THE DEATH < 
 FIONAVAR 
 
 By EVA GORE-RO') 1 ,'! 
 
 SEOORA I KW ay 
 
 CONSTANCE G O R f. - @ O O T H
 
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 JULY 6, 1929. 
 
 layed in another, and there is no change in the thought 
 to account for the change. It is mere haste in writing 
 due to that breathlessness I have spoken of. She was 
 probably afraid the mood would fly if it was 
 not at once put into words. She did not seem to know 
 that poetry is first imagined in the dream conscious- 
 ness, and the perfect poem is there if the waking con- 
 sciousness will try patiently enough to bring it from 
 soul-world to earth-world. Just as we have a moral 
 conscience which tells us when we err from the good, 
 so there is in us an aesthetic conscience, and the artist 
 listens to its whisper and will let nothing pass until 
 the aesthetic conscience is silent and he knows that 
 inner and outer are in as close a harmony as may foe. 
 A little less of the moral conscience and a little more 
 of the aesthetic conscience would have made Eva Gore- 
 Booth a finer poet. She would not have sung so often 
 about Beauty, but would have made much more 
 beautiful songs. I notice her deep affection for Ire- 
 land. Every now and then she returns to it in 
 imagination, as in her most popular lyric : 
 
 The grand road from the mountain goes shining to the sea, 
 And there is traffic on it, and many a horse and cart 
 
 But the .little roads of Cloonagh are dearer far to me, ' 
 And the little roads of Cloonagh go rambling through my 
 heart. 
 
 mun mu^auios paua^aq ejiuis STJJ 'sorgo 003 
 I^IAV araoo CHJ 9ui ppq. pue m auiuo aaq^ej Km 
 aayy -asnoq aq^ aoj pa^ooos a^ '-neq Sno\ 
 jo auQ -puiAv aq^ ajjij guipu 'uauiasaoq 
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 EB aaq^Bj Xui paoi^ou i gninaAa 
 taq p^u; gui^qgrj- jo spnnos ou ^nq '[tmsn
 
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 JULY 6, 1929. JHE IRISH STATESMAN. 
 
 layed in another, and there is no change in the thought 
 to account for the change. It is mere haste in writing 
 due to that breathlessness I have spoken of. She was 
 probably afraid the mood would fly if it was 
 not at once put into words. She did not seem to know 
 that poetry is first imagined in the dream conscious- 
 ness, and the perfect poem is there if the waking con- 
 sciousness will try patiently enough to bring it from 
 soul-world to earth- world. Just as we have a moral 
 conscience which tells us when we err from the good, 
 so there is in us an aesthetic conscience, and the artist 
 listens to its whisper and will let nothing pass until 
 the aesthetic conscience is silent and he knows that 
 inner and outer are in as close a harmony as may Ibe. 
 A little less of the moral conscience and a little more 
 of the aesthetic conscience would have made Eva Gore- 
 Booth a finer poet. She would not have sung so often 
 about Beauty, but would have made much more 
 beautiful songs. I notice her deep affection for Ire- 
 land. Every now and then she returns to it in 
 imagination, as in her most popular lyric : 
 
 The grand road from the mountain goes shining to the sea, 
 And there is traffic on it, and many a horse and cart, 
 
 But the .little roads of Cloonagh are dearer far to me, 
 And the little roads of Cloonagh go rambling through my 
 heart. 
 
 A great storm from the ocean goes shouting o'er the hill, 
 And there is glory in it a-nd terror an the wind, 
 
 But the haunted air of twilight is very strange and still, 
 And the little winds of twilight are dearer to my mind. 
 
 The great waves of the Atlantic sweep storming on their 
 
 way, 
 
 Shining green and silver with the hidden herring shoal, 
 But the Little Waves of Breffni have drenched my heart in 
 
 spray, 
 
 And the Little Waves of Breffni go stumbling through 
 my soul. 
 
 It would have been better, I think, if she had more of 
 jhe waves of the Atlantic and the winding roads of Sligo 
 n her mind than the abstractions of the Beautiful, 
 jhe Good, and the True which crowded it. But the 
 iffection for Ireland is seen in many poems, and she 
 >egins nobly a poem to her sister in prison, that sister 
 etween whom and herself there was an unbroken 
 ffection and admiration : 
 
 What has time to do with thee, 
 Who hast found the victor's way 
 
 To be rich in poverty, 
 Without sunshine to be gay. 
 
 hat was truly said of that undaunted, courageous
 
 THE DEATH OF FIONAVAR 
 
 from 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF MAEVE
 
 The Death of Fionavar 
 
 From 
 
 The Triumph of Maeve 
 
 EVA GORE-BOOTH 
 
 'Decorated by 
 
 CONSTANCE GORE-BOOTH 
 (COUNTESS MARKIEVICZ) 
 
 MCMXVI 
 
 LONDON W.C. 
 
 ERSKINE MACDONALD
 
 To the Memory of 
 the 
 
 'The Many who died for Freedom 
 and the One Who died for Teace 
 
 20GO934
 
 "Poets , Utopians, bravest of the brave, 
 Pearse and <MacT)onagh, Tlunkett, 
 
 Connolly, 
 ^Dreamers tinned fighters but to find a 
 
 gra^e, 
 Glad for the dream 5 austerity to die. 
 
 my own sister, through wild hours of 
 
 pain, 
 Whilst murderous bombs were blotting 
 
 out the stars, 
 
 Little I thought to see you smile again 
 As I did yesterday, through prison bars. 
 
 Oh bitterest sorrow of that land of tears, 
 Utopia, Ireland of the coming time, 
 
 That thy true citizens through weary years 
 Qan for thy sake but make their grief 
 sublime ! 
 
 Dreamers turned fighters but to find a 
 
 grave 
 
 Too great for victory, too brave for war, 
 Would you had dreamed the gentler dream 
 
 of fMaeve .... 
 
 Peace be with you, and love for e^er- 
 more. 
 
 1 r 
 
 tl
 
 AN INTERPRETATION 
 
 As I have been accused of taking liberties with an 
 ancient myth, I would say in defence that all myths 
 have many meanings, perhaps as many as the minds 
 of those who know them : and it is in the nature 
 of things that where there is a variation of meaning 
 there is also a variation of form. The truth of 
 this will be seen by studying the various forms of 
 the old Greek myths, such as the stories of Proser- 
 pine or Psyche, and comparing their deep and 
 mystical eastern versions with the commonplace 
 love-stories familiar to the Latin mind. 
 
 The meaning I got out of the story of Maeve is a 
 symbol of the world-old struggle in the human 
 mind between the forces of dominance and pity, 
 of peace and war. The time has come, in the 
 history of a human soul, when a newly developed 
 and passionate sense of unity undermines the 
 ancient ideals of savage heroism and world-power. 
 Thus the reign of the old warlike gods is rashly 
 broken into and threatened by the fascination of a 
 
 II
 
 new idea. The birth of imagination, the new god 
 of pity, is symbolised in the outside world by the 
 crucifixion of Christ. 
 
 A vision of this event is seen by Maeve the 
 Warrior Queen of Connaught at the moment of 
 its happening and becomes the turning point of 
 her life and thought. Before she arrives at this 
 experience she has had many victorious adven- 
 tures and has even tried to conquer by force of 
 arms that mythical faery land, the Tir-nan-ogue 
 of the Gaelic people, the entrance to which was 
 supposed to be in the mountain close to her palace. 
 She is inspired to this attempt by the stories and 
 songs of Nera, the harper, who has spent many 
 years in the enchanted country and comes back 
 to Ireland on a dark November eve, laden with 
 primroses and spring flowers and singing songs of 
 faery-land. 
 
