The Penguin Book of Irish Poetry
Page 24
From his childhood hard in striving
– though a soldier, he was friendly –
to his death so much lamented
I will look closely at his actions.
I’ll not recount the tribes I’m seed of,
not alliances of my people,
nor long lines of hoary numbers
of the pedigree of this leader;
I’ll not recount his love so pleasing,
though I saw in public in his features
his constant longing and devotion,
his confidence in me and his affection.
Though I had the best from this regal person
of horses, jewels, riches,
though he did not lord it over my lowness
or even ever leave me quiltless,
it’s when I count his superb knowledge –
though his charm was clear as sunlight –
I touch upon his truest mettle,
the stately sun-room of his disposition:
since I have known that griffin’s wisdom,
his manners that excelled all others’,
’twould be a sin of grave omission
for me, above all, not to lament him.
O people who pity all wretches in bondage,
here is a wretchedness, quite unparalleled,
here, the reckless discordant sorrow;
here, the grief, the most grievious hardship!
Gormfhlaith could not match my grieving
if she left Niall’s tomb and she stood beside me;
nor Deirdre with harsh and poignant sighing
in isolation crying for Naoise;
nor beautiful Oisín the spear-man
after sweet-voiced Fionn O Baoisgne,
nor the wife of Hector, son of Priam,
for the death of that shield of the Trojans.
It was no wonder that I’d broadcast
the widespread yearning of the people;
I, among the high and lowly,
who had, of all, most cause for mourning.
His death’s caused grief in all the country
of Con, of Flan, of Corc, of Críomhtann,
caused every group to bow in sorrow
to the depths of low anxiety;
caused in lakes an overflowing,
made great stars fierce that once were joyous,
put jet-black drapes on all the heavens,
made planets in the sky look cruel,
his death’s made storms come out of calmness,
has quenched the moon and stars at night-time,
has dried up waves, has dried up fountains,
has caused no sun to shine at noonday;
caused tumult in the rattling wind-cry,
has caused lightning to flick through it
like an accomplice – fiery magic –
and fused the elements together.
No salmon stayed in the pleasant rivers,
no tree-top in the wood but withered;
the mountains wore a wet frieze tunic,
a fine black fog was on every hillock.
The rain bears witness to his dying
and grass and flowers that die in forests,
the milk that flows to a dying trickle:
his death fulfills all these conditions.
My lament will get supported
by a hundred other lamentations
and Nature will not grant excuses
if I hide one teardrop for my hero:
for there came a rush of instant grieving
from poets, princes, and from leaders;
the strong, the weak, the fool, the wise man,
the wretch, the sickly and the orphan:
their anxiety is no wonder
since the loss is shared among them;
they lost a chief, a royal one chosen –
clerics their father, art its patron,
the poor its cow, the vagrant shelter,
the widow her steadfast tree of concord,
women their sweetheart and their lover,
the peasants their head, their heart, their promise.
This ruin of all, it digs its way through
every humane and upright nature;
severe chastising, this death of Éamon
who did not return from combat.
(…)
The sun, departing west and setting
in pleasant, calm and lovely weather,
is an image of his face most cherished
and the smiling welcome through it.
A forehead broad with manly eyebrows,
brilliant eyes like precious gemstones,
mouth and cheek like glowing embers,
a nose which mocked all snub-noses;
slender neck, breast bright and flaxen,
fairest waistline, broadest shoulders,
strong arms, with each hand perfect,
and fine calves, capable and hose-clad.
Noble hound from kings descended,
of clamorous merry Munster,
of pleasant-rivered Leinster,
of lavish-mansioned Ulster;
Norman blood from royal households –
of the true vine, lasting offshoots:
their best the source of all his breeding –
he has their flower, their chief trophy:
blood of leaders, Tál and Cárthach,
Mac Oilill blood, a griffin’s lineage;
blood of Eireamhón, son of Míleadh,
blood of Rógh and of Íth the Golden;
blood of Burkes not crushed by foemen,
blood of Barrys who burned their warship,
blood of Roches of the conquering warbands,
all in his blood, gushing vigorously.
(…)
He took no submission that was not owed him –
even if he took more than I’m relating –
that Manannán of the Youth of Munster,
Phoenix of fighters, their true flower.
He is a great loss to the people,
many today are poor and naked;
his like’s not found except in visions
by Irish people dreaming of him.
Great is the tearful woe for Éamon
in the mind of woman, poet, retainer:
palms ablaze and gravestones polished
and tears of blood poured in a deluge.
