Between the lavish shelter of a wood And the gray tide, the Red Branch multitude Feasted, and with them old Cuchulain dwelt, And his young dear one close beside him knelt, And gazed upon the wisdom of his eyes, More mournful than the depth of starry skies, And pondered on the wonder of his days; And all around the harp-string told his praise, And Conchubar, the Red Branch king of kings, With his own fingers touched the brazen strings. At last Cuchulain spake, ‘A young man strays Driving the deer along the woody ways. I often hear him singing to and fro; I often hear the sweet sound of his bow, Seek out what man he is.’ One went and came. ‘He bade me let all know he gives his name At the sword point, and bade me bring him one Who had a like vow from our triple dun.’ ‘I only of the Red Branch hosted now,’ Cuchulain cried, ‘have made and keep that vow.’ After short fighting in the leafy shade, He spake to the young man, ‘Is there no maid Who loves you, no white arms to wrap you round, Or do you long for the dim sleepy ground, That you come here to meet this ancient sword?’ ‘The dooms of men are in God’s hidden hoard.’ ‘Your head a while seemed like a woman’s head That I loved once.’ Again the fighting sped, But now the war rage in Cuchulain woke, And through the other’s shield his long blade broke, And pierced him. ‘Speak before your breath is done.’ ‘I am Finmole, mighty Cuchulain’s son.’ ‘I put you from your pain. I can no more.’ While day its burden on to evening bore, With head bowed on his knees Cuchulain stayed; Then Conchubar sent that sweet-throated maid, And she, to win him, his gray hair caressed; In vain her arms, in vain her soft white breast. Then Conchubar, the subtlest of all men, Ranking his Druids round him ten by ten, Spake thus, ‘Cuchulain will dwell there and brood For three days more in dreadful quietude, And then arise, and raving slay us all. Go, cast on him delusions magical, That he may fight the waves of the loud sea.’ And ten by ten under a quicken tree, The Druids chaunted, swaying in their hands Tall wands of alder and white quicken wands. In three days’ time, Cuchulain with a moan Stood up, and came to the long sands alone: For four days warred he with the bitter tide; And the waves flowed above him, and he died. THE ROSE OF THE WORLD WHO dreamed that beauty passes like a dream? For these red lips, with all their mournful pride, Mournful that no new wonder may betide, Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam, And Usna’s children died. We and the labouring world are passing by: Amid men’s souls, that waver and give place, Like the pale waters in their wintry race, Under the passing stars, foam of the sky, Lives on this lonely face.