 The first shock is given to Maeve's military ideals 
 when she finds herself and her army baffled by 
 unseen powers and realises that no army can enter 
 the ivory gate of her dreams. For force is a useless 
 and futile weapon against the soul and its myste- 
 rious powers, and the ambitious fighter is for ever 
 an outcast from the country of the mind, which 
 can only be entered by a pilgrim who has cast 
 aside anger and power and worldly possessions. 
 The glimpse of the new ideal is at first not strong 
 enough to make any difference in Maeve's life, 
 and she continues her everlasting raids and cam- 
 
 12
 
 paigns. Beyond her fighting, her great joy in life 
 is her daughter Fionavar, a young girl of fifteen 
 who has as yet seen nothing of war. Whilst the 
 battle is raging, Maeve and Fionavar go to con- 
 sult a Druidess as to the result of the fight. The 
 Druidess, under the influence of the sea god Man- 
 nanaum, sees visions of the future in the strearn 
 of water that flows through her tent. She pro- 
 phesies the death of Fionavar on the battlefield. 
 At her incantation the presence of the ancient 
 warlike gods of Ireland is felt everywhere. The 
 spear of loldana rushes through the tent, the spear 
 that has such a strange savage life of its own that 
 it has to be kept steeped in poppy and mandragore. 
 Mysterious voices are heard on all sides. Then 
 suddenly the advent of the new god of pity is 
 heralded by consternation and fear, for at the first 
 approach of the idea of non-resistance, terror and 
 antipathy are felt by most people, and gods and 
 men alike shrink back from the coming of a new 
 and terrible god, the god of war. The gentleness 
 that is bringing new suffering in its train, the pity 
 that is the sword that Christ said He came to bring 
 into the world. The scene ends in a vision of the 
 Crucifixion, that is supposed to be happening at 
 the same moment. Fionavar falls to the ground 
 unconscious at the sight of so much pain, struck 
 to the heart by the force of that new and terrible 
 Imaginative Pity that has come into the world, 
 and the Druidess speaks sadly of the advent of 
 the new God.
 
 The next scene describes how Fionavar goes down 
 in the evening after the fight to meet her mother, 
 who is coming home victorious. She has never 
 before seen the horrors of battle, and is full of a 
 happy dream of glory and victory. When she 
 suddenly stumbles on the real thing, the death and 
 pain of the battlefield, the shock is too much for 
 her delicate organism ; she falls dead on the blood- 
 stained grass, thus dying of pity on the battlefield, 
 the first victim of the new and terrible god. She 
 is carried,dead, on her shield by lamenting warriors, 
 to the tent where her mother is waiting for her, 
 full of gloom and foreboding. 
 
 The effect of these events on Maeve is very slow 
 and gradual ; she begins to lose her interest in 
 fighting and her ambitions. It is not exactly 
 sorrow that possesses her, but her ideas of the 
 value of things slowly change, and she begins to 
 feel it impossible to rule and lead armies, and not 
 worth while to fight for narrow ambitious ideals. 
 Her interest in the mystical world wakes up again, 
 the faery land she had once hoped to take by 
 force makes its influence felt in her dreams. She 
 becomes unpopular as new ideas of impartial good 
 will, instead of rewards and favours, shew them- 
 selves in her dealings with the world, whilst pity 
 and understanding take the place of punishment. 
 
 The climax is reached when Nera, who has felt 
 for a time also the illusion of the sword, comes to 
 her court, singing songs and bringing with him a
 
 breath of the gentleness and peace of the other 
 world, the Tir-nan-ogue, or country of the young, 
 the faery land of Irish legend. He is murdered 
 by the soldiers, who think he has thrown a spell 
 over the Queen. And Maeve casts away her 
 kingdom and all her many possessions and ambi- 
 tions, and goes away by herself to meditate and 
 live austerely under the hazel boughs in an island 
 on the Shannon. Thus, without force or sove- 
 reignty, in loneliness and poverty, she finds the 
 way into faery land, the way to her own soul. 
 
 E. G.-B. 
 
 1916.
 
 7 
 
 I have seen Maeve of the Battles wandering 
 
 over the hill, 
 And I know that the deed that is in my 
 
 heart is her deed. 
 And my soul is blown about by the wild 
 
 wind of her will, 
 For always the living must follow whither 
 
 the dead would lead 
 I have seen Maeve of the Battles wandering 
 
 over the hill. 
 
 I would dream a dream at twilight of ease 
 
 and beauty and peace 
 A dream of light on the mountains, and calm 
 
 on the restless sea ; 
 A dream of the gentle days of the world when 
 
 battle shall cease 
 And the things that are in hatred and wrath 
 
 no longer shall be. 
 I would dream a dream at twilight of ease 
 
 and beauty and peace. 
 
 The foamless waves are falling soft on the 
 
 sands of Lissadil 
 And the world is wrapped in quiet and a 
 
 floating dream of gray ; 
 But the wild winds of the twilight blow straight 
 
 from the haunted hill 
 
 i)
 
 And the stars come out of the darkness and 
 
 shine over Knocknarea 
 I have seen Maeve of the Battles wandering 
 
 over the hill. 
 
 There is no rest for the soul that has seen 
 
 the wild eyes of Maeve ; 
 No rest for the heart once caught in the net 
 
 of her yellow hair 
 No quiet for the fallen wind, no peace for 
 
 the broken wave, 
 Rising and falling, falling and rising with soft 
 
 sounds everywhere ; 
 There is no rest for the soul that has seen 
 
 the wild eyes of Maeve. 
 
 I have seen Maeve of the Battles wandering 
 
 over the hill 
 And I know that the deed that is in my 
 
 heart is her deed ; 
 And my soul is blown about by the wild 
 
 winds of her .will, 
 For ever the living must follow whither the 
 
 dead would lead 
 1 have seen Maeve of the Battles wandering 
 
 over the hill. 
 
 - 
 
 3
 
 /////; 
 
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 ///.//./ 1 o^--* 
 
 The Death of Fionavar 
 
 PEffSCWS 
 
 MAEVE, High-Queen of Qonnatight 
 FIONAVAR, her daughter ; a girl of sixteen 
 
 FLEEAS, Queen of the Qranarndians ; a tribu- 
 tary queen 
 
 NERA, a Harper in SVIae^e's ourt, who has 
 been a year in Faery Land 
 
 FERGUS, Chief of the Ultonian exiles^ who have 
 left the service of the f\ing of Ulla 
 because of the treachery practised on 
 the sons of Usna, and the sorrows of 
 T)eirdre 
 
 A DRUIDESS 
 AN OLD WOMAN 
 
 ULTONIAN EXILES, MESSENGERS, HEROES 
 and WARRIOR WOMEN of Conn aught 
 
 ^<y&y^^
 
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 Scene of the Vision of Pity 
 
 Interior of a tent, through which a little 
 stream runs. <V/DRUIDESS is crouching in 
 the shadow, gazing into the darl^ ^ater. 
 'The tent is hung with magical symbols., ' 
 'triangles and other mathematical figures. 
 
 .There is a bronze lamp on a high pedestal ; 
 under it is a huge opalescent shell. A yew 
 bough is hung over the entrance. MAEVE 
 
 flings aside the curtain and comes in. She 
 looks fierce and haggard ; in her hand is a 
 
 javelin. The DRUIDESS does not move or 
 look up, but goes on crooning to herself and 
 
 gazing into the stream.
 
 The Death of Fionavar 
 
 DRUIDESS 
 
 Oh, wandering water fallen from thy rest, 
 Among the hills in many secret streams, 
 What dream dost thou bear away to the West, 
 Where the Atlantic waits for all our dreams ? 
 
 Thy creeping footsteps fill the night with 
 
 sound 
 
 And silence, gliding through the windless tent, 
 Still as deep waters that flow underground, 
 Dark with the vision of a fierce event. 
 
 Like children struggling on the breast of 
 
 night, 
 The image of the slayer and the slain
 
 Float past in trembling waves of broken light 
 With running water for their battle plain. 
 
 Oh, Mannanan,* call all thy streams to thee, 
 Be thy voice heard above the silvery din 
 Till restless rivers find the untroubled sea 
 And every little wave is gathered in. 
 
