VI

Now at life's wheel Etain the day-long sings;

Not loud, but low as one who musing waits

An hour, whose promise in her deep eye springs

In keen transfiguring light that contemplates

The mystery of small, familiar things

Made great with gleams from past the verge of sight,

And strange with rumours of the infinite.

In that bright realm glimpsed through the shade of this

She sees great peace resolve earth's little strife;

And deepening vision sounds a deeper bliss,

Till joy rolls round the fretted shores of life;

And in swift stroke of hate, and love's long kiss,

She marks one law work out one hidden Will,

And life and death one happy doom fulfil.

So pass her days in labour sped with peace.

And now the king, heart-eased in her repose,

Gathers warm love about him like a fleece;

And through the land his joy wide-circling goes,

Stirring swift hands that bid the earth increase

Her gift of good, till wealth and fatness throng

Their duns with praise, and fill their mouths with song.

Life's labour widely shared the lightlier lies

Along the days; and when its tumults cease,

Free brain and limb are swift in rivalries

Upon the bloodless battlefields of peace

In thought's affray, or deed of strength whose prize

Scarce more adorneth him whose power prevails,

Than him who strongly dares and greatly fails.

And in long nights, when age and childhood sleep,

Bright eyes that flicker round the rushlit board

Mark how the chess-players, in silence deep,

Meet skill with skill, until delight is roared

At cunning scheme, or swift unreckoned leap:

But, cute as fox or quick as tern awing,

No hand is found to mate King Eochaidh's king.

Loudly his fame rolls through the echoing land;

But in his dreams, in some high tourney met,

He feels a strong inexorable hand

Counter his craft with calm unwavering threat

By an unseen far-seeing player planned,

That haunts his thoughts with hint of some deep strife

Waged vastly on the board of death and life.

Then from his couch, with apprehensive eye,

Forth goes the king for solace. Mile on mile

His happy realms in dawn's pale radiance lie

Secure in his great strength; so with a smile

He tramples out the night's thin troubling cry,

Then toward his palace turns, lo! at its door

There stands a chieftain never seen before.

Straightly he stands, nor from his pride's full height

Bends he from neck to knee one purple fold;

Nor dips his spear, nor casts his shield whose light

Glinting from snowy boss and bead of gold,

Strikes from the king some memory of the night,

So that his quickened eye is swift to trace

A touch of challenge in the stranger's face.

“Welcome, O stranger! and doubly were thy name

To me revealed.” “Mider: to thee unknown.

No far-sung dun is mine, lineage or fame;

Yet in my realm I keep a steadfast throne,

And for my pleasure play a subtle game

With pawn and puissant knight and watching queen.

Fame trumpets far thy skill: now be it seen.”

On swift-set piece and jewelled chessboard break

Slant arrows from the scarcely risen sun.

Rank faces rank. “Play, king!”... “Not without stake

I play; nor bate the forfeit quickly won,—

Thine?” “Fifty steeds whose hooves shall Erin shake.”

Then Eochaidh, lightly at light-seeming task,

“And mine,” he smiled, “whatever thou shalt ask!”

Matchless in skill, King Eochaidh moves elate...

One moment... then... straight lip and slow-drawn breath

Yield sullenly to sure on-coming fate.

Behind his eyes vast shapes of Life and Death

Move hand to hand.... Soon ends the struggle — “Mate!”

The stranger calls.... King Eochaidh's boast is gone!

“The stake?” he vaguely asks.... “Thy wife, Etain.”

Now like a spider wrapped in his own snare,

The king turned to and fro to rend the spell

Of ghastly loss. Pride stricken to despair

Tugged at life's roof-tree. Round him ruining fell

Puffed hopes and brittle joys that broke in air;

And high desires, reined short in sight of goal,

Stumbled to earth and snapped life's chariot-pole.

Then in that other's eye some glance revealed

Faint pity.... “Nay, not this!” King Eochaidh cried.

“Take thou the treasures won on hard-fought field,

Spoils of the furrow, tribute of the tide:

These for thy forfeit here I freely yield;

Not her whose smile makes festive life's poor crust,

But lost would turn its glories into dust!”

The stranger calmly answered, “King, the bird

Poised on a little trick within the brain,

Soars sunward. Kings on honour's lightest word

Unshaken, rear a realm that shall remain.

Snaps a small string: lo! all the song that stirred

With beauty and joy, sinks like storm-swallowed ships,

And bards unborn harp a high-king's eclipse.

“But fear not thou. Thy fame shall feel no wind

Of cold rebuke; for when these shadows lift,

Thou in life's loss the Spirit's gain shalt find:

Thou to thyself shalt give thine utmost gift;

And know thou only hast what is resigned.

I go — but come on one clear-omened day,

And thou shalt pay thy debt.” He went away.

In that same hour the hungry nestling's cheep

Floods Etain's drowsing ear with gentle woe.

Sleep stirred by waking, waking soothed by sleep,

Around her heart in linking eddies flow;

Till at some passing wind that shakes the deep

Of dream, she wakes with eyes that strain to see

A haunting face behind life's mystery.

And in lone hours of many a moonless night,

Through jetting poplars and the shooting snags

Of wrinkled oaks, the king doth seek a light

From his heart's questionings, whose purpose flags

Before her face, lest in her eye's clear sight

One thought of faithlessness a moment read

Should bring to birth the thing he most doth dread.