_Oscar Wilde_ THE LAMENT OF QUEEN MAEV _From the Irish of the Book of Leinster_ Raise the cromlech high! Mac Moghcorb is slain, And other men's renown Has leave to live again. Cold at last he lies 'Neath the burial stone. All the blood he shed Could not save his own. Stately, strong he went, Through his nobles all, When we paced together Up the banquet-hall. Dazzling white as lime, Was his body fair, Cherry-red his cheeks, Raven-black his hair. Razor-sharp his spear, And the shield he bore, High as champion's head-- His arm was like an oar. Never aught but truth Spake my noble king; Valour all his trust In all his warfaring. As the forkèd pole Holds the roof-tree's weight, So my hero's arm Held the battle straight. Terror went before him, Death behind his back, Well the wolves of Erinn Knew his chariot's track. Seven bloody battles He broke upon his foes, In each a hundred heroes Fell beneath his blows. Once he fought at Fossud, Thrice at Ath-finn-fail. 'Twas my king that conquered At bloody Ath-an-Scail. At the Boundary Stream Fought the Royal Hound, And for Bernas battle Stands his name renowned. Here he fought with Leinster-- Last of all his frays-- On the Hill of Cucorb's Fate High his cromlech raise. _T.W. Rolleston_ THE DEAD AT CLONMACNOIS _From the Irish of Enoch O'Gillan_ In a quiet watered land, a land of roses, Stands Saint Kieran's city fair; And the warriors of Erin in their famous generations Slumber there. There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the noblest Of the clan of Conn, Each below his stone with name in branching Ogham And the sacred knot thereon. There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara, There the sons of Cairbrè sleep-- Battle-banners of the Gael, that in Kieran's plain of crosses Now their final hosting keep. And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia, And right many a lord of Breagh; Deep the sod above Clan Creidè and Clan Conaill, Kind in hall and fierce in fray. Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-Fighter In the red earth lies at rest; Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers, Many a swan-white breast. _T.W. Rolleston_ THE SPELL-STRUCK She walks as she were moving Some mystic dance to tread, So falls her gliding footstep, So leans her listening head; For once to fairy harping She danced upon the hill, And through her brain and bosom The music pulses still.