 Druidess ! 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 DRUIDESS 
 What is thy will ? 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 I have come here 
 
 Straight from the battle : I would know the 
 end. 
 
 DRUIDESS 
 The end is peace. 
 
 * Mannanan was the sea god. 

 
 ^ 
 
 ft 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 Speak plainly, friend, no fear 
 Is in my soul. Plain words do but offend 
 The timid. What dost thou see in the 
 stream ? 
 
 DRUIDESS 
 
 A victory such as the poets sing 
 
 And the unbroken triumph of a dream. 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 I would break the pride of the Red Branch 
 King. 
 
 DRUIDESS 
 
 Deirdre shall be avenged. 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 Is it even so ? 
 
 Why dost thou tremble, Druidess, and turn 
 pale ? 
 
 DRUIDESS 
 I have seen another sight, a vision of woe, 
 
 O ' 
 
 ft 
 
 rtw
 
 MAEVE 
 
 A false dream surely ; shall this great host 
 fail ? 
 
 DRUIDESS 
 
 I have seen the bearers carrying the dead. 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 All men must die ; the battle hours hold 
 A short and painless death 
 
 DRUIDESS 
 
 Oh, so much bloodshed 
 Has dulled the vision. . 
 
 What seest thou ? 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 Thy tale is but half told ; 
 
 DRUIDESS 
 
 Oh, Maeve hold thou thy shield 
 
 Before the breast of her thou lovest most, 
 
 See to her safety on the battle-field.
 
 May the kind gods who march beside the 
 
 host 
 Protect her. 
 
 MA EVE (with a loud cry} 
 
 Fionavar ! Fionavar ! 
 
 [FIONAVAR pushes aside the curtain and 
 comes in. 
 
 FIONAVAR 
 
 What wouldst thou, Maeve ? I wait here 
 for thy will. 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 Fleeas goes with me in the battle-car : 
 Go thou to thy tent 
 
 26
 
 FIONAVAR 
 
 What have I done ? 
 MAEVE (speaking quickly in great agitation} 
 Naught. Be still. 
 
 The omens are evil : go thou to thy tent. 
 Wait there in peace ; the battle is not for 
 
 thee 
 
 To-day. Have pity, child, my soul is rent 
 With fear. 
 
 DRUIDESS 
 
 It is the will of the ever-blessed Sidhe. 
 
 [A sudden echoing cry is heard. The 
 DRUIDESS puts her ear to the shell and 
 listens intently. The tent grows dark.
 
 MAEVE 
 
 Fionavar, where art thou ? 
 FIONAVAR 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 A cold hand touched me. . 
 
 At thy side. . . . 
 
 FIONAVAR 
 
 Waves of chilling air 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 The crowding shadows glide 
 
 [There is a flash of lightning. For a 
 moment glimmering faces are seen as 
 of a host of spirits rushing through 
 the tent. here is a slight earth- 
 quake shock.
 
 FIONA VAR (absently gazing into the darkness} 
 
 The faces of the gods are very fair, 
 The earth rocks underneath their scornful 
 tread. 
 
 [Through the dark tent there rushes a 
 shining spear made of living and 
 fluid particles of light. There is a 
 hissing sound as of red-hot iron 
 plunged into water, and the spear 
 vanishes. 
 
 A VOICE (wailing) 
 
 loldana, why hast thou hurled thy spear* 
 Into the world? 
 
 ANOTHER VOICE 
 
 The living and the dead 
 Have met in the crashing of a broken 
 sphere. 
 
 * The living spear of the god loldana had tremendous 
 magic powers. 
 
 ^**ar 
 
 (, 
 
 29
 
 FIRST VOICE 
 
 The lance should have lain among lifeless 
 
 things 
 Made drowsy with poppies steeped in Man- 
 
 dragore. [A flight of 'white birds passes. 
 
 A VOICE 
 
 Red is the blood on thy birds' wings, 
 Angus !* 
 
 A VOICE 
 
 There is one here I know not. 
 
 ANOTHER VOICE (sktieking) 
 
 A God of War, 
 A new and terrible god 
 
 * Angus was the god of love. 
 
 fill
 
 A VOICE 
 
 Oh, stranger Lord, 
 
 Bid the spheres part and all this tumult 
 cease 
 
 ANOTHER VOICE 
 
 Thy soul has come amongst us like a 
 
 sword 
 
 Leave us in peace leave us in peace. 
 
 [The thunder grows louder and louder. 
 There is a violent earthquake shock. 
 
 FIRST VOICE 
 
 Pass on thy way, bid the struck earth be still. 
 What have we to do with thee, pass on thy 
 way. 
 
 A VOICE (in terror) 
 
 Thou hast put out the sun with thy wild 
 will. 
 
 A SHRIEKING CRY 
 
 Where is the sunshine, give us back the 
 day! 
 
 \The earthquake shock is repeated. The 
 tent becomes darker and darker till 
 suddenly a little circle of light begins 
 to grow in the midst of the blackness. 
 Figures gradually become visible, very 
 small and clear like a vision in a 
 crystal ball. Three crosses stand out 
 for a moment against a lurid sky
 
 surrounded by a confused and panic 
 stricken multitude^ then there is 
 another earthquake crash and every- 
 thing disappears in the darkness for a 
 short time. Crash succeeds crash and 
 all is confusion. Then the light gradu- 
 ally and very dimly re-appears. 
 FIONAVAR is lying on the ground in 
 a dead faint. MAEVE stands beside 
 her pale and rigid. 
 
 DRUIDESS 
 
 Oh ! Mannanan, call all thy streams to thee, 
 Be thy voice heard above their silvery din 
 Till restless rivers find the untroubled sea 
 And every little wave be lost therein. 
 
 [FIONAVAR gradually comes to herself. 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 The gods have given a sign the ground 
 
 shook 
 
 And sank beneath us like a sinking wave, 
 I have read of such things in an ancient 
 
 book.
 
 FIONAVAR (in a voice of passionate entreaty] 
 May the gods pity a tortured slave ! 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 Alas ! alas ! my soul is full of fear 
 And evil boding. 
 
 DRUIDESS 
 
 Hast thou no pity then 
 For the death of a god ? Oh Queen, the 
 
 crystal sphere 
 Is broken, and a new star gone forth 
 
 !
 
 Scene of the Death of 
 Fionavar 
 
 l 
 
 MAEVE'S tent. It is growing dark. FIO- 
 NAVAR and an OLD WOMAN. The OLD WOMAN 
 Is spinning. 
 
 FIONAVAR 
 
 Old mother, dost think they will soon 
 return ? 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN 
 
 Have patience, child, the day is not yet 
 done. 
 
 FIONAVAR 
 
 See, in the distance, dost thou not discern 
 Their helmets flashing in the setting sun ? 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN 
 
 Tis but the river glittering on the plain. 
 Young eyes are dazzled by a dream of strife 
 In every stream. 
 
 FIONAVAR (impatiently] 
 
 I strain my eyes in vain. 
 This is the longest day in my whole life. 
 
 
 34
 
 impatiently. The OLD 
 
 WOMAN 5/>/WJ. c/f MESSENGER <?/^rJ //^^ 
 
 tent. He is dusty and travel-stained. 
 
 MESSENGER 
 
 The battle is over the Ultonians fled. 
 I have seen Cuculain fly before the Queen, 
 He saved himself by flight now he is dead 
 And Ulla has fallen. 
 
 FIONAVAR 
 
 I would I had seen 
 The triumph of Maeve \ 
 
 MESSENGER 
 
 Lady, even now 
 
 She stands victorious in her battle-car 
 Lonely among the dead. Grief is on her 
 
 brow 
 She speaks but of thee, Princess Fionavar. 
 
 FIONAVAR 
 I will go forth to meet her. 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN 
 
 Nay, child, rest 
 
 ii 
 
 35
 
 FIONAVAR 
 
 I cannot rest, my heart 
 
 Does not know peace. The sun is in the 
 
 west, 
 
 I must see her ere the last gleams depart 
 From the world. 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN 
 
 Oh ! I am old and feeble grown ; 
 I pray thee wait awhile. 
 
