Heroic Romances of Ireland | Page 9

Europe, and compares by no means unfavourably with that
which came after, and may, in part, have been inspired by it. Surely it
deserves to be raised from its present position as a study known only to
a few specialists, and to form part of the mental equipment of every
man who is for its own sake interested in and a lover of literature.

INTRODUCTION IN VERSE

'Tis hard an audience now to win For lore that Ireland's tales can teach;
And faintly, 'mid the modern din, Is heard the old heroic speech.
For long the tales in silence slept; The ancient tomes by few were read;
E'en those who still its knowledge kept Have thought the living music
dead.
And some, to save the lore from death, With modern arts each tale
would deck, Inflate its rhymes with magic breath, As if to buoy a
sinking wreck.
They graft new morbid magic dreams On tales where beating life is felt:
In each romance find mystic gleams, And traces of the "moody Celt."
Yet, though with awe the grassy mound That fairies haunt, is marked
to-day; And though in ancient tales are found Dim forms of gods, long
passed away;
Though later men to magic turned, Inserting many a Druid spell; And
ill the masters' craft had learned Who told the tