'Narrative And Dramatic The Wanderings Of Oisin' by William Butler Yeats

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BOOK I

i{S.Patrick.} You who are bent, and bald, and blind,
With a heavy heart and a wandering mind,
Have known three centuries, poets sing,
Of dalliance with a demon thing.

i{Oisin.} Sad to remember, sick with years,
The swift innumerable spears,
The horsemen with their floating hair,
And bowls of barley, honey, and wine,
Those merry couples dancing in tune,
And the white body that lay by mine;
But the tale, though words be lighter than air.
Must live to be old like the wandering moon.

Caoilte, and Conan, and Finn were there,
When we followed a deer with our baying hounds.
With Bran, Sceolan, and Lomair,
And passing the Firbolgs' burial-motmds,
Came to the cairn-heaped grassy hill
Where passionate Maeve is stony-still;
And found On the dove-grey edge of the sea
A pearl-pale, high-born lady, who rode
On a horse with bridle of findrinny;
And like a sunset were her lips,
A stormy sunset on doomed ships;
A citron colour gloomed in her hair,

But down to her feet white vesture flowed,
And with the glimmering crimson glowed
Of many a figured embroidery;
And it was bound with a pearl-pale shell
That wavered like the summer streams,
As her soft bosom rose and fell.

i{S.Patrick.} You are still wrecked among heathen dreams.

i{Oisin.} "Why do you wind no horn?' she said
"And every hero droop his head?
The hornless deer is not more sad
That many a peaceful moment had,
More sleek than any granary mouse,
In his own leafy forest house
Among the waving fields of fern:
The hunting of heroes should be glad.'

'O pleasant woman,' answered Finn,
"We think on Oscar's pencilled urn,
And on the heroes lying slain
On Gabhra's raven-covered plain;
But where are your noble kith and kin,
And from what country do you ride?'

"My father and my mother are
Aengus and Edain, my own name
Niamh, and my country far
Beyond the tumbling of this tide.'

"What dream came with you that you came
Through bitter tide on foam-wet feet?
Did your companion wander away
From where the birds of Aengus wing?'
Thereon did she look haughty and sweet:
"I have not yet, war-weary king,
Been spoken of with any man;
Yet now I choose, for these four feet
Ran through the foam and ran to this
That I might have your son to kiss.'

"Were there no better than my son
That you through all that foam should run?'

"I loved no man, though kings besought,
Until the Danaan poets brought
Rhyme that rhymed upon Oisin's name,
And now I am dizzy with the thought
Of all that wisdom and the fame
Of battles broken by his hands,
Of stories builded by his words
That are like coloured Asian birds
At evening in their rainless lands.'

O Patrick, by your brazen bell,
There was no limb of mine but fell
Into a desperate gulph of love!
'You only will I wed,' I cried,
"And I will make a thousand songs,
And set your name all names above,
And captives bound with leathern thongs
Shall kneel and praise you, one by one,
At evening in my western dun.'

"O Oisin, mount by me and ride
To shores by the wash of the tremulous tide,
Where men have heaped no burial-mounds,
And the days pass by like a wayward tune,
Where broken faith has never been known
And the blushes of first love never have flown;
And there I will give you a hundred hounds;
No mightier creatures bay at the moon;
And a hundred robes of murmuring silk,
And a hundred calves and a hundred sheep
Whose long wool whiter than sea-froth flows,
And a hundred spears and a hundred bows,
And oil and wine and honey and milk,
And always never-anxious sleep;
While a hundred youths, mighty of limb,
But knowing nor tumult nor hate nor strife,
And a hundred ladies, merry as birds,
Who when they dance to a fitful measure
Have a speed like the speed of the salmon herds,
Shall follow your horn and obey your whim,
And you shall know the Danaan leisure;
And Niamh be with you for a wife.'
Then she sighed gently, "It grows late.
Music and love and sleep await,
Where I would be when the white moon climbs,
The red sun falls and the world grows dim.'

And then I mounted and she bound me
With her triumphing arms around me,
And whispering to herself enwound me;
He shook himself and neighed three times:
Caoilte, Conan, and Finn came near,
And wept, and raised their lamenting hands,
And bid me stay, with many a tear;
But we rode out from the human lands.
In what far kingdom do you go'
Ah Fenians, with the shield and bow?
Or are you phantoms white as snow,
Whose lips had life's most prosperous glow?
O you, with whom in sloping vallcys,
Or down the dewy forest alleys,
I chased at morn the flying deer,
With whom I hurled the hurrying spear,
And heard the foemen's bucklers rattle,
And broke the heaving ranks of battle!
And Bran, Sceolan, and Lomair,
Where are you with your long rough hair?
You go not where the red deer feeds,
Nor tear the foemen from their steeds.

i{S.Patrick.} Boast not, nor mourn with drooping head
Companions long accurst and dead,
And hounds for centuries dust and air.

i{Oisin.} We galloped over the glossy sea:
I know not if days passed or hours,
And Niamh sang continually
Danaan songs, and their dewy showers
Of pensive laughter, unhuman sound,
Lulled weariness, and softly round
My human sorrow her white arms wound.
We galloped; now a hornless deer
Passed by us, chased by a phantom hound
All pearly white, save one red ear;
And now a lady rode like the wind
With an apple of gold in her tossing hand;
And a beautiful young man followed behind
With quenchless gaze and fluttering hair.
"Were these two born in the Danaan land,
Or have they breathed the mortal air?'

"Vex them no longer,' Niamh said,
And sighing bowed her gentle head,
And sighing laid the pearly tip
Of one long finger on my lip.