 FIONAVAR 
 
 I cannot stay. 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN 
 
 Wilt thou leave me mourning here alone ? 
 
 FIONAVAR 
 
 I must be with her ere the close of day. 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN 
 
 Oh ! wild and passionate will, ye shall not 
 
 meet 
 Before the daylight deepens into night. 
 
 FIONAVAR 
 
 Yet will I run to find her, with swift feet 
 Chasing the last rays of the fading light.
 
 THE OLD WOMAN 
 
 Ah, do not go ; a sharp and shuddering chill 
 Warns all my soul against this deed of thine. 
 
 FIONAVAR 
 
 My heart is on fire, and my mortal will 
 Is but a wine-cup for the spirit's wine 
 That overflows in deeds. 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN 
 
 Oh, rash and reckless one ! 
 The Queen feared much for thee this battle 
 plain. 
 
 FIONAVAR 
 
 I will be with her there ere set of sun, 
 
 The battle is over and all her fears in vain 
 
 I go to find the sweet and shining hour 
 
 I have seen mirrored in each running stream 
 
 And in the heart of every wind-blown 
 
 flower 
 
 I go to find the glory of a dream, 
 The triumph of Maeve ! 
 
 [She goes out. The OLD WOMAN begins 
 to spin and sing to herself in a low 
 voice.
 
 SONG 
 
 Out of the depths of the crystal spheres 
 To the wind-blown world a spirit came, 
 And from the joy of her shining years 
 She brought but a little waving flame. 
 
 The winds of the world blew strong to scorch 
 With the burning dream her crystal mind. 
 Alas, for the spirit that held the torch ! 
 Alas, for a flame blown by the wind ! 
 
 Alas, for the wild desire that stole 
 From the opal's heart the spark divine, 
 For the flame has burnt through her inmost 
 
 soul 
 And cracked and blackened its crystal shrine. 
 
 MESSENGl'E 
 
 Does any evil thing threaten the Queen ? 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN 
 
 She will find her lonely amongst the dead.
 
 MESSENGER 
 
 That was a strange song : surely thou hast 
 
 seen 
 A vision or dreamed some dark dream of 
 
 dread. 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN 
 
 The flame has cracked and scorched its crystal 
 shrine 
 
 MESSENGER 
 
 Cease thou thy riddles, who may understand 
 These twisted dreams and subtle words of 
 
 thine ? 
 Speak thou the common speech of all the 
 
 land. 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN 
 
 There is no need for words, it is too late " 
 
 MESSENGER 
 
 Dost thou see anything? 
 
 39
 
 THE OLD WOMAN 
 
 On the grass outside 
 I hear the swift foot-fall of fate, 
 I know that she will find what she sought. 
 
 [Another MESSENGER comes in. 
 
 SECOND MESSENGER 
 
 Where is the Princess Fionavar ? 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN 
 
 She has gone forth to meet the High-Queen 
 Maeve. 
 
 SECOND MESSENGER 
 
 The Queen drives homeward in her battle- 
 car, 
 
 Crushing the grass where many a new-made 
 grave 
 
 40
 
 Shall soon be heaped ; she bids the Princess 
 
 stay 
 
 Her coming here ; her soul is strangely rent 
 With evil dreams and bodings. Canst thou 
 
 Where I shall find the Princess ? 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN (goes to the door and points) 
 This way she went. 
 
 SECOND MESSENGER 
 
 How shall I know her, lady ; by what signs ? 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN 
 
 She is young and tall, like a tall meadow 
 
 flower, 
 Delicate-wristed, with a sword that shines
 
 // vf Guiltless of blood. Stay: in an evil hour 
 in She bound the golden cath-barr on her head 
 That marks for all the world her royal birth* 
 
 SECOND MESSENGER 
 
 jff I would know her among the living or the 
 
 dead 
 
 \^\ 
 
 vy By the gold circle of the kings of earth. 
 / [He goes out 
 
 FIRST MESSENGER 
 
 What dost thou fear ? Why is thy soul 
 downcast ? 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN 
 
 She has gone out into a world of woe 
 At twilight. 
 
 FIRST MESSENGER 
 
 Surely all danger is past. 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN 
 
 Danger is never past while rivers flow 
 Down to the sea, and white spring flowers 
 
 fade 
 In the sharp winds, while every weary year 11
 
 'Jr. 7 
 
 Autumn makes barren the green forest glade. 
 Thinking these thoughts my heart is full of 
 fear. 
 
 FIRST MESSENGER 
 
 These are the foolish fancies of the old, 
 .,. -Their dreams are ever but a craven throng " 
 Of 'fears, their hearts beat slow their blood 
 / is cold. 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN 
 
 \ Oh ! spirit of youth, thou doest the world 
 wrong, 
 
 ^ The sunny April world, where old and new, 
 ; The aged earth and the young growing 
 
 flowers 
 
 Are lit by rainbow dreams the whole day 
 through ; 
 
 43
 
 ^ff^ 
 
 rr 
 
 ^ 
 
 ? 
 
 ^ 
 
 T: 
 
 V 
 
 
 tr^K 
 
 But the pale primrose-haunted twilight hours 
 Gazing at old unfathomable things, 
 Crowd round the threshold of the nearer stars 
 And beat the blue air with their weary wings 
 Believe me, the old behind their prison bars 
 Have lit strange altar fires. 
 
 FIRST MESSENGER 
 
 I hear the sound 
 
 Of galloping horses. 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN 
 
 It is the Queen ! 
 
 Grief is on me, I am bowed to the ground, 
 I would that all this sorrow had not been. 
 
 [There is a moment's silence then 
 MAEVE comes in. 
 
 MAEVE 
 Where is Fionavar ? 
 
 I* 
 
 JBU-, 
 
 &2* 
 
 &
 
 THE OLD WOMAN 
 
 Oh ! great Queen, blame me not 
 For I am old. 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 Where is Fionavar ? 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN 
 
 I know not. She fled like an arrow shot 
 
 Into the twilight gray, without a star. 
 
 I am old and feeble and my sight is weak. 
 
 MAEVE 
 Oh fool, fool, fool, why didst thou let her 
 
 g 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN 
 
 There was her dream that she went forth to 
 seek. 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 She has found the gates of the world's woe 
 And flung them wide for me to enter in. 
 
 45
 
 Did I not leave her young life to thy care ? 
 Oh ! she was better in the fury and din 
 Of battle. There is no safety anywhere. 
 Old woman, hast thou then no words to say ? 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN 
 
 I thought I heard music. 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 Who are these 
 Who sing such strange songs ? They pass 
 
 on their way 
 
 In slow procession winding through the trees. 
 [The OLD WOMAN goes to the door and 
 looks out. 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN 
 
 It is the bearers carrying the dead, 
 A warrior lying on a golden shield.
 
 Alas, the vision there was much blood shed 
 Not hers. I kept her from the battle-field, 
 I kept her from the sight of my sad eyes 
 I could not keep her from my dreams. 
 
 [The DRUIDESS comes in. 
 
 DRUIDESS 
 
 On the battle-field. 
 
 She died 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 Oh thou most wise 
 
 Canst thou not save her ? 
 
 DRUIDESS 
 
 Nay, the dead abide. 
 
 \A procession of warriors comes slowly 
 into the tent, chanting as they go. They 
 are carrying the dead FIONA VAR on a 
 long oval shield. 
 
 47
 
 LAMENT 
 
 She is rescued from days and hours, she is 
 
 lost to the years that pass, 
 And the broken pride of her beauty shall 
 
 lie near the roots of the grass. 
 
 In vain dost thou seek to restore her, oh 
 Queen, she was weary of war, 
 
 Let us bear her away to the peace of the 
 lonely and dream-trodden shore. 
 
