George Darley

Lenimina Laborum. 52. The Fight of the Forlorn

Bard.
Smooth Shan-avon![1] Eirin's glory!
Of thy calm my heart would borrow;
Still inspire my dream's sweet story,
Wake me not so soon to sorrow!

Green Shan-avon, wild and lonely!
Rave not while the Minstrel slumbers;
Soothe his heart of sadness only
By thy melancholy numbers.

Hear the woodquest[2] softly moaning
Thro' her honeysuckle bowers,
Hear the wind-bell sweetly toning
In the simple ear of flowers.

Son of the far distant fountain!
What rude blast awakes thy willows?
Strong descendant of the mountain!
Why these winter-swollen billows?

Broad Shan-avon! Island-sund'rer!
Now I see what burdens press thee,
Loud Shan-avon! streamy thund'rer!
For thy warning voice I bless thee.

Lo! adown the valley steering,
With their pennons dyed for slaughter,
Full two hundred barques appearing,
Trample thy bright road of water!

Like a brood of swans together
Proudly breasting thro' the rushes,
On they come! while each beneath her.
Heaving high, the billow crushes.

Round the woody headland booming
Toward my cavern-cliff they bend them;
Shadowy o'er the waters looming,
This shall its dark shelter lend them.

Bard.
Welcome!—Why the Red-branch waving,
Flower of heroes ! Young Hidallan?[3]
Wherefore these wild trumpets raving
Call to arms green Inisfallan?[4]

Chief.
Bard! to battle I have bound me—
Eirin's red-branch now must shade her—
With my young- war-breathers round me,
To repel the bold invader!

Lochlin's[5] roving sons of Ocean
Crowd Shan-avon's bay with galleys;
Sword and brand in fiery motion
Waste Momonia's[6] peaceful valleys!

Prophet! skilled in battle-omen,
Read his fate for young Hidallan;
Shall we triumph o'er the foemen?
Shall we save green Inisfallan?

Bard.
Ai! alas my heart foretold it!
This the secret of my sadness;
that ere thou didst unfold it
Melancholy turned to madness!

Phantoms, choakt with hideous laughter,
Nightly troop around my dwelling.
Visions dim come bleeding after,
Woe to Inisfall foretelling!

Lochlin's sons shall triumph o'er her,
Shed her own best blood upon her;
Long in chains shall she deplore her,
Long shall weep her foul dishonor!

Chief.
Bard! to no brave chief belonging,
Hath green Eirin[7] no defenders?
See! her sons to battle thronging,
Gael's broad-swords and Ir's[8] bow benders!

Clan Tir-oen![9] Clan Tir-conel!
Atha's[10] royal sept of Conacht!
Desmond red! and dark O'Donel!
Fierce O'More! and stout M'Donacht!

Hear the sounding spears of Tara,[11]
On the blue shields how they rattle!
Hear the reckless Lord of Lara
Humming his short song of battle!

Ullin's[12] Chief, the great O'Nial,
Sternly with his brown axe playing,
Mourns for the far hour of trial
And disdains this long delaying!

Gray O'Ruark's[13] self doth chide me,
Thro' his iron beard and hoary,
Murmuring in his breast beside me—
"On to our old fields of glory!"

Red-branch crests, like roses flaming.
Toss with scorn around Hi-dallan,
Battle, blood, and death proclaiming,—
Fear'st thou still for Inisfallan?

Bard.
Mighty-hearted! mighty -handed!
Ne'er lerné[14] nourished braver.
Yet in vain to battle banded,
Die they may, but cannot save her.

Chief.
Woe! and must the green lerné
Yield her to the Ocean-rangers?
Say! by skill accurst, discern ye
She must ever yield to strangers?

Bard.
Many a sun shall set in sadness,
Many a moon shall rise in mourning,
Ere a distant note of gladness
Breathe of Liberty returning.

Chief.
Say! should we, despite thy omen,
Onward move, to battle bending.
Shall we fall without our foemen?
Shall we die without defending?

Bard.
Stern shall be the strife, and bloody,
Ere our fate shall own a stronger,
Streams with slaughter shall run ruddy,
Eirin's fields be green no longer!

Chief.
Die then ! in thy cave unnoted,
Thou that would'st from battle warn us!
Tho' we may be death-devoted,
Glory's wreath shall still adorn us!

Souls of fire! for battle sighing.
Bend your white sails round Hi-dallan
What desire we more than dying.
If we die for Inisfallan?

Bard.
Stay! stay! Shan-avon's billows
In a shroud of water wind them;
Bloodless be their frothy pillows,
If they leave the Bard behind them

Chief.
Son of the same Land that bore us,
Beats thy kindred pulse so proudly?
Strike thy war-harp then before us,
Raise the song of battle loudly!

Though forlorn and doomed to slaughter,
Chant some gay and gallant ditty,
Lest Shan-avon's murmuring water
Drown our triumph in its pity.