But now the moon like a white rose shone
In the pale west, and the sun'S rim sank,
And clouds atrayed their rank on rank
About his fading crimson ball:
The floor of Almhuin's hosting hall
Was not more level than the sea,
As, full of loving fantasy,
And with low murmurs, we rode on,
Where many a trumpet-twisted shell
That in immortal silence sleeps
Dreaming of her own melting hues,
Her golds, her ambers, and her blues,
Pierced with soft light the shallowing deeps.
But now a wandering land breeze came
And a far sound of feathery quires;
It seemed to blow from the dying flame,
They seemed to sing in the smouldering fires.
The horse towards the music raced,
Neighing along the lifeless waste;
Like sooty fingers, many a tree
Rose ever out of the warm sea;
And they were trembling ceaselessly,
As though they all were beating time,
Upon the centre of the sun,
To that low laughing woodland rhyme.
And, now our wandering hours were done,
We cantered to the shore, and knew
The reason of the trembling trees:
Round every branch the song-birds flew,
Or clung thereon like swarming bees;
While round the shore a million stood
Like drops of frozen rainbow light,
And pondered in a soft vain mood
Upon their shadows in the tide,
And told the purple deeps their pride,
And murmured snatches of delight;
And on the shores were many boats
With bending sterns and bending bows,
And carven figures on their prows
Of bitterns, and fish-eating stoats,
And swans with their exultant throats:
And where the wood and waters meet
We tied the horse in a leafy clump,
And Niamh blew three merry notes
Out of a little silver trump;
And then an answering whispering flew
Over the bare and woody land,
A whisper of impetuous feet,
And ever nearer, nearer grew;
And from the woods rushed out a band
Of men and ladies, hand in hand,
And singing, singing all together;
Their brows were white as fragrant milk,
Their cloaks made out of yellow silk,
And trimmed with many a crimson feather;
And when they saw the cloak I wore
Was dim with mire of a mortal shore,
They fingered it and gazed on me
And laughed like murmurs of the sea;
But Niamh with a swift distress
Bid them away and hold their peace;
And when they heard her voice they ran
And knelt there, every girl and man,
And kissed, as they would never cease,
Her pearl-pale hand and the hem of her dress.
She bade them bring us to the hall
Where Aengus dreams, from sun to sun,
A Druid dream of the end of days
When the stars are to wane and the world be done.

They led us by long and shadowy ways
Where drops of dew in myriads fall,
And tangled creepers every hour
Blossom in some new crimson flower,
And once a sudden laughter sprang
From all their lips, and once they sang
Together, while the dark woods rang,
And made in all their distant parts,
With boom of bees in honey-marts,
A rumour of delighted hearts.
And once a lady by my side
Gave me a harp, and bid me sing,
And touch the laughing silver string;
But when I sang of human joy
A sorrow wrapped each merry face,
And, patrick! by your beard, they wept,
Until one came, a tearful boy;
"A sadder creature never stept
Than this strange human bard,' he cried;
And caught the silver harp away,
And, weeping over the white strings, hurled
It down in a leaf-hid, hollow place
That kept dim waters from the sky;
And each one said, with a long, long sigh,
"O saddest harp in all the world,
Sleep there till the moon and the stars die!'

And now, still sad, we came to where
A beautiful young man dreamed within
A house of wattles, clay, and skin;
One hand upheld his beardless chin,
And one a sceptre flashing out
Wild flames of red and gold and blue,
Like to a merry wandering rout
Of dancers leaping in the air;
And men and ladies knelt them there
And showed their eyes with teardrops dim,
And with low murmurs prayed to him,
And kissed the sceptre with red lips,
And touched it with their finger-tips.
He held that flashing sceptre up.
"Joy drowns the twilight in the dew,
And fills with stars night's purple cup,
And wakes the sluggard seeds of corn,
And stirs the young kid's budding horn,
And makes the infant ferns unwrap,
And for the peewit paints his cap,
And rolls along the unwieldy sun,
And makes the little planets run:
And if joy were not on the earth,
There were an end of change and birth,
And Earth and Heaven and Hell would die,
And in some gloomy barrow lie
Folded like a frozen fly;
Then mock at Death and Time with glances
And wavering arms and wandering dances.

"Men's hearts of old were drops of flame
That from the saffron morning came,
Or drops of silver joy that fell
Out of the moon's pale twisted shell;
But now hearts cry that hearts are slaves,
And toss and turn in narrow caves;
But here there is nor law nor rule,
Nor have hands held a weary tool;
And here there is nor Change nor Death,
But only kind and merry breath,
For joy is God and God is joy.'
With one long glance for girl and boy
And the pale blossom of the moon,
He fell into a Druid swoon.

And in a wild and sudden dance
We mocked at Time and Fate and Chance
And swept out of the wattled hall
And came to where the dewdrops fall
Among the foamdrops of the sea,
And there we hushed the revelry;
And, gathering on our brows a frown,
Bent all our swaying bodies down,
And to the waves that glimmer by
That sloping green De Danaan sod
Sang, "God is joy and joy is God,
And things that have grown sad are wicked,
And things that fear the dawn of the morrow
Or the grey wandering osprey Sorrow.'

We danced to where in the winding thicket
The damask roses, bloom on bloom,
Like crimson meteors hang in the gloom.
And bending over them softly said,
Bending over them in the dance,
With a swift and friendly glance
From dewy eyes:"Upon the dead
Fall the leaves of other roses,
On the dead dim earth encloses:
But never, never on our graves,
Heaped beside the glimmering waves,
Shall fall the leaves of damask roses.
For neither Death nor Change comes near us,
And all listless hours fear us,
And we fear no dawning morrow,
Nor the grey wandering osprey Sorrow.'

The dance wound through the windless woods;
The ever-summered solitudes;
Until the tossing arms grew still
Upon the woody central hill;
And, gathered in a panting band,
We flung on high each waving hand,
And sang unto the starry broods.
In our raised eyes there flashed a glow
Of milky brightness to and fro
As thus our song arose:"You stars,
Across your wandering ruby cars
Shake the loose reins:you slaves of God.
He rules you with an iron rod,
He holds you with an iron bond,
Each one woven to the other,
Each one woven to his brother
Like bubbles in a frozen pond;
But we in a lonely land abide
Unchainable as the dim tide,
With hearts that know nor law nor rule,
And hands that hold no wearisome tool,
Folded in love that fears no morrow,
Nor the grey wandering osprey Sorrow.'