 Far away near the haunted Rosses where the 
 
 sea shrinks out of the bay 
 And the world is a purple shadow from the 
 
 green lands to Knocknarea, 
 
 Where the sky is above and about us and 
 the sand crumbles under our tread, 
 
 And a rain-soft wind from the hills shall 
 soothe the tired eyelids of the dead, 
 
 We will fold her round with our pity, we 
 will lay her down in her grave, 
 
 Fionavar, fairest of women, the daughter of 
 yellow-haired Maeve. 
 
 Oh Mother ! how shall we remember, how 
 
 shall we bear her in mind 
 A spent lamp lost in the darkness or a flame 
 
 that went forth on the wind. 
 
 Is she broken and silent and gone like the 
 
 broken string of a lyre, 
 Or radiant, a child of the lightning, a spirit 
 
 of music and fire ? 
 
 48
 
 Did she mock at the growing flowers, think 
 scorn of the spring in her pride ? 
 
 Though the guardian hills stood dreaming 
 about her she would not abide. 
 
 The rain and the wind were her comrades, 
 she left them, she went forth alone ; 
 
 Now the rainbow's circle is broken, the 
 dreams of the wind overthrown. 
 
 She forsook the kind hearth of the world 
 and the sweetness of things that are, 
 
 To build up the pride of her soul on some 
 lonely and perilous star. 
 
 She is hidden away from the twilight, her 
 
 secret is known to none, 
 She has broken her faith with the wind and 
 
 the sea she is false to the sun. 
 
 AN OLD MAN (on the QUtsklTtS of the 
 
 My sight is dim why do these idle folk 
 Crowd round the Queen, what evil has come 
 to pass ? 
 
 A WARRIOR 
 
 Men say the great heart of the Princess 
 
 broke 
 
 For pity of the dead lying on the grass 
 After the battle. 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 Ye who have borne her hither on her shield 
 Tell now your tale. How did this thing 
 
 befall 
 Fionavar ? 
 
 49
 
 A WARRIOR 
 
 She came at evening, running to the field, 
 Knowing naught of battle, or sights that appal 
 The strongest soul unused to the ways of war. 
 Thou knowest her heart was ever wont to 
 
 burn 
 
 For any little grief. Therefore when she saw 
 The primroses all soaked in blood and the 
 
 brown fern 
 Broken Death that was servant to no gentle 
 
 God 
 
 And everywhere pale faces wild with pain, 
 The blood-stained daisy cried out from the 
 
 sod 
 
 Unto her soul, there on the stricken plain 
 For very pity she fell down and died. 
 
 NERA 
 
 Should a man die for pity of those who die ? 
 1 weep for the immortals, patient eyed, 
 And pale fixed stars that weary of the sky. 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 Oh ye who saw her fall, ye must have heard 
 Her idlest whisper, her last sobbing breath. 
 
 50
 
 :i 
 
 Did ye not rescue one half-drowned word 
 From the black tides and silent gulfs of 
 death ? 
 
 WARRIOR 
 
 She shrieked a bitter cry. 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 Is there then none of you 
 Will tell me the words of her whose swift end 
 Has broken my heart ? [There is a silence. 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 Unfaithful and untrue ! 
 Are you all slaves, have I not then one 
 friend ? 
 
 FLEEAS 
 
 She flung her arms out to the blue and cried, 
 4 Is this the triumph of Maeve' and shrieked 
 
 and fell, 
 
 And lay so still, none knew when she died. 
 Oh Queen ! this is a grievous tale to tell. 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 Yea, and a grievous triumph. 
 
 [FERGUS comes in. 
 
 > \
 
 FERGUS 
 
 Queen, I am loath to bring 
 Noises of battle to this quiet tent 
 Where all men mourn, and only the bards 
 
 sing 
 Praises of the dead. 
 
 [MAEVE rises to her feet and motions to 
 the attendants^ who go out one by one. 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 What sudden event 
 
 Has brought thee here, what dark and evil 
 fate ? 
 
 FERGUS 
 
 There are strange tidings from the fortressed 
 
 hills, 
 
 The captains sit in council, and they wait 
 Thy presence and crowning will. 
 
 MAEVE (gazing at FIONAVAR) 
 
 Oh, least of many ills 
 
 Is death. Child, thou wert wise beyond thy 
 years. 
 
 FERGUS 
 
 The jealous captains wait for thee, oh 
 
 Queen, 
 This is no time for mourning or for tears.
 
 MAEVE (still looking at FIONAVAR) 
 I will go with thee. 
 
 FERGUS 
 
 'Twere well them wert seen 
 In the camp, for men say the Queen is 
 dead. 
 
 [MAKVE rises slowly and goes towards the 
 door. 
 
 MAEVE 
 I come. 
 
 FERGUS 
 
 They have cast covetous eyes on the throne. 
 
 MAEVE 
 Alas ! alas ! shall there be more blood shed ? 
 
 FERGUS 
 
 Pity them not, they reap as they have sown. 
 The host is murmuring like a troubled sea ; 
 Speak them soft words and bid this tumult 
 cease. 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 Pass on. 
 
 [FERGUS goes out. MAEVE stands for a 
 moment near the door as if about to 
 follow him Suddenly she stops, drops 
 the curtain and rushes back to where 
 
 53
 
 FIONAVAR is lying. She flings herself 
 on her knees beside her. 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 Oh, wilt thou not open the gates to me ? 
 Fionavar, Deirdre, the gates of Peace. 
 
 54
 
 Scene of the Triumph 
 Maeve 
 
 of 
 
 Qreat Hall at 'Rath Qruhane. ^ feast is spread 
 on gold and silver dishes ; everything is prepared 
 for MAEVE'S home-coming. 'The DRUIDESS is 
 surrounded by a group of "warriors and attendants^ 
 talking eagerly. 
 
 A WARRIOR 
 
 Men say there is a great and evil change 
 In the High-Queen since Fionavar died. 
 
 ANOTHER 
 
 Yet she is not old. It is very strange 
 
 ANOTHER 
 
 She stands entranced for hours, vacant-eyed, 
 Speaking to none. It is as if a spell 
 Had fallen upon her. She does not hear 
 The voices of the world : no man can tell 
 Whither her soul strays 

 
 DRUIDESS 
 
 She mourns perchance 
 Fionavar or Ailill. 
 
 WARRIOR 
 
 Nay, men say 
 
 This is not sorrow, but a Druid trance 
 That dulls her sense and wraps her soul away. 
 For her lips murmur many a strange word 
 Unknown to dreams, as in the battle-song 
 A sudden rush of strange desire is heard 
 That shudders away beyond the straining 
 
 throng 
 In a moment 
 
 DRUIDESS 
 
 It is not often in the time 
 "/ , Of their great victory that the stars call
 
 To the souls of men, yet the golden chime 
 And thunderous procession of the spheres, 
 In waves of music hiding the wise dead, 
 Sweeps through her soul and breaks the web 
 
 of years 
 
 That muffles the will, reverberant to the tread 
 Of dreams 
 
 WARRIOR 
 
 Surely the Queen's heart is dead and 
 
 cold. 
 
 Once she had many lovers : now no man 
 May please her. Men say she is growing 
 
 old. 
 
 DRUIDESS 
 
 She had grown old before the world began.
 
 WARRIOR 
 
 Strange such a woman should tire of delight. 
 
 ANOTHER 
 
 Is it to-day that she divides the spoil ? 
 
 ATTENDANT 
 
 As I looked out across the plain last night, 
 I saw great carts laden with precious things, 
 And heavy burdened oxen strain and toil 
 Along the Eastern road. 
 
 ANOTHER ATTENDANT 
 
 Doubtless she brings 
 Great gifts to Connaught. 
 
 ALL 
 
 Long may the Queen reign ! 
 
 [Singing is heard in the distance.
 
 Far away in the Curlew mountains, the fires 
 
 of welcome flare, 
 For word has gone out through the country 
 
 that Maeve has come home again, 
 Men tell of her glorious deeds and her 
 
 victories everywhere, 
 And all the idle folk in the land are flocking 
 
 to Rath Cruhane. 
 
