rolled, Beside the lake a wretch we spy, Poor, withered, grey, and old. Disgust and horror touched the heart To see the bones all fleshless start In a frame so lank and wan; We thought him some starved fisher torn From the whelming stream, by famine worn, And left but the wreck of man. We asked if he had chanced to see A swift-paced chieftain go, With two fleet hounds, across the lea, Behind a fair young doe. He gave us back no answer clear, But in the nimble Caoilte’s ear He breathed his tale—O, tale of grief!— That in him we saw the Fenian chief! Three sudden shouts to hear the tale Our host raised loud and shrill— The badgers started in the vale, The wild deer on the hill. Then Conan fierce unsheathed his sword, And curs’d the Fenian king and his horde. “If true thy tale,” he cries, “This blade thy head would off thee smite; For ne’er my valour in the fight, Nor prowess didst thou prize. Would that like thee, both old and weak, Were the Fenians all, that my sword might reek In their craven blood, and their cairns might swell On the grassy lea!—for since Cumhail fell, O’ercome in fateful strife By Morni’s son of the golden shields, Our sons thou hast sent to foreign fields, Or of freedom reft and life.” “Bald, senseless wretch! our care is due To Finn’s sad state, or thy mouth should rue A speech so vile, and soon atone With shattered teeth and fractured bone.” Indignant Caoilte spoke. With equal wrath said Oscar stern, “Audacious babbler! silence learn— What foe e’er felt thy stroke?” Then Conan thus—“Vain boy! be dumb, Or tell what deed of fame Did e’er thy Finn, but gnaw his thumb[4] Until the marrow came? We, not Clan-Boske, did the deed Whene’er we saw the foemen bleed. Behind thee, Oisin, may thy son A puling, whining chanter run, And bear white book and bell. His words I scorn—in open fight, Which of us twain is in the right Let swords, not speeches, tell.” Him answered Oscar’s trusty steel; When craven Conan, taught to feel, And trembling for his worthless life, The Fenians prayed to end the strife, And stay rough Oscar’s blade. Between them swift the Fenians rushed, The rising storm of battle hushed, And Oscar’s vengeance stayed. Of Cumhail’s son then Caoilte sought What wizard Danan foe had wrought Such piteous change—and Finn replied, “’Twas Guillin’s daughter—me she bound By a sacred spell to search the tide Till the ring she lost was found.” Then Conan spoke in altered mood— “Safe may we ne’er depart, Till we see restored our chieftain good, Or Guillin rue his art!” Then close around our chief we throng, And bear him on our shields along. Eight days and nights the caverned seat Where Guillin made his dark retreat We dig with sleepless care; Pour through its windings close the light, Till we see, in all her radiance bright, Spring forth th’ enchantress fair. A chalice she bore of angled mould,[5] And sparkling rich with gems and gold; Its brimming fount in the hand she placed Of Finn, whose looks small beauty graced. Feeble he drinks—the potion speeds Through every joint and pore; To palsied age fresh youth succeeds— Finn of the swift and slender steeds Becomes himself once more. His shape, his strength, his bloom returns, And in manly glory bright he burns! We gave three shouts that rent the air— The badgers fled the vale: And now, O sage of frugal care, Hast thou not heard the tale? D.