O Patrick! for a hundred years
I chased upon that woody shore
The deer, the badger, and the boar.
O patrick! for a hundred years
At evening on the glimmering sands,
Beside the piled-up hunting spears,
These now outworn and withered hands
Wrestled among the island bands.
O patrick! for a hundred years
We went a-fishing in long boats
With bending sterns and bending bows,
And carven figures on their prows
Of bitterns and fish-eating stoats.
O patrick! for a hundred years
The gentle Niamh was my wife;
But now two things devour my life;
The things that most of all I hate:
Fasting and prayers.

i{S.Patrick.} Tell On.

i{Oisin.} Yes, yes,
For these were ancient Oisin's fate
Loosed long ago from Heaven's gate,
For his last days to lie in wait.
When one day by the tide I stood,
I found in that forgetfulness
Of dreamy foam a staff of wood
From some dead warrior's broken lance:
I tutned it in my hands; the stains
Of war were on it, and I wept,
Remembering how the Fenians stept
Along the blood-bedabbled plains,
Equal to good or grievous chance:
Thereon young Niamh softly came
And caught my hands, but spake no word
Save only many times my name,
In murmurs, like a frighted bird.
We passed by woods, and lawns of clover,
And found the horse and bridled him,
For we knew well the old was over.
I heard one say, "His eyes grow dim
With all the ancient sorrow of men';
And wrapped in dreams rode out again
With hoofs of the pale findrinny
Over the glimmering purple sea.
Under the golden evening light,
The Immortals moved among thc fountains
By rivers and the woods' old night;
Some danced like shadows on the mountains
Some wandered ever hand in hand;
Or sat in dreams on the pale strand,
Each forehead like an obscure star
Bent down above each hooked knee,
And sang, and with a dreamy gaze
Watched where the sun in a saffron blaze
Was slumbering half in the sea-ways;
And, as they sang, the painted birds





















































































Kept time with their bright wings and feet;
Like drops of honey came their words,
But fainter than a young lamb's bleat.

"An old man stirs the fire to a blaze,
In the house of a child, of a friend, of a brother.
He has over-lingered his welcome; the days,
Grown desolate, whisper and sigh to each other;
He hears the storm in the chimney above,
And bends to the fire and shakes with the cold,
While his heart still dreams of battle and love,
And the cry of the hounds on the hills of old.

But We are apart in the grassy places,
Where care cannot trouble the least of our days,
Or the softness of youth be gone from our faces,
Or love's first tenderness die in our gaze.
The hare grows old as she plays in the sun
And gazes around her with eyes of brightness;
Before the swift things that she dreamed of were done
She limps along in an aged whiteness;
A storm of birds in the Asian trees
Like tulips in the air a-winging,
And the gentle waves of the summer seas,
That raise their heads and wander singing,
Must murmur at last, ""Unjust, unjust';
And ""My speed is a weariness,' falters the mouse,
And the kingfisher turns to a ball of dust,
And the roof falls in of his tunnelled house.
But the love-dew dims our eyes till the day
When God shall come from the Sea with a sigh
And bid the stars drop down from the sky,
And the moon like a pale rose wither away.'

#######
BOOK II
#######

NOW, man of croziers, shadows called our names
And then away, away, like whirling flames;
And now fled by, mist-covered, without sound,
The youth and lady and the deer and hound;
"Gaze no more on the phantoms,' Niamh said,
And kissed my eyes, and, swaying her bright head
And her bright body, sang of faery and man
Before God was or my old line began;
Wars shadowy, vast, exultant; faeries of old
Who wedded men with rings of Druid gold;
And how those lovers never turn their eyes
Upon the life that fades and flickers and dies,
Yet love and kiss on dim shores far away
Rolled round with music of the sighing spray:
Yet sang no more as when, like a brown bee
That has drunk full, she crossed the misty sea
With me in her white arms a hundred years
Before this day; for now the fall of tears
Troubled her song.
I do not know if days
Or hours passed by, yet hold the morning rays
Shone many times among the glimmering flowers
Woven into her hair, before dark towers
Rose in the darkness, and the white surf gleamed
About them; and the horse of Faery screamed
And shivered, knowing the Isle of Many Fears,
Nor ceased until white Niamh stroked his ears
And named him by sweet names.
A foaming tide
Whitened afar with surge, fan-formed and wide,
Burst from a great door matred by many a blow
From mace and sword and pole-axe, long ago
When gods and giants warred.We rode between
The seaweed-covered pillars; and the green
And surging phosphorus alone gave light
On our dark pathway, till a countless flight
Of moonlit steps glimmered; and left and right
Dark statues glimmered over the pale tide
Upon dark thrones.Between the lids of one
The imaged meteors had flashed and run
And had disported in the stilly jet,
And the fixed stars had dawned and shone and set,
Since God made Time and Death and Sleep:the other
Stretched his long arm to where, a misty smother,
The stream churned, churned, and churned -- his lips
apart,
As though he told his never-slumbering heart
Of every foamdrop on its misty way.
Tying the horse to his vast foot that lay
Half in the unvesselled sea, we climbed the stair
And climbed so long, I thought the last steps were
Hung from the morning star; when these mild words
Fanned the delighted air like wings of birds:
"My brothers spring out of their beds at morn,
A-murmur like young partridge:with loud horn
They chase the noontide deer;
And when the dew-drowned stars hang in the air
Look to long fishing-lines, or point and pare
An ashen hunting spear.
O sigh, O fluttering sigh, be kind to me;
Flutter along the froth lips of the sea,
And shores the froth lips wet:
And stay a little while, and bid them weep:
Ah, touch their blue-veined eyelids if they sleep,
And shake their coverlet.
When you have told how I weep endlessly,
Flutter along the froth lips of the sea
And home to me again,
And in the shadow of my hair lie hid,
And tell me that you found a man unbid,
The saddest of all men.'

A lady with soft eyes like funeral tapers,
And face that seemed wrought out of moonlit vapours,
And a sad mouth, that fear made tremulous
As any ruddy moth, looked down on us;
And she with a wave-rusted chain was tied
To two old eagles, full of ancient pride,
That with dim eyeballs stood on either side.
Few feathers were on their dishevelled wings,
For their dim minds were with the ancient things.

"I bring deliverance,' pearl-pale Niamh said.