 Oh, ye warriors weary of battle ! here is an 
 
 end of toil, 
 For the gray-necked crow has fled away with 
 
 a flapping of bloodstained wings. 
 Far from the place of slaughter shall be the 
 
 dividing of the spoil, 
 And the bards shall sing of the battles of 
 
 Maeve in the hall of the Kings. 
 
 [Procession of Dancers, Harp Players, 
 Druids, Druidesses and Warriors. 
 
 [There is a moment's hush, then MAEVE 
 comes in alone. She is dressed in a 

 
 long gold-embroidered robe, with a 
 gold crown on her head. She moves 
 like one in a dream but goes straight 
 to the throne. 
 
 Now the young tell their dreams to the old 
 
 and the wise go crowned with flowers ; 
 Weak spirits shall dwell with heroes and be 
 
 comrades of the brave, 
 For this is the day of all days in the world, 
 
 the hour of hours, 
 The day of the glory ofConnaught, the hour 
 
 of the Triumph of Maeve. 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 I have given the captains orders to divide 
 The spoil, each warrior shall have his part, 
 All shall be done injustice without pride 
 Or fear of men. . . . 
 
 FERGUS 
 Some folly is in her heart.
 
 MAEVE 
 
 All souls shall share alike and be content. 
 
 FERGUS 
 
 Great gifts befit great names and little men 
 Are grateful for little. 
 
 A WARRIOR 
 
 The host will be rent 
 With the wrath of princes. 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 What sayest thou then, 
 
 Oh Fleeas ? Many who served in the ranks 
 Who were not heroes or kings yet were slain. 
 
 FLEEAS 
 For this justice thou shalt gain little thanks. 
 
 CHORUS OF WARRIORS 
 
 The Queen is just Long may the 
 
 Queen reign.
 
 i\ 'I i /v " v>y 7*i ' ^1 r</ ' ' -' /7 , 
 
 MAEVE (passionately) 
 
 Let them reign who may, Fionavar 
 
 Is dead. [S^ sinks down on the throne. 
 
 ATTENDANT 
 
 Queen, there is one without, 
 \f,A poor man, he says he has travelled far 
 To find thee. 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 Let him in, without doubt 
 brings news. 
 
 [There is a stir in the crowd and CONAL 
 pushes his way info the hall. 
 
 CONAL 
 
 ri 
 
 I 
 
 A favour, Queen. 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 CONAL 
 
 What is thy will ? 
 
 Do justice, Lady, between me and mine, 
 J am blind Conal of Knock Lane Hill. 
 
 62
 
 MAEVE 
 
 Say then, oh Conal, what is this boon of 
 thine? 
 
 CONAL 
 
 Bid Nera who was my brother, divide 
 
 The fields he stole the beautiful green lands 
 
 He wrested from me when our father died. 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 Couldst thou then hold them with those poor 
 
 weak hands 
 Of thine ? 
 
 CONAL 
 
 Yea, Queen, weak hands are strong to grasp 
 The sword of justice, and my claim is just. 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 Have then thy justice, go thy ways, and clasp 
 To thy cold heart this handful of dry dust. 
 I know thee of old, thy brother who stole 
 It from thee is a dreamer, he has no need 
 Of land ; he has much treasure in his soul. 
 
 CONAL 
 
 He is a man of avarice and greed.
 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 - v 'i Fergus, see thou that Conal have. his share 
 
 H Of the fields, 1 have other work to-night. 
 
 s f \A Voice in the hall. 
 
 
 
 . . VOICE 
 
 v ' J-ustice, oh Queen ! Vengeance on them .that 
 
 '. dare 
 Deceive me and defraud me of my right. 
 
 '*:..' MAEVE 
 
 '; What is thy right ? 
 
 '*'*, A WARRIOR 
 
 f The love and happiness 
 
 Of the beautiful Edane, she who was my 
 wife. 
 
 { 
 
 X"
 
 MAEVE 
 
 There is but little right in love, and less 
 In happiness. 
 
 WARRIOR 
 
 They have stolen away my life. 
 
 MAEVE 
 There is no right in life. 
 
 WARRIOR 
 
 There is the law 
 That gives each man his own. 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 Love is not thine, 
 
 Or joy my gift to give or to withdraw. 
 No law can help thee to hold fast these 
 things. 
 
 WARRIOR 
 
 She fled away with Dary from the North. 
 
 MAEVE 
 In vain dost thou hope to clip the swallow's 
 
 wings. 
 
 Let those who dream of summer freely forth 
 Lest in their bonds they poison the deep 
 ife.
 
 I 
 
 WARRIOR 
 
 I would have vengeance for my ancient name, 
 Disgraced and blackened by this deed that 
 
 tells 
 My loss to the world, and mars my fair fame. 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 She has gone forth to the world ; let the world 
 
 deal 
 
 With her. Fear not, sorrow is at her side 
 And the world's vengeance sharper than the 
 
 steel 
 Of thy fierce sword. Thou shalt be satisfied ! 
 
 VOICES 
 
 The Queen is just ! Long may the Queen 
 reign. 
 
 A VOICE 
 Justice, oh Queen ! and blood for bloodshed. 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 Which of us all is there who has not slain 
 Another 
 
 \A pause. An OLD MAN pushes to the 
 front. 
 
 66
 
 /' lit'/ ' ' / /:-' V -. ? 
 
 i //fli//'/'/!/m 
 
 OLD MAN 
 
 Nay, but my son's blood is red 
 
 On the grass : shall not the slayers die 
 
 MAEVE 
 I have seen pity on a blood-stained field. 
 
 OLD MAN 
 
 Men say he cried a very bitter cry. 
 
 They bore him home to me dead on his shield. 
 
 MAEVE (earnestly) 
 Oh friend \ have pity on the holy dead. 
 
 OLD MAN' 
 
 They have no pity, four warriors can boast 
 They slew my son, in secret was his blood 
 
 shed 
 By treachery. 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 Trouble not his ghost 
 With this dark folly of revenge, he knows 
 
 ^^ 
 
 / 
 
 \/l 
 
 V
 
 It is well to die. He thinks thee but a fool, 
 Old man, to fill the world with noise and 
 
 blows 
 For his sake. 
 
 FERGUS 
 
 The Queen grows old, she is not fit to rule. 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 Hush! there is music 
 
 [NERA is heard singing outside. 
 
 The 
 
 great doors at the end of the hall 
 are flung wide open as if by an in- 
 Visible force, and as NERA advances 
 the Guards and Attendants fall back 
 on all sides. He passes up the room 
 and stands before MAEVE. 
 
 THE WELL OF WISDOM 
 
 In the Queen's dun a heavy curtain shuts 
 The sun out and the air is dark and cool. 
 In Tirnanogue* the wind-blown hazel nuts 
 Drop down through sunlight into a clear 
 pool. 
 
 And knowledge dwells where the red berries 
 
 are 
 And wisdom among the waters cool and 
 
 bright, 
 
 * Tirnanogue, the country of the young, the paradise of 
 Irish mythology. 
 
 00
 
 Wherein deep sunken many a drowned star 
 Burns with a secret and unearthly light. 
 
 Not in the judgment hall shall the Queen 
 
 find 
 
 Wisdom, nor on the breast of warring seas, 
 But in lost waters where a haunted wind 
 Rustles the green boughs of the hazel trees. 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 I have taken from thee, oh Nera, thy green 
 
 lands, 
 Yet would I give thee for this song great 
 
 praise. 
 
 [NERA untwines the wreath of primroses 
 from his harp. 
 
 NERA 
 
 I have a gift for thee, oh Queen, my hands 
 Are empty now of gifts, I go my ways. 
 
 [He lays the primrose wreath on the step 
 of MAEVE'S throne and turns to go, 
 but the people gather round him with 
 threatening murmurs and angry ges- 
 tures. 
 
 A VOICE IN THE CROWD 
 
 This is the man who has bewitched the Queen 
 W T ith words.
 
