SELECTION FROM "CUCHULAIN”

AN EPIC OF ANCIENT IRELAND

Queen Meave was a powerful queen of Connaught. Her husband was Ailill. She sent to Ulster by the herald to ask a favor of Dare, a prince of that country. This favor was finally refused, and Meave, in anger, led her warriors against Ulster. But in Ulster lived the great hero, Cuchulain. Cuchulain demanded that some one of the hosts of Queen Meave meet him in single combat. No one was strong enough to do this except the hero Ferdia. But Ferdia and Cuchulain had been trained together as boys in the arts of war and had sworn friendship. So Ferdia refused at first to fight with Cuchulain. But the queen threatened him with everlasting disgrace in his own. country if he did not consent, and he yielded. The story of the struggle of the two heroes is told in the extract which follows.

Evening fell,

And stayed perforce that combat. Slowly drew
The warriors near; and, as they noted, each,
The other bleeding, friendship unextinct
In all its strength returned; round either's neck
The other wound his arms and kissed him thrice.
That night their coursers in the selfsame field

Grazed, side by side; that night their charioteers
With rushes gathered from the selfsame stream
Made smooth their masters' beds, then sat themselves
By the same fire. Cuchulain sent the half
Of every healing herb that lulled his wounds
To stanch Ferdia's; while to him in turn
Ferdia sent whate'er of meats or drinks
Held strengthening power or cordial, to allay
Distempered nerve or nimble spirit infuse,
In equal portions shared.

The second morn

They met at sunrise. "Thine the choice of arms,"
The Firbolg1spake. The Gael made answer, "Spears!"
Then leaped the champions on their battle cars
And launched them into battle. Dire their shock,
In fiery orbits wheeling now; anon,

Wheel locked in wheel. Profounder wounds by far
That day than on the first the warriors gored,
Since closer was the fight. With laughing lip
Not less than eye Cuchulain sang the stave
That chides in war "Fomorian obstinacy."
Again at eve drew near they, slower now
For pain, and interwove fraternal arms;
Again their coursers in the selfsame field
Grazed side by side, and from the selfsame stream

Firbolg. A name applied to one belonging to the oldest of the Irish races.

Again their charioteers the rushes culled;

Again they shared alike both meats and drinks;
Again those herbs allaying o'er their wounds

With incantations laid.

Forlorn and sad

Peered the third morning o'er the vaporous woods,
The wan gray river with its floating weed
And bubble unirradiate. From the marge
Cuchulain sadly marked the advancing foe;
'Alas, my brother! beamless is thine eye;

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The radiance lives no longer on thy hair;

And slow thy step." The doomed one answered calm: "Cuchulain, slow of foot but strong of hand

Fate drags his victim to the spot decreed.

The choice to-day is mine; I choose the sword."
So spake the Firbolg; and they closed in fight;
And straightway from his heart to arm and hand
Rushed up the strength of all that buried race
By him so loved! Once more it swelled his breast,
Reclothed in majesty each massive limb,
And flashed in darksome light of hair and eye,
Resplendent as of old. Surpassing deeds

They wrought, while circled meteor-like their swords,
Or fell like heaven's own bolt on shield or helm.
Long hours they strove, till morning's purer gleam
Vanished in noon. Sharper that day their speech;
For, in the intenser present, years gone by

*

Hung but like pallid, thin horizon clouds
O'er memory's loneliest limit. Evening sank
Upon the dripping groves and shuddering flood,
With rainy wailings. Not as heretofore

Their parting. Haughtily their mail they tossed,
Each to his followers. In the selfsame field
That night their coursers grazed not; neither sat
Their charioteers beside the selfsame fire;

Nor sent they, each to other, healing herbs.

Both warriors, that the fortunes of that day
Must end the conflict; that for one, or both,
The sun that hour ascending shone his last.
Therefore all strength of onset till that hour
By either loosed or hoarded, draft of fight
Reined in one moment but to spring the next
Forward in might more terrible, compared
With that last battle, was a trivial thing;
Whilst every weapon, javelin, spear, or sword,
Lawful alike that day, scattered abroad
Huge flakes of dinted mail; from every wound
Bounded the lifeblood of a heart athirst
For victory or for death. The vernal day
Panted with summer ardors, while aloft
Noontide, a fire-tressed Fury, waved her torch,

Kindling the lit grove and its youngling green

From the azure-blazing zenith. Waxed the heat: So waxed the warriors' frenzy. Hours went by. That day they sought not rest on rock or mound, Held no discourse. Slowly the sun déclined;

And as wayfarers tired, when twilight falls,
Advance with strength renewed, so they, refreshed,
Surpassed their deeds at morning. With a bound
Cuchulain, from the bank high springing, lit
Full on the broad boss of Ferdia's shield,
His dagger point down turned. With spasm of arm
Instant the Firbolg from its sable rim

Cast him astonished. Upward from the ford
Again Cuchulain reached that shield; again
With spasm of knee Ferdia flung him far.

The madness-wrath. The foes confronted, met; Shivered their spears from point to half; their swords Flashed lightning round them. Fate-compelled, their

feet

Drew near, then reached that stream which backward fled,

Leaving its channel dry. While raged that fight,
Cuchulain's stature rose, huge, bulky, immense,
Ascending still; as high Ferdia towered

Like Famor old or Nemed from the sea,