"Neither the living, nor the unlabouring dead,
Nor the high gods who never lived, may fight
My enemy and hope; demons for fright
Jabber and scream about him in the night;
For he is strong and crafty as the seas
That sprang under the Seven Hazel Trees,
And I must needs endure and hate and weep,
Until the gods and demons drop asleep,
Hearing Acdh touch thc mournful strings of gold.'
"Is he So dreadful?'
"Be not over-bold,
But fly while still you may.'
And thereon I:
"This demon shall be battered till he die,
And his loose bulk be thrown in the loud tide.'
"Flee from him,' pearl-pale Niamh weeping cried,
"For all men flee the demons'; but moved not
My angry king-remembering soul one jot.
There was no mightier soul of Heber's line;
Now it is old and mouse-like.For a sign
I burst the chain:still earless, neNeless, blind,
Wrapped in the things of the unhuman mind,
In some dim memory or ancient mood,
Still earless, netveless, blind, the eagles stood.

And then we climbed the stair to a high door;
A hundred horsemen on the basalt floor
Beneath had paced content:we held our way
And stood within:clothed in a misty ray
I saw a foam-white seagull drift and float
Under the roof, and with a straining throat
Shouted, and hailed him:he hung there a star,
For no man's cry shall ever mount so far;
Not even your God could have thrown down that hall;
Stabling His unloosed lightnings in their stall,
He had sat down and sighed with cumbered heart,
As though His hour were come.
We sought the patt
That was most distant from the door; green slime
Made the way slippery, and time on time
Showed prints of sea-born scales.while down
through it
The captive's journeys to and fro were writ
Like a small river, and where feet touched came
A momentary gleam of phosphorus flame.
Under the deepest shadows of the hall
That woman found a ring hung on the wall,
And in the ring a torch, and with its flare
Making a world about her in the air,
Passed under the dim doorway, out of sight,
And came again, holding a second light
Burning between her fingers, and in mine
Laid it and sighed:I held a sword whose shine
No centuries could dim, and a word ran
Thereon in Ogham letters, "Manannan';
That sea-god's name, who in a deep content
Sprang dripping, and, with captive demons sent
Out of the sevenfold seas, built the dark hall
Rooted in foam and clouds, and cried to all
The mightier masters of a mightier race;
And at his cry there came no milk-pale face
Under a crown of thorns and dark with blood,
But only exultant faces.
Niamh stood
With bowed head, trembling when the white blade
shone,
But she whose hours of tenderness were gone
Had neither hope nor fear.I bade them hide
Under the shadowS till the tumults died
Of the loud-crashing and earth-shaking fight,
Lest they should look upon some dreadful sight;
And thrust the torch between the slimy flags.
A dome made out of endless carven jags,
Where shadowy face flowed into shadowy face,
Looked down on me; and in the self-same place
I waited hour by hour, and the high dome,
Windowless, pillarless, multitudinous home
Of faces, waited; and the leisured gaze
Was loaded with the memory of days
Buried and mighty.When through the great door
The dawn came in, and glimmered on the floor
With a pale light, I journeyed round the hall
And found a door deep sunken in the wall,
The least of doors; beyond on a dim plain
A little mnnel made a bubbling strain,
And on the runnel's stony and bare edge
A dusky demon dry as a withered sedge
Swayed, crooning to himself an unknown tongue:
In a sad revelry he sang and swung
Bacchant and mournful, passing to and fro
His hand along the runnel's side, as though
The flowers still grew there:far on the sea's waste
Shaking and waving, vapour vapour chased,
While high frail cloudlets, fed with a green light,
Like drifts of leaves, immovable and bright,
Hung in the passionate dawn.He slowly turned:
A demon's leisure:eyes, first white, now burned
Like wings of kingfishers; and he arose
Barking.We trampled up and down with blows
Of sword and brazen battle-axe, while day
Gave to high noon and noon to night gave way;
And when he knew the sword of Manannan
Amid the shades of night, he changed and ran
Through many shapes; I lunged at the smooth throat
Of a great eel; it changed, and I but smote
A fir-tree roaring in its leafless top;
And thereupon I drew the livid chop
Of a drowned dripping body to my breast;
Horror from horror grew; but when the west
Had surged up in a plumy fire, I drave
Through heart and spine; and cast him in the wave
Lest Niamh shudder.

Full of hope and dread
Those two came carrying wine and meat and bread,
And healed my wounds with unguents out of flowers
That feed white moths by some De Danaan shrine;
Then in that hall, lit by the dim sea-shine,
We lay on skins of otters, and drank wine,
Brewed by the sea-gods, from huge cups that lay
Upon the lips of sea-gods in their day;
And then on heaped-up skins of otters slept.
And when the sun once more in saffron stept,
Rolling his flagrant wheel out of the deep,
We sang the loves and angers without sleep,
And all the exultant labours of the strong.
But now the lying clerics murder song
With barren words and flatteries of the weak.
In what land do the powerless turn the beak
Of ravening Sorrow, or the hand of Wrath?
For all your croziers, they have left the path
And wander in the storms and clinging snows,
Hopeless for ever:ancient Oisin knows,
For he is weak and poor and blind, and lies
On the anvil of the world.
i{S.Patrick.} Be still:the skies
Are choked with thunder, lightning, and fierce wind,
For God has heard, and speaks His angry mind;
Go cast your body on the stones and pray,
For He has wrought midnight and dawn and day.
i{Oisin.} Saint, do you weep? I hear amid the thunder
The Fenian horses; atmour torn asunder;
Laughter and cries.The armies clash and shock,
And now the daylight-darkening ravens flock.
Cease, cease, O mournful, laughing Fenian horn!

We feasted for three days.On the fourth morn
I found, dropping sea-foam on the wide stair,
And hung with slime, and whispering in his hair,
That demon dull and unsubduable;
And once more to a day-long battle fell,
And at the sundown threw him in the surge,
To lie until the fourth morn saw emerge
His new-healed shape; and for a hundred years
So watred, so feasted, with nor dreams nor fears,
Nor languor nor fatigue:an endless feast,
An endless war.

The hundred years had ceased;
I stood upon the stair:the surges bore
A beech-bough to me, and my heart grew sore,
Remembering how I had stood by white-haired Finn
Under a beech at Almhuin and heard the thin
Outcry of bats.

And then young Niamh came
Holding that horse, and sadly called my name;
I mounted, and we passed over the lone
And drifting greyness, while this monotone,
Surly and distant, mixed inseparably
Into the clangour of the wind and sea.