 ANOTHER VOICE 
 
 He made a mighty and a three-fold curse 
 And put it on her. 
 
 ANOTHER VOICE 
 
 What do such songs mean 
 But treason and red murder ? Yea, far worse 
 Than all these things : contempt poured on 
 
 the throne 
 And sovereign power of Connaught. 
 
 FERGUS (scornfully} 
 
 Let him be ; 
 He's but a fool. 
 
 A VOICE IN THE CROWD 
 
 Nay, not of him alone 
 Judge ye, but of the strife and misery 
 His dreams will bring on the land. 
 
 ANOTHER VOICE 
 
 Drive him forth 
 From Connaught.
 
 ANOTHER VOICE 
 
 Nay, vengeance is on his brow : 
 
 He will make songs in some dun in the North 
 
 And put a curse on us. 
 
 ANOTHER VOICE 
 
 Yea, let us slay him now. 
 
 CONAL 
 
 Oh, Nera, give me back those lands of mine 
 Thou knowest of! 
 
 NERA 
 
 Peace, peace, hot-headed one, 
 Get thee back to thy cattle and thy swine. 
 
 MAEVE (to NERA) 
 This is a foolish deed that thou hast done.
 
 NERA 
 
 'Tis the last folly and the last farewell ! 
 
 CONAL 
 
 Traitor, give forth thy life for thy false 
 
 tongue, 
 Thy life for thy treachery. 
 
 NERA 
 
 The bards shall tell 
 
 This tale in the aftertime and songs be sung 
 How a man slew his brother for lean lands 
 And scraggy hills, spray-swept by the harsh 
 sea. 
 
 CONAL 
 
 Were those green fields a waste of shifting 
 
 sands 
 Yet would I slay thee. 
 
 ; i v m 
 
 ^
 
 NERA (drawing his 
 
 Even so, then let it be, 
 I will give battle unto thy desires 
 Oh Conal, knowing that this is the end. 
 Beyond the ivory gate burn starry fires 
 Where the spheres meet and rushing torrents 
 
 blend 
 
 With peaceful waters, and each broken wave 
 Of melody flows on from sphere to sphere. 
 
 CONAL 
 
 Nay, thou shalt find but green grass for a 
 
 grave, 
 
 Yea, in the end shall the green grass be dear 
 To thy proud soul.
 
 
 '. NERA defends himself 
 languidly ', #;/ w 500# wounded and 
 overcome. 
 
 (f^ 
 
 ,y 
 
 FERGUS 
 
 He was no fighter, yet shall he have praise 
 In the aftertime. 
 
 CONAL 
 
 'Twere well he were slain, 
 Else will he come back after many days. 
 Yea, surely he will bewitch the Queen 
 again. 
 
 [MAEVE is sitting on the throne with her( 
 head on her hands and her elbows on 
 her knees. 
 
 NERA 
 
 Wilt thou not lift my poor gift from the 
 
 ground ? 
 See it is stained with blood, oh proud Queen \\ 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 Nera, these magic primroses were found
 
 In the dim wood where hazel boughs are 
 
 green 
 Above enchanted waters. 
 
 [She takes the primrose wreath in her 
 hands. NERA watches her intently. 
 
 Withered flowers, 
 Oh blood-stained primroses, ye speak unto 
 
 my will 
 
 With a harsh cry, a burden of bitter hours 
 Drowned in blind caverns under the dark hill 
 Of dreams 
 
 [She shudders. 'There is a silence. 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 Now has the hour struck that is the last 
 Of all my hours. The busy moments cease 
 To vex me, crowding ever thick and fast 
 Round my sick soul beyond the gates of 
 
 peace 
 
 I breathe the air of that wide, quiet sea 
 Where music has changed the rhythm of all 
 
 things 
 To the round measure of Eternity,
 
 
 
 And ancient Time with dark and broken 
 
 wings 
 Has sunk beneath the waves 
 
 [She casts aside her crown and royal 
 
 nbcs. 
 O ! lie thou there, thou crown of life and 
 
 fete, 
 
 Now is my heart for ever and ever free 
 As the free stars beyond the ivory gate. 
 For the last time these rags of royalty 
 Cumber the soul : now will 1 find the way 
 To Tirnanogue the way to my own soul, 
 The way to the world's heart beyond night 
 
 or day 
 
 Or love or hate or any golden goal 
 Of empire ; the inexorable doors 
 Yield to the passionate rhythms of the wise. 
 My feet are on the elemental floors, 
 The fierce jcthereal fires dazzle mine eyes, 
 thee, Nera, yet will I go 
 
 '
 
 [She "jcinds the vcreath of primroses in 
 her hair. 
 
 FLEEAS 
 
 Wilt thou then die with him, oh Maeve ? 
 
 MAIVE 
 
 Nay, nay, fear not, I know 
 A better way. The hazel branches wave 
 And sway in the wind, and gentle voices call 
 
 * O 
 
 From the deep shadows voices that once I 
 
 knew 
 Of those who stand in peace when the stars 
 
 fall. 
 
 In such a place it seems that my soul grew 
 Out of the darkness long and long ago 
 At the world's edge. 
 
 NERA 
 
 Oh ! I will follow thee 
 And greet thee where the quiet waters flow 
 Under green boughs. 
 
 
 "
 
 FERGUS 
 
 Nay, Queen, this cannot be. 
 Hast them forgot thy kingdom and thy 
 
 throne 
 
 And us who did thy will on the red plain - - 
 OF. Battle ? A king's life is not his own.. 
 i 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 It is not given unto kings to reign 
 For more than a little while 
 
 \ A CHIEF 
 
 Dost thou not know 
 
 The royal bonds that bind thy soul to ours, 
 Thy people, from of old 
 
 I
 
 t$ 
 
 0. 
 
 >C 
 
 0Gb o 1 
 
 4* 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 Long, long ago 
 My soul lay deep amongst the roots of 
 
 flowers 
 
 And now, my people wander o'er the hills, 
 The white-faced daisy and the homeless clan 
 Of primroses and the most loyal daffodils 
 Are waiting for me. Since the world began 
 My soul was bound with many a secret bond 
 Unto the intimate will of the brown soil 
 That fought for beauty in green boughs 
 
 beyond 
 
 The wars of men, and with long silent toil 
 Built up the hills and flowered in the white 
 
 thorn 
 And faded in the twilight, and at noon
 
 Lay in thick sunshine on the growing corn 
 And mixed the gentle magic of the moon 
 With the soft sighing of the flowing tides 
 And a dim dream of spirit faces pale 
 That haunt the woods. 
 
 DRUIDESS 
 
 Oh Queen, the glory of the world hides 
 Much grief. 
 
 MAEVE 
 
 Nay, nay, the primroses are but a veil 
 A rag of beauty hiding immortal brows 
 From easily daunted eyes. 
 
 [MAEVE goes slowly down the room like 
 one in a dream nobody dares to stop 
 her. 
 
 NERA 
 
 Oh, most wise Queen, 
 I will greet thee again under the hazel 
 boughs
 
 In Tirnanogue when the hazel trees are 
 green. 
 
 [MAEVE does not seem to hear. 
 
 WARRIOR 
 Nay, sorcerer, that thou shalt never do. 
 
 [He stabs NERA as MAEVE goes out. 
 fA warrior rushes forward to seize 
 the fallen crown. Others try to hold 
 him back. Another warrior snatches 
 up the sword of MAEVE and the 
 scene closes in confusion and 'wild 
 disorder. 
 
 81
 
 EINEEN'S SONG OF 
 ILLUSION 
 
 (From "Unseen Kings") 
 
 For such a cause did not Durdre die ? 
 
 And many faithful lovers of old days 
 Who had found treason under the blue sky. 
 They died of grief, and the songs give 
 them praise .... 
 
 For such a cause .... 
 
 For such a cause the passionate child of Maeve, 
 When the world's sorrow pierced her 
 
 golden shield, 
 
 But yesterday was borne unto her grave, 
 Dying of pity on the battle field .... 
 For such a cause .
 
