THE LAY OF THE HEADS.

The Bard returns to a stricken house:

What shape is that he rears on high?

A withe of the Willow, set round with Heads:

They blot that evening sky.

A Widow meets him at the gates:

What fixes thus that Widow's eye?

She names the name; but she sees not the man,

Nor beyond him that reddening sky.

“Bard of the Brand, thou Foster-Sire

Of him they slew — their friend — my lord -

What Head is that — the first — that frowns

Like a traitor self-abhorred?”

“Daughter of Orgill wounded sore,

Thou of the fateful eye serene,

Fergus is he. The feast he made

That snared thy Cuchullene.”

“What Head is that — the next — half-hid

In curls full lustrous to behold?

They mind me of a hand that once

I saw amid their gold.”

“‘ Tis Manadh. He that by the shore

Held rule, and named the waves his steeds:

‘ Twas he that struck the stroke accursed -

Headless this day he bleeds.”

“What Head is that close by — so still,

With half-closed lids, and lips that smile?

Methinks I know their voice: methinks

HIS wine they quaffed erewhile!”

“‘ 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.