"I hear my soul drop
And Mananna's dark tower, stone after stone.
Gather sea-slime and fall the seaward way,
And the moon goad the waters night and day,
That all be overthrown.

"But till the moon has taken all, I wage
War on the mightiest men under the skies,
And they have fallen or fled, age after age.
Light is man's love, and lighter is man's rage;
His purpose drifts and dies.'

And then lost Niamh murmured, "Love, we go
To the Island of Forgetfulness, for lo!
The Islands of Dancing and of Victories
Are empty of all power.'

"And which of these
Is the Island of Content?'

"None know,' she said;
And on my bosom laid her weeping head.

########
BOOK III
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FLED foam underneath us, and round us, a wandering
and milky smoke,
High as the Saddle-girth, covering away from our
glances the tide;
And those that fled, and that followed, from the foam-
pale distance broke;
The immortal desire of Immortals we saw in their
faces, and sighed.

I mused on the chase with the Fenians, and Bran,
Sceolan, Lomair,
And never a song sang Niamh, and over my finger-tips
Came now the sliding of tears and sweeping of mist-
cold hair,
And now the warmth of sighs, and after the quiver of
lips.

Were we days long or hours long in riding, when,
rolled in a grisly peace,
An isle lay level before us, with dripping hazel and oak?
And we stood on a sea's edge we saw not; for whiter
than new-washed fleece
Fled foam underneath us, and round us, a wandering
and milky smoke.

And we rode on the plains of the sea's edge; the sea's
edge barren and grey,
Grey sand on the green of the grasses and over the
dripping trees,
Dripping and doubling landward, as though they would
hasten away,
Like an army of old men longing for rest from the
moan of the seas.

But the trees grew taller and closer, immense in their
wrinkling bark;
Dropping; a murmurous dropping; old silence and that
one sound;
For no live creatures lived there, no weasels moved in
the dark:
Long sighs arose in our spirits, beneath us bubbled the
ground.
And the ears of the horse went sinking away in the
hollow night,
For, as drift from a sailor slow drowning the gleams of
the world and the sun,
Ceased on our hands and our faces, on hazel and oak
leaf, the light,
And the stars were blotted above us, and the whole of
the world was one.

Till the horse gave a whinny; for, cumbrous with stems
of the hazel and oak,
A valley flowed down from his hoofs, and there in the
long grass lay,
Under the starlight and shadow, a monstrous slumber-
ing folk,
Their naked and gleaming bodies poured out and
heaped in the way.

And by them were arrow and war-axe, arrow and
shield and blade;
And dew-blanched horns, in whose hollow a child of
three years old
Could sleep on a couch of rushes, and all inwrought
and inlaid,
And more comely than man can make them with
bronze and silver and gold.

And each of the huge white creatures was huger than
fourscore men;
The tops of their ears were feathered, their hands were
the claws of birds,
And, shaking the plumes of the grasses and the leaves
of the mural glen,
The breathing came from those bodies, long warless,
grown whiter than curds.

The wood was so Spacious above them, that He who
has stars for His flocks
Could fondle the leaves with His fingers, nor go from
His dew-cumbered skies;
So long were they sleeping, the owls had builded their
nests in their locks,
Filling the fibrous dimness with long generations of
eyes.

And over the limbs and the valley the slow owls wan-
dered and came,
Now in a place of star-fire, and now in a shadow-place
wide;
And the chief of the huge white creatures, his knees in
the soft star-flame,
Lay loose in a place of shadow:we drew the reins by
his side.

Golden the nails of his bird-clawS, flung loosely along
the dim ground;
In one was a branch soft-shining with bells more many
than sighs
In midst of an old man's bosom; owls ruffling and
pacing around
Sidled their bodies against him, filling the shade with
their eyes.
And my gaze was thronged with the sleepers; no, not
since the world began,
In realms where the handsome were many, nor in
glamours by demons flung,
Have faces alive with such beauty been known to the
salt eye of man,
Yet weary with passions that faded when the sevenfold
seas were young.

And I gazed on the bell-branch, sleep's forebear, far
sung by the Sennachies.
I saw how those slumbererS, grown weary, there camp-
ing in grasses deep,
Of wars with the wide world and pacing the shores of
the wandering seas,
Laid hands on the bell-branch and swayed it, and fed
of unhuman sleep.

Snatching the horn of Niamh, I blew a long lingering
note.
Came sound from those monstrous sleepers, a sound like
the stirring of flies.
He, shaking the fold of his lips, and heaving the pillar
of his throat,
Watched me with mournful wonder out of the wells of
his eyes.

I cried, "Come out of the shadow, king of the nails of
gold!
And tell of your goodly household and the goodly
works of your hands,
That we may muse in the starlight and talk of the
battles of old;
Your questioner, Oisin, is worthy, he comes from the
Fenian lands.'

Half open his eyes were, and held me, dull with the
smoke of their dreams;
His lips moved slowly in answer, no answer out of
them came;
Then he swayed in his fingers the bell-branch, slow
dropping a sound in faint streams
Softer than snow-flakes in April and piercing the mar-
row like flame.

Wrapt in the wave of that music, with weariness more
than of earth,
The moil of my centuries filled me; and gone like a
sea-covered stone
Were the memories of the whole of my sorrow and the
memories of the whole of my mirth,
And a softness came from the starlight and filled me
full to the bone.

In the roots of the grasses, the sorrels, I laid my body
as low;
And the pearl-pale Niamh lay by me, her brow on the
midst of my breast;
And the horse was gone in the distance, and years after
years 'gan flow;
Square leaves of the ivy moved over us, binding us
down to our rest.
And, man of the many white croziers, a century there
I forgot
How the fetlocks drip blocd in the battle, when the
fallen on fallen lie rolled;
How the falconer follows the falcon in the weeds of
the heron's plot,
And the name of the demon whose hammer made
Conchubar's sword-blade of old.

And, man of the many white croziers, a century there
I forgot
That the spear-shaft is made out of ashwood, the shield
out of osier and hide;
How the hammers spring on the anvil, on the spear-
head's burning spot;
How the slow, blue-eyed oxen of Finn low sadly at
evening tide.