‘Uch!’ aloud’s my lasting duty:
but I’ll have ready to reproach me
floods of ‘uch’ and ‘uch’ said lowly
for my ever-loyal darling.
Michael Hartnett
Two Latin Poems of Confederate Ireland
WALTER LAWLESS
(fl. 1640s)
To the most noble Lord, James Marquis of Ormonde … his humble servant Walter Lawles wishes happiness and prosperity
While the turbid waters toss the ark of Noah,
Its sails are filled and it is driven forward by an angry God.
A human people, cast forth on the harsh soil of Pontus,
Begs to see once more its native fields.
And it wearies the duke with prayers in submissive voice,
‘Lead us back, so that at last their ancestral lands will nurture us.’
He heard, and sent forth a snow-white dove from the ark,
Which he asked whether the land they had before was habitable.
She flew off, and brought new olives in her beak,
A welcome messenger to the wandering ark, approved by Noah.
Great James, these same things accord with your successes;
Since your land is tossed in the middle of evils.
Jacob’s ladder carried a heavenly messenger from the gods
Downwards to the earth, and carried up prayers from there by turns.
And it is your ladder, James, since you carry back our affairs to the King,
They can give weight to some things, and make light of others.
While fierce Bellona
snarls with sevenfold tempests,
You are constantly wakeful, the Representative of your Fatherland.
You soothe down a contrary King, and like the Dove
Your promised olive of peace may go about among the Irish.
Fleeing from the steep shores of stormy war
With you as leader, the Irishman sought his deserted land.
He sought, and he found it, and the stars promised peace,
The happy olive of peace in your mouth for everyone:
It grows in eternity, and always flourishes with the Irish,
So that the happy times may applaud your peace:
Thus you will be faithful provider and actor of peace-making
Confirming the ancient pact of peace with honour.
You bring back your agreeements between the King and God,
A union of strength and love, a sacred Ark of the love of peace.
Peter Davidson
ANONYMOUS
Elegy for Richard Lynch, d. Salamanca 1679
On the 25th of April, at the fourth hour of the day, Died the reverend Master of Arts, Richard Lynch.
Logic is only the prelude: now more subtle things call us
Now we stand truly in need of Lynch’s lynx-like eyes.
Alas, what will be further allowed to make fine distinctions
Since the slow-moving Fates closed your eyelids, O Lynch.
Where do you go with your pen, since nothing eluded this author?
Make your NON PLUS ULTRA here with your pen.
Peter Davidson
ROGER BOYLE, EARL OF ORRERY
(1621–79)
Lines Written on the Gates of Bandon Bridge
Jew, Infidel, or Atheist
May enter here, but not a Papist.
ANONYMOUS
Response Written on the Gates of Bandon Bridge
Who wrote these words composed them well,
The same are written on the Gates of Hell.
FAITHFULL TEATE
(1621–?)
from Love
Methinks men’s trading with the world might stop
At thought of this who keeps her shop.
Alas! my God, the world is Devil-ridden:
The thing is known and can’t be hidden.
Hell hath deflowered the earth, and now I see
’Twould put its leavings off to me,
Daubing false paint on th’face o’th’wrinkled Creature
Having worn and spoiled its native feature.
The earth’s all Egypt now: And Egypt’s curse
Is over all the world, or worse:
For Beelzebub with his swarming train
Hath all things fly-blown. To be plain
There is no flesh that’s sweet, but Saviour’s, now.
Which Satan tried, but knew not how
To taint. All’s dogs-meat else. Lord! teach me choose
And I shall all the rest refuse,
And only wish
For that one dish,
A dish that’s wholesome, and ’tis healing too,
Ah my dear God! what shall I do
To love thy flesh enough that tasted once
For ever heals my broken bones.
Set thine apart, all other flesh is grass:
And is my soul an ox or ass?
That it should Love no higher than my beast?
Or can my soul such fare digest?
Come, Trencher Critics, you that eat by book,
And in your food for Physic look,
Your Cook must be some small Apothecary
Will you allow a Verser vary
From your received rules? and be content
To try a new experiment?
Flesh in a fever’s good Divinity,
Which who most eats, ’scapes best, say I.
Provided that the flesh be sound and good
(For I would be right understood)
As never did, nor could, corruption see:
Ah my dear Saviour! I mean thee.
Alas! how low in an high burning Fever
Of God’s displeasure, never never
To have been cured otherwise, did sin
Once bring me, till I did begin
To fall aboard that sacred flesh? And then
How soon did I grow well again?
Then welcome, gentle guest, if thou hast not
To prize and Love thine health forgot,
Come sit down here
And Love this Cheer.
