“’Twas he raised high that severed head: Thy head he raised, my Foster-Child! That was the latest stroke I struck: I struck that stroke, and smiled.”
“What Heads are those—that twain, so like, Flushed as with blood by yon red sky?” “Each unto each, _his_ Head they rolled; Red on that grass they lie.”
“That paler twain, which face the East?” “Laegar is one; the other Hilt; Silent they watched the sport! they share The doom, that shared the guilt.”
“Bard of the Vengeance! well thou knew’st Blood cries for blood! O kind, and true, How many, kith and kin, have died That mocked the man they slew?”
“O Woman of the fateful eye, The untrembling voice, the marble mould, Seven hundred men, in house or field, For the man they mocked, lie cold.”
“Their wives, thou Bard? their wives? their wives? Far off, or nigh, through Inisfail, This hour what are they? Stand they mute Like me; or make their wail?”
“O Eimer! women weep and smile; The young have hope, the young that mourn; But I am old; my hope was he: He that can ne’er return!
“O Conal! lay me in his grave: Oh! lay me by my husband’s side: Oh! lay my lips to his in death;” She spake, and, standing, died.
She fell at last—in death she fell— She lay, a black shade, on the ground; And all her women o’er her wailed Like sea-birds o’er the drowned.
Thus to the blind chief sang that harper blind, Hymning the vengeance; and the great hall roared With wrath of those wild listeners. Many a heel Smote the rough stone in scorn of them that died Not three days past, so seemed it! Direful hands, Together dashed, thundered the Avenger’s praise. At last the tide of that fierce tumult ebbed O’er shores of silence. From her lowly seat Beside her husband’s spake the gentle Queen: “My daughters, from your childhood ye were still A voice of music in your father’s house— Not wrathful music. Sing that song ye made Or found long since, and yet in forest sing, If haply Power Unknown may hear and help.” She spake, and at her word her daughters sang.
“Lost, lost, all lost! O tell us what is lost? Behold, this too is hidden! Let him speak, If any knows. The wounded deer can turn And see the shaft that quivers in its flank; The bird looks back upon its broken wing; But we, the forest children, only know Our grief is infinite, and hath no name. What woman-prophet, shrouded in dark veil, Whispered a Hope sadder than Fear? Long since, What Father lost His children in the wood? Some God? And can a God forsake? Perchance His face is turned to nobler worlds new-made; Perchance his palace owns some later bride That hates the dead Queen’s children, and with charm Prevails that they are exiled from his eyes, The exile’s winter theirs—the exile’s song.