But in dreams, mild man of the croziers, driving the
dust with their throngs,
Moved round me, of seamen or landsmen, all who are
winter tales;
Came by me the kings of the Red Branch, with roaring
of laughter and songs,
Or moved as they moved once, love-making or piercing
the tempest with sails.

Came Blanid, Mac Nessa, tall Fergus who feastward of
old time slunk,
Cook Barach, the traitor; and warward, the spittle on
his beard never dry,
Dark Balor, as old as a forest, car-borne, his mighty
head sunk
Helpless, men lifting the lids of his weary and death-
making eye.

And by me, in soft red raiment, the Fenians moved in
loud streams,
And Grania, walking and smiling, sewed with her
needle of bone.
So lived I and lived not, so wrought I and wrought not,
with creatures of dreams,
In a long iron sleep, as a fish in the water goes dumb as
a stone.

At times our slumber was lightened.When the sun was
on silver or gold;
When brushed with the wings of the owls, in the dim-
ness they love going by;
When a glow-worm was green on a grass-leaf, lured
from his lair in the mould;
Half wakening, we lifted our eyelids, and gazed on the
grass with a sigh.

So watched I when, man of the croziers, at the heel of a
century fell,
Weak, in the midst of the meadow, from his miles in
the midst of the air,
A starling like them that forgathered 'neath a moon
waking white as a shell
When the Fenians made foray at morning with Bran,
Sceolan, Lomair.
I awoke:the strange horse without summons out of the
distance ran,
Thrusting his nose to my shoulder; he knew in his
bosom deep
That once more moved in my bosom the ancient sad-
ness of man,
And that I would leave the Immortals, their dimness,
their dews dropping sleep.
O, had you seen beautiful Niamh grow white as the
waters are white,
Lord of the croziers, you even had lifted your hands
and wept:
But, the bird in my fingers, I mounted, remembering
alone that delight
Of twilight and slumber were gone, and that hoofs im-
patiently stept.
I died, "O Niamh! O white one! if only a twelve-
houred day,
I must gaze on the beard of Finn, and move where the
old men and young
In the Fenians' dwellings of wattle lean on the chess-
boards and play,
Ah, sweet to me now were even bald Conan's slanderous
tongue!
"Like me were some galley forsaken far off in Meridian
isle,
Remembering its long-oared companions, sails turning
to threadbare rags;
No more to crawl on the seas with long oars mile after
mile,
But to be amid shooting of flies and flowering of rushes
and flags.'
Their motionless eyeballs of spirits grown mild with
mysterious thought,
Watched her those seamless faces from the valley's
glimmering girth;
As she murmured, "O wandering Oisin, the strength
of the bell-branch is naught,
For there moves alive in your fingers the fluttering sad-
ness of earth.
"Then go through the lands in the saddle and see what
the mortals do,
And softly come to your Niamh over the tops of the
tide;
But weep for your Niamh, O Oisin, weep; for if only
your shoe
Brush lightly as haymouse earth's pebbles, you will
come no more to my side.
"O flaming lion of the world, O when will you turn to
your rest?'
I saw from a distant saddle; from the earth she made
her moan:
"I would die like a small withered leaf in the autumn,
for breast unto breast
We shall mingle no more, nor our gazes empty their
sweetness lone
"In the isles of the farthest seas where only the spirits
come.
Were the winds less soft than the breath of a pigeon
who sleeps on her nest,
Nor lost in the star-fires and odours the sound of the
sea's vague drum?
O flaming lion of the world, O when will you turn to
your rest?'
The wailing grew distant; I rode by the woods of the
wrinkling bark,
Where ever is murmurous dropping, old silence and
that one sound;
For no live creatures live there, no weasels move in the
dark:
In a reverie forgetful of all things, over the bubbling'
ground.
And I rode by the plains of the sea's edge, where all is
barren and grey,
Grey sand on the green of the grasses and over the
dripping trees,
Dripping and doubling landward, as though they
would hasten away',
Like an army of old men longing for rest from the
moan of the seas.
And the winds made the sands on the sea's edge turning
and turning go,
As my mind made the names of the Fenians.Far from
the hazel and oak,
I rode away on the surges, where, high aS the saddle-
bow,
Fled foam underneath me, and round me, a wandering
and milky smoke.
Long fled the foam-flakes around me, the winds fled
out of the vast,
Snatching the bird in secret; nor knew I, embosomed
apart,
When they froze the cloth on my body like armour
riveted fast,
For Remembrance, lifting her leanness, keened in the
gates of my heart.
Till, fattening the winds of the morning, an odour of
new-mown hay
Came, and my forehead fell low, and my tears like
berries fell down;
Later a sound came, half lost in the sound of a shore far
away,
From the great grass-barnacle calling, and later the
shore-weeds brown.
If I were as I once was, the strong hoofs crushing the
sand and the shells,
Coming out of the sea as the dawn comes, a chaunt of
love on my lips,
Not coughing, my head on my knees, and praying, and
wroth with the bells,
I would leave no saint's head on his body from Rachlin
to Bera of ships.
Making way from the kindling surges, I rode on a
bridle-path
Much wondering to see upon all hands, of wattles and
woodwork made,
Your bell-mounted churches, and guardless the sacred
cairn and the mth,
And a small and a feeble populace stooping with mat-
tock and spade,
Or weeding or ploughing with faces a-shining with
much-toil wet;
While in this place and that place, with bodies un,
glorious, their chieftains stood,
Awaiting in patience the straw-death, croziered one,
caught in your net:
Went the laughter of scorn from my mouth like the
roaring of wind in a wood.
And before I went by them so huge and so speedy with
eyes so bright,
Came after the hard gaze of youth, or an old man lifted
his head:
And I rode and I rode, and I cried out, "The Fenians
hunt wolves in the night,
So sleep thee by daytime.' A voice cried, "The Fenians
a long time are dead.'
A whitebeard stood hushed on the pathway, the flesh
of his face as dried grass,
And in folds round his eyes and his mouth, he sad as a
child without milk-
And the dreams of the islands were gone, and I knew
how men sorrow and pass,
And their hound, and their horse, and their love, and
their eyes that glimmer like silk.
And wrapping my face in my hair, I murmured, "In
old age they ceased';
And my tears were larger than berries, and I mur-
mured, "Where white clouds lie spread
On Crevroe or broad Knockfefin, with many of old
they feast
On the floors of the gods.' He cried, "No, the gods a
long time are dead.'
And lonely and longing for Niamh, I shivered and
turned me about,
The heart in me longing to leap like a grasshopper into
her heart;
I turned and rode to the westward, and followed the
sea's old shout
Till I saw where Maeve lies sleeping till starlight and
midnight part.
And there at the foot of the mountain, two carried a
sack full of sand,
They bore it with staggering and sweating, but fell
with their burden at length.
Leaning down from the gem-studded saddle, I flung it
five yards with my hand,
With a sob for men waxing so weakly, a sob for the
Fenians' old strength.
The rest you have heard of, O croziered man; how,
when divided the girth,
I fell on the path, and the horse went away like a sum-
mer fly;
And my years three hundred fell on me, and I rose, and
walked on the earth,
A creeping old man, full of sleep, with the spittle on
his beard never dry'.
How the men of the sand-sack showed me a church
with its belfry in air;
Sorry place, where for swing of the war-axe in my dim
eyes the crozier gleams;
What place have Caoilte and Conan, and Bran, Sceolan,
Lomair?
Speak, you too are old with your memories, an old man
surrounded with dreams.
i{S.Patrick.} Where the flesh of the footsole clingeth on
the burning stones is their place;
Where the demons whip them with wires on the
burning stones of wide Hell,
Watching the blessed ones move far off, and the
smile on God's face,
Between them a gateway of brass, and the howl of the
angels who fell.
i{Oisin.} Put the staff in my hands; for I go to the Fenians,
O cleric, to chaunt
The war-songs that roused them of old; they will rise,
making clouds with their Breath,
Innumerable, singing, exultant; the clay underneath
them shall pant,
And demons be broken in pieces, and trampled
beneath them in death.
And demons afraid in their darkness; deep horror of
eyes and of wings,
Afraid, their ears on the earth laid, shall listen and
rise up and weep;
Hearing the shaking of shields and the quiver of
stretched bowstrings,
Hearing Hell loud with a murmur, as shouting and
mocking we sweep.
We will tear out the flaming stones, and batter the
gateway of brass
And enter, and none sayeth "No' when there enters
the strongly armed guest;
Make clean as a broom cleans, and march on as oxen
move over young grass;
Then feast, making converse of wars, and of old
wounds, and turn to our rest.
i{S.Patrick.} On the flaming stones, without refuge, the
limbs of the Fenians are tost;
None war on the masters of Hell, who could break
up the world in their rage;
But kneel and wear out the flags and pray for your
soul that is lost
Through the demon love of its youth and its godless
and passionate age.
i{Oisin.} Ah me! to be Shaken with coughing and broken
with old age and pain,
Without laughter, a show unto children, alone with
remembrance and fear;
All emptied of purple hours as a beggar's cloak in
the rain,
As a hay-cock out on the flood, or a wolf sucked
under a weir.
It were sad to gaze on the blessed and no man I loved
of old there;
I throw down the chain of small stones! when life in
my body has ceased,
I will go to Caoilte, and Conan, and Bran, Sceolan,
Lomair,
And dwell in the house of the Fenians, be they in
flames or at feast.

