Donald Alexander Mackenzie - Elves and Heroes

The dusk
Grew round the twilight, like a husk
That holds a kernel choice, and keen,
Cold stars impaled the sky serene,
When Conn's ship through the slackening tide
Drew round the wistful bay and wide,
Behind the headlands high that snout
The seas like giant whales, and spout
The salt foam high and loud

Then sighed
The gasping men who all day plied
Their oars in plunging seas, with hands
Grown stiff, and arms, like twisted bands
Drawn numbly, as they rose outspent,
And staggering from their benches went
The sail napped quarrelling, and drank
The wind in broken gasps, and sank
With sullen pride upon the boards,
And smote the mast and shook the cords

Darkly loomed that alien land,
And darkly lowered the Fian band,
For hovering on the shoreland grey
The ship they followed round the bay
Nor sought the sheltering woods until
The shadows folded o'er the hill
Full heavily, and night fell blind,
And laid its spell upon the wind

The swelling waters sank with sip
And hollow gurgle round the ship,
The long mast rocked against the dim,
Soft heaven above the headland's rim

But while the seamen crouched to sleep,
Conn sat alone in reverie deep,
And saw before him in a maze
The mute procession of his days,
In gloom and glamour wending fast—
His heart a-hungering for the past—
Again he leapt, a tender boy,
To greet his sire with eager joy,
When he came over the wide North Sea,
Enriched with spoils of victory—
Then heavily loomed that fateful morn
When tidings of his fall were borne
From Alban shore … Again he saw
The youth who went alone with awe
To swear the avenging oath before
The smoking altar red with gore.

Ah! strange to him it seemed to be
That hour was drawing nigh when he
Would vengeance take … And still more strange,
O sorrow! it would bring no change
Though blood for blood be spilled, and life
For life be taken in fierce strife;
'Twill ne'er recall the life long sped,
Or break the silence of the dead.

But when he heard his mother's wail,
Once more uplifted on the gale,
Moaning The Red who ne'er returned—
His cheeks with sudden passion burned;
And darkly frowned that valiant man,
As through his quivering body ran
The lightnings of impelling ire
And impulses of fierce desire,
That surged, with a consuming hate
Against a world made desolate,
Unceasing and unreconciled,
And ever clamouring … like wild,
Dark-deeded waves that stun the shore,
And through the anguished twilight roar
The hungry passions of the wide
And gluttonous deep unsatisfied.

The shredding dawn in beauty spread
Its shafts of splendour, golden-red,
High over the eastern heaven, and broke
Through flaking clouds in silvern smoke
That burst aflame, and fold o'er fold,
Let loose their oozing floods of gold,
Splashed over the foamless deep that lay
Tremulous and clear. In fiery play
The rippling beams that swept between
The sea-cleft Sutor crags serene,
Broke quivering where the waters bore
The soft reflection of the shore.

The pipes of morn were sounding shrill
Through budding woods on plain and hill,
And stirred the air with song to wake
The sweet-toned birds within the brake.

The Fians from their sheilings came,
With offerings to the god a-flame,
And round them thrice they sun-wise went;
Then naked-kneed in silence bent
Beside the pillar stones …

But now
Brave Conn upon the ship's high prow
Hath raised his burnished blade on high,
And calls on Woden and on Tigh
With boldness, to avenge the death
Of his great sire … In one deep breath
He drains the hero's draught that burns
With valour of the gods; then turns
His long-sought foe to meet … Great Conn
Sweeps, stooping in a boat, alone.
Shoreward, with rapid blades and bright,
That shower the foam-rain pearly white,
And rip the waters, bending lithe,
In hollowing swirls that hiss and writhe
Like adders, ere they dart away
Bright-spotted with the flakes of spray.

When, furrowing the sand, he drew
His boat the shallowing water through,
A giant he in stature rose
Straight as a mast before his foes,
With head thrown high, and shoulders wide
And level, and set back with pride;
His bared and supple arms were long
As shapely oars: firm as a thong
His right hand grasped his gleaming blade,
Gold-hilted, and of keen bronze made
In leafen shape.

With stately stride
He crossed the level sands and wide,
Then on his shield the challenge gave—
His broad sword thund'ring like a wave—
For single combat.

Red as gold
His locks upon his shoulders rolled;
A brazen helmet on his head
Flashed fire; his cheeks were white and red;
And all the Fians watched with awe
That hero young with knotted jaw,
Whose eyes, set deep, and blue and hard,
Surveyed their ranks with cold regard;
While his broad forehead, seamed with care,
Drooped shadowily: his eyebrows fair
Were sloping sideways o'er his eyes
With pondering o'er the mysteries.

The eyes of all the Fians sought
Heroic Groll, whose face was wrought
With lines of deep, perplexing thought—
For gazing on the valiant Conn,
He mourned that his own youth was gone,
When, strong and fierce and bold, he shed
The life-blood of the boastful Red,
Whom none save he would meet. He heard
The challenge, and nor spake, nor stirred,
Nor feared; but now grown old, when hate
And lust of glory satiate—
His heart took pride in Conn, and shared
The kinship of the brave.

Who dared
To meet the Viking bold, if he
The succour of the band, should be
Found faltering or in despair?
Until that day the Fians ne'er
Of one man had such fear.

Old Goll
Sat musing on a grassy knoll,
They deemed he shared their dread … Not so
Wise Finn, who spake forth firm and slow—
"Goll, son of Morna, peerless man,
The keen desire of every clan,
Far-famed for many a valiant deed,
Strong hero in the time of need.
I vaunt not Conn … nor deem that thou
Dost falter, save with meekness, now—
But why shouldst thou not take the head
Of this bold youth, as of The Red,
His sire, in other days?"

Goll spake—
"O noble Finn, for thy sweet sake
Mine arms I'd seize with ready hand,
Although to answer thy command
My blood to its last drop were spilled—
By Crom! were all the Fians killed,
My sword would never fail to be
A strong defence to succour thee."

Upon his hard right arm with haste
His crooked and pointed shield he braced,
He clutched his sword in his left hand—
While round that hero of the band
The Fian warriors pressed, and praised
His valour … Mute was Goll … They raised,
Smiting their hands, the battle-cry,
To urge him on to victory.

The one-eyed Goll went forth alone,
His face was like a mountain stone,—
Cold, hard, and grey; his deep-drawn breath
Came heavily, like a man nigh death—
But his firm mouth, with lips drawn thin,
Deep sunken in his wrinkled skin,
Was cunningly crooked; his hair was white,
On his bald forehead gleamed a bright
And livid scar that Conn's great sire
Had cloven when their swords struck fire—
Burly and dauntless, full of might,
Old Goll went humbly forth to fight
With arrogant Conn … It seemed The Red
In greater might was from the dead,
Restored in his fierce son …