James Clarence Mangan

A Vision of Connaught in the Thirteenth Century

        I WALKED entranced
          Through a land of morn;
The sun, with wondrous excess of light,
        Shone down and glanced
          Over seas of corn
And lustrous gardens aleft and right.
        Even in the clime
          Of resplendent Spain
Beams no such sun upon such a land;
        But it was the time,
          ’T was in the reign,
Of Cáhal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.

        Anon stood nigh
          By my side a man
Of princely aspect and port sublime.
        Him queried I,
          “O my Lord and Khan,
What clime is this, and what golden time?”
        When he,—“The clime
          Is a clime to praise,
The clime is Erin’s, the green and bland;
        And it is the time,
          These be the days,
Of Cáhal Mór of the Wine-red Hand!”

        Then saw I thrones
          And circling fires,
And a dome rose near me, as by a spell,
        Whence flowed the tones
          Of silver lyres,
And many voices in wreathéd swell;
        And their thrilling chime
          Fell on mine ears
As the heavenly hymn of an angel-band,—
        “It is now the time,
          These be the years,
Of Cáhal Mór of the Wine-red Hand!”

        I sought the hall,
          And, behold! a change
From light to darkness, from joy to woe!
        King, nobles, all,
          Looked aghast and strange;
The minstrel-group sate in dumbest show!
        Had some great crime
          Wrought this dread amaze,
This terror? None seemed to understand!
        ’T was then the time,
          We were in the days,
Of Cáhal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.

        I again walked forth;
          But lo! the sky
Showed fleckt with blood, and an alien sun
        Glared from the north,
          And there stood on high,
Amid his shorn beams, a skeleton!
        It was by the stream
          Of the castled Main,
One autumn eve, in the Teuton’s land,
        That I dreamed this dream
          Of the time and reign
Of Cáhal Mór of the Wine-red Hand!