Editor 1 Interpretation

The Wanderings of Oisin: A Journey Through Time and Myth

Introduction

Poetry has the power to transport us to different worlds, to awaken our imagination, and to connect us with the deepest aspects of our humanity. In "The Wanderings of Oisin," William Butler Yeats creates a mythical and mystical universe that blends ancient Irish legends with contemporary themes of love, loss, and transcendence. This epic poem tells the story of Oisin, a legendary Irish hero who journeys through a magical land and confronts the mysteries of life and death. In this literary criticism and interpretation, we will explore the main themes, symbols, and stylistic devices used by Yeats to create a powerful and enduring work of art.

Context and Background

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939) was one of the most important poets of the 20th century, and a leading figure of the Irish Literary Revival. Yeats was deeply interested in Irish mythology, folklore, and spirituality, and his poetry reflects his fascination with the mystical and the supernatural. "The Wanderings of Oisin" was first published in 1889, and revised several times over the years. The poem is part of Yeats' early work, and reflects his exploration of the Celtic Revival movement, which sought to revive and celebrate the traditions and culture of Ireland.

The main character of the poem, Oisin, is a figure from ancient Irish mythology, who was said to be the son of Fionn MacCumhaill, the leader of the Fianna, a group of warrior-hunters who protected Ireland from invaders. Oisin was known for his bravery, his love of adventure, and his poetic skill. According to legend, he lived for hundreds of years, and was eventually lured away from Ireland by the beautiful Niamh, a goddess who took him to the land of Tír na nÓg, the "Land of Eternal Youth." In Yeats' poem, Oisin returns to Ireland after many years of wandering, only to find that everything he knew and loved has disappeared, and that he is a stranger in his own land.

Themes and Symbols

"The Wanderings of Oisin" is a complex and multi-layered poem that explores a variety of themes and symbols. Some of the main themes include:

Love and Longing

Love and longing are central to the poem, as Oisin is driven by his desire to reunite with his beloved Niamh, and to find a sense of belonging in a world that has changed beyond recognition. Yeats portrays love as a powerful and transformative force that can transcend time and space, and that can inspire us to seek out new horizons and experiences. At the same time, love is also portrayed as a source of pain and sorrow, as Oisin realizes that his love for Niamh has kept him from his true home, and that he can never fully return to the past.

Death and Decay

Death and decay are also important themes in the poem, as Oisin confronts the reality of mortality and the impermanence of all things. Yeats portrays death as a natural and inevitable part of life, but also as a source of fear and uncertainty, as Oisin realizes that he has outlived all of his friends and family, and that he is a ghost from a distant past. The theme of decay is also present in the descriptions of the ruined castles and cities that Oisin encounters on his journey, as well as in the image of the fallen tree that serves as a powerful symbol of the passing of time and the fragility of human existence.