 For such a cause, the treachery of one 
 
 Deemed true the faithful hearted weep in 
 
 vain, 
 
 A sound of keening fills the heroes' dun, 
 And mourners weep above the newly slain 
 For such a cause . 
 
 84
 
 7" /^/'/ /jo />W //9 /j ^ certain long road leading 
 to Eleusis or Babylon, but that the boundaries of 
 the road are palaces and temples, and the greatest 
 of the mysteries. 
 
 MAXIMUS TYRIUS
 
 The Winged Hone shall be harnessed to 
 many ploughs^ but in the end there is freedom 
 and the aether vibrates to the rhythm of 
 unseen Light.
 
 Printed at 
 
 THE WILLIAM MORRIS PRESS LD. 
 ALBERT ST., MANCHESTER, ENG.
 
 'By EVA GOItE-BOOTH 
 
 THE ONE AND 
 
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 bar one in the new Irish movement has 
 produced." Mancliester Guardian. 
 
 "Miss Gore-Booth's verse, in short, has a 
 magic, glamour, melody and distinction 
 .... For its purely poetical quality 
 nothing is better than the exquisite lyric 
 The Little Waves of Breffny." Spectator. 
 
 " This book brims over with the mystery 
 and poetry of the East and of the an- 
 cient religions, as well as with the sweet 
 lilting melody so often characteristic of 
 the songs of the Western Gael. The 
 over-long, crooning lines of some of the 
 chants Whitman-like and fascinating 
 
 have a certain rune-like charm 
 
 Miss Gore-Booth is a poet for poets. . . ." 
 Journal of Education. 
 
 " The most intense thought expressed in 
 this book is that over-mastering call of 
 those things whose comfort is of the 
 most permanent kind which we can hope 
 to find at present ; and for whose sake 
 even the emancipated spirit must 'scorn 
 her flame-built throne,' to return again 
 and yet again to the ' dear smell of the
 
 rain-wet soil,' and the ' daisies of yes- 
 terday' . . . beautiful song that wells 
 straight out of the essential springs of 
 Celtic inspiration." 
 
 The Irish Homestead. 
 
 " We like the courage with which this 
 poetess forces her lines to her pleasure, 
 convincing us that she has expressed 
 herself more poetically by ignoring a 
 beat or so than she would have by being 
 more finically correct." 
 
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 PRINCESS 2S " 6d " net ' 
 
 ". . . has the stir and onward pressure of 
 
 drama really meant as such The 
 
 use of well varied anapaestic and semi- 
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 near taking our breath away in some 
 passages, as that of ' the star-guarded 
 palace on the hill,' for instance, and 
 that of the doomed Princess 
 
 ' Feeling the dear lost air 
 On her face and her hands.' " 
 
 Manchester Guardian. 
 
 " Her verse contains all the delicate fancy 
 of the Celtic renascence. . . . There are 
 some beautiful songs . . . . " 
 
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 Irish Independent. 
 
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 It abounds in strong imaginative pass- 
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 to a high pitch of dramatic intensity and 
 power." Standard. 
 
 "To all who have had the pleasure of 
 reading Miss Gore-Booth's former poems 
 this new volume will come as a fresh 
 delight, and true lovers of poetry will 
 find themselves fascinated with the 
 haunting beauty of the lines, which 
 flow in magic measure from her pen . . . 
 We consider the most beautiful piece of 
 writing in the book is that wonderful 
 Song of the Country People." 
 
 Weekly Freeman. 
 
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 ^s. 6d. net 
 MAEVE 
 
 " Full of beautiful things." 
 
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 "The Three Resurrections, of Lazarus, 
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 cal of the author. . . . These three are 
 fine poems Lazarus is a worthy com- 
 panion to Browning's on the same sub- 
 ject, and they alone would make any 
 book notable, for they are altogether 
 noble and profoundly human." 
 
 Glasgow Herald. 
 
 "A very beautiful poem wrought in grave 
 and subtle melodies, and filled with the 
 haunting sense of Celtic mysticism." 
 
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 common word, and at times tense with 
 tumultuous feeling." 
 
 Bookman. 
 
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 "She displays indeed a true imagination, 
 a poetic gift of her own. Her style and 
 diction are choice and finished; while 
 she has considerable power of imagery, 
 and that imagery is really imaginative. 
 Her book is one of much promise and, 
 indeed, performance." 
 
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 told in verse." Outlook. 
 
 "... The delicate and dreamy fancy 
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 the last hours of Cuculain before the 
 great battle of his death." 
 
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 " The poems breathe the same eager ad- 
 venture of the mind that inspires all 
 Eva Gore-Booth's work." 
 
 "JE" in The Irish Homestead. 
 
 "... a decided personal fascination about 
 the volume. The last verse of the very 
 first poem is instinct with poetic feeling. 
 . . . Much of the verse is inspired evi- 
 dently by statue and picture, and in The 
 Fisherman, Holman Hunt's painting, she 
 writes in a lighter, homelier vein, but one 
 equally sure. But perhaps the strongest 
 thing in the book are the Divina Corn- 
 media verses." 
 Stephen Phillips in The Poetry Review. 
 
 " All lovers of beautiful verse as well as 
 all those who are inclined to dally with 
 or accept the hypothesis of reincarnation 
 as a solution of the great problems of 
 life, will welcome the appearance of a 
 book which puts into poetic form in 
 various guises this fascinating concep- 
 tion of the many lives that yet are links 
 in the one. Never, perhaps, except in a 
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 THE EGYPTIAN PILLAR 
 
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 Out of Print.
 
 THE PERILOUS 8 x sVz 64PP * 
 
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 "The pure and delicate finish which 
 marks Miss Gore-Booth's work is well 
 exemplified once more in these dream- 
 laden low-toned songs such a 
 
 poem as The Immortal Soul breaks upon 
 the reader with an imperative call as 
 the noble expression of spiritualized 
 thought. It is a contemplation of the 
 Soul of Man as an immortal unit, en- 
 larging on such a view of it as is 
 contained in these three stanzas: 
 
 ' So has she held in her long trust 
 
 The wisdom and the fire of earth ; 
 She stands between us and the dust, 
 From death to death from birth to birth. 
 
 And ever, through sunshine and cloud, 
 She guards the ancient holy flame, 
 
 And shares with all things fair and proud 
 Her radiant secret whence she came. 
 
 Hers are the dreams that once were Rome's. 
 
 No light nor flame shall she forget ; 
 Deep in her secret catacombs 
 
 The Lord Christ's footsteps linger yet.' " 
 
 Times Literary Supplement. 
 
 " Miss Eva Gore-Booth's selected poems, 
 issued by Mr. Erskine Macdonald in 
 the XXth Century Poetry Series, are 
 sure to meet with a welcome from all 
 who have enjoyed the beauty of her
 
 n 
 
 verse. The Perilous Light, which gives 
 the collection its title, is characteristic 
 of the many-blended charms of this 
 gifted writer's work : the elusive hint of 
 ineffable haunting mystery ; the exqui- 
 site glint of joy veiled by the curtain of 
 outward form of seeming, are here insis- 
 tent upon utterance. Whether she sings 
 of the mystic East or of the storied 
 glories of Irish legend or mythology she 
 is always true to her art ; her themes 
 inspire her because they are essentially 
 poetic, and she arrays them in fitting 
 verse because she is responsive to the 
 divine appeal and has the gift and 
 genius of sympathetic expression." 
 
 Irish Daily Independent. 
 
 " Miss Gore-Booth's beautiful verses are 
 well known." Outlook. 
 
 " Those who remember The Agate Lamp 
 by this fine poetess, will look with equal 
 pleasure to TJie Perilous Light and not 
 be disappointed." 
 
 Occult Review. 
 
 " This little collection of poems will be 
 enjoyed by all who appreciate the 
 melody and distinction of Miss Gore- 
 Booth's work. It contains some melo- 
 dious lyrics, rich in beautiful imagery 
 and harmonious expression." 
 
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