‘PHILO-PHILIPPA’
(fl. 1663)
from To the Excellent Orinda
Let the male Poets their male Phoebus choose,
Thee I invoke, Orinda, for my Muse;
He could but force a Branch, Daphne her Tree
Most freely offers to her Sex and thee,
And says to Verse, so unconstrained as yours,
Her Laurel freely comes, your fame secures:
And men no longer shall with ravished Bays
Crown their forced Poems by as forced a praise.
Thou glory of our Sex, envy of men,
Who are both pleased and vexed with thy bright Pen:
Its lustre doth entice their eyes to gaze,
But men’s sore eyes cannot endure its rays;
It dazzles and surprises so with light,
To find a noon where they expected night:
A Woman Translate Pompey! which the famed
Corneille with such art and labour framed!
To whose close version the Wits club their sense,
And a new Lay poetic SMECfn1 springs thence!
Yes, that bold work a Woman dares Translate,
Not to provoke, nor yet to fear men’s hate.
Nature doth find that she hath erred too long,
And now resolves to recompense that wrong:
Phoebus to Cynthia must his beams resign,
The rule of Day and Wit’s now Feminine.
That Sex, which heretofore was not allowed
To understand more than a beast, or crowd;
Of which Problems were made, whether or no
Women had Souls; but to be damned, if so;
Whose highest Contemplation could not pass,
In men’s esteem, no higher than the Glass;
And all the painful labours of their Brain,
Was only how to Dress and Entertain:
Or, if they ventured to speak sense, the wise
Made that, and speaking Ox, like Prodigies.
From these thy more than masculine Pen hath reared
Our Sex; first to be praised, next to be feared.
And by the same Pen forced, men now confess,
To keep their greatness, was to make us less.
(…)
Pompey, who greater than himself’s become,
Now in your Poem, than before in Rome;
And much more lasting in the Poet’s Pen,
Great Princes live, than the proud Towers of Men.
He thanks false Egypt for its Treachery,
Since that his Ruin is so sung by thee;
And so again would perish, if withal,
Orinda would but celebrate his Fall.
Thus pleasingly the Bee delights to die,
Foreseeing, he in Amber Tomb shall lie.
If that all Egypt, for to purge its Crime,
Were built into one Pyramid o’er him,
Pompey would lie less stately in that Hearse,
Than he doth now, Orinda, in thy Verse:
This makes Cornelia for her Pompey vow,
Her hand shall plant his Laurel on thy brow:
So equal in their merits were both found,
That the same Wreath Poets and Princes Crowned:
And what on that great Captain’s Brow was dead,
She Joys to see re-flourished on thy head.
In the French Rock Cornelia first did shine,
But shined not like her self till she was thine:
Poems, like Gems, translated from the
place
Where they first grew, receive another grace.
Dressed by thy hand, and polished by thy Pen,
She glitters now a Star, but Jewel then:
No flaw remains, no cloud, all now is light,
Transparent as the day, bright parts more bright.
Corneille, now made English, so doth thrive,
As Trees transplanted do much lustier live.
Thus Ore digged forth, and by such hands as thine
Refined and stamped, is richer than the Mine.
Liquors from Vessel into Vessel poured,
Must lose some Spirits, which are scarce restored:
But the French Wines, in their own Vessel rare,
Poured into ours, by thy hand, Spirits are;
So high in taste, and so delicious,
Before his own Corneille thine would chuse.
He finds himself enlightened here, where shade
Of dark expression his own words had made:
There what he would have said, he sees so writ,
As generously, to just decorum fit.
When in more words than his you please to flow,
Like a spread Flood, enriching all below,
To the advantage of his well meant sense,
He gains by you another excellence.
To render word for word, at the old rate,
Is only but to Construe, not Translate:
In your own fancy free, to his sense true,
We read Corneille, and Orinda too:
And yet ye both are so the very same,
As when two Tapers joined make one bright flame.
And sure the Copier’s honour is not small,
When Artists doubt which is Original.
But if your fettered Muse thus praisèd be,
What great things do you write when it is free?
When it is free to choose both sense and words,
Or any subject the vast World affords?
A gliding Sea of Crystal doth best show
How smooth, clear, full, and rich your Verse doth flow:
Your words are chosen, culled, not by chance writ,
To make the sense, as Anagrams do hit.
Your rich becoming words on the sense wait,
As Maids of Honour on a Queen of State.
DÁIBHÍ Ó BRUADAIR
(c.1623–98)
A Glass of Beer
The lanky hank of a she in the inn over there
Nearly killed me for asking the loan of a glass of beer:
May the devil grip the whey-faced slut by the hair,