Myth and Legend

Myth and legend are at the heart of the poem, as Oisin embodies the archetypal figure of the hero who embarks on a quest for meaning and identity. Yeats draws on a rich tradition of Irish mythology and folklore, and uses these sources to create a vivid and imaginative world that blends the past with the present. The poem is full of allusions to Irish legends, such as the stories of Cuchulainn, Fionn MacCumhaill, and the Tuatha Dé Danann, and these references serve to enrich the poem's themes and symbols, and to create a sense of continuity and heritage.

Nature and Landscape

Nature and landscape are also important elements in the poem, as Oisin travels through a magical and enchanted world that is full of natural wonders and marvels. Yeats uses rich and evocative descriptions of landscapes, such as the "purple peaks" and "dusky woods" that Oisin encounters, to create a sense of atmosphere and mood. Nature is portrayed as both beautiful and awe-inspiring, but also as unpredictable and dangerous, as Oisin must navigate treacherous waters and encounter fierce beasts on his journey.

Style and Structure

"The Wanderings of Oisin" is a long and ambitious poem that is written in a highly stylized and symbolic language. Yeats uses a variety of stylistic devices, such as alliteration, rhyme, and repetition, to create a musical and rhythmic quality to the poem. The poem is divided into three books, each of which has its own distinct style and structure. The first book is written in a lyrical and romantic tone, and focuses on Oisin's love for Niamh and his journey to Tír na nÓg. The second book is more dramatic and intense, and focuses on Oisin's encounter with the supernatural and his struggle to return to Ireland. The third book is more reflective and philosophical, and focuses on Oisin's realization of the transience of all things and his acceptance of his own mortality.

One of the most striking features of the poem is its use of imagery and symbolism. Yeats uses a rich and complex system of symbols, such as the image of the fallen tree, the silver apples, and the swan, to create a multi-layered and allegorical world that invites interpretation and analysis. For example, the image of the fallen tree can be read as a metaphor for the decline and decay of Irish culture, while the silver apples can be read as a symbol of knowledge and enlightenment.

Interpretation and Criticism

"The Wanderings of Oisin" has been praised for its lyrical beauty, its evocative imagery, and its powerful themes. The poem has been seen as a celebration of Irish culture and identity, as well as a meditation on the universal themes of love, loss, and mortality. However, the poem has also been criticized for its use of archaic language and its reliance on myth and legend. Some critics have argued that the poem is too esoteric and inaccessible, and that it may not resonate with modern readers.

Despite these criticisms, "The Wanderings of Oisin" remains a powerful and enduring work of art that continues to inspire readers and scholars around the world. The poem's blend of myth and reality, its exploration of the human condition, and its use of language and imagery make it a timeless masterpiece that speaks to the deepest aspects of our humanity. As Yeats himself wrote in the poem's final lines:

"Yet now, heart, you are sad, Remembering her said, Whom none shall ever know, The wild swan overhead Did you hear that cry? That is my daughter's cry, I know that voice, too well: She is but a wave, Curling to the shore; But I shall return, Yes, I shall return, To kiss her lips and eyes, And to take my fill Of the blessedness that alone Can make sweet music in a banished soul."

In these lines, Yeats captures the essence of the poem's themes and symbols, and offers a glimpse of the transcendent beauty and power that lies at the heart of all great poetry.

Editor 2 Analysis and Explanation

The Wanderings of Oisin: A Journey Through Time and Space

William Butler Yeats, one of the most celebrated poets of the 20th century, wrote The Wanderings of Oisin in 1889. This epic poem tells the story of Oisin, a legendary Irish warrior and poet, who embarks on a journey through time and space after falling in love with Niamh, a fairy queen. The poem is a masterpiece of Irish literature, blending elements of mythology, history, and romance to create a powerful narrative that captures the imagination of readers.

The poem is divided into three parts, each of which tells a different chapter in Oisin's journey. In the first part, Oisin is visited by Niamh, who takes him to the land of the fairies. There, he falls in love with her and spends what seems like a few weeks in her company. However, when he returns to Ireland, he discovers that 300 years have passed. He is shocked to find that everything he knew and loved has changed, and he feels like a stranger in his own land.

The second part of the poem sees Oisin travelling to different parts of the world, including Egypt, Greece, and Rome. He meets various historical figures, including St. Patrick and the Emperor Augustus, and witnesses the rise and fall of civilizations. He also reflects on his own mortality and the fleeting nature of human existence.

The third and final part of the poem sees Oisin returning to Ireland, where he meets St. Patrick again. He is saddened by the changes that have taken place in his homeland, including the spread of Christianity and the decline of the old ways. He longs for the days of his youth, when he was a warrior and a poet, and he feels like he has lost his place in the world.

The Wanderings of Oisin is a complex and multi-layered poem that explores a wide range of themes and ideas. One of the most prominent themes is the tension between the old and the new, the pagan and the Christian. Oisin represents the old ways, the traditions and beliefs of the ancient Irish people, while St. Patrick represents the new religion that has come to Ireland. The poem is a meditation on the clash between these two worldviews, and the ways in which they have shaped Irish history and culture.

Another important theme in the poem is the idea of time and history. Oisin's journey takes him through different periods of history, from the ancient world to the present day. He witnesses the rise and fall of civilizations, the passing of empires and the changing of the guard. Through his experiences, he comes to understand the fleeting nature of human existence and the importance of cherishing the present moment.

The poem is also a celebration of Irish mythology and folklore. Yeats was deeply interested in the stories and legends of his homeland, and he drew on these sources to create the character of Oisin and the world in which he lives. The poem is filled with references to Irish mythology, including the Tuatha de Danann, the Sidhe, and the Fianna.

One of the most striking features of The Wanderings of Oisin is its use of language and imagery. Yeats was a master of poetic language, and he uses a rich and evocative style to bring his story to life. The poem is filled with vivid descriptions of landscapes, characters, and events, and it creates a powerful sense of atmosphere and mood. The language is often musical and lyrical, with a strong sense of rhythm and rhyme.

Overall, The Wanderings of Oisin is a masterpiece of Irish literature, a powerful and evocative poem that captures the spirit of a nation and a people. It is a meditation on the tension between the old and the new, the pagan and the Christian, and the fleeting nature of human existence. It is also a celebration of Irish mythology and folklore, and a testament to the power of language and imagination. For anyone interested in Irish literature, history, or culture, this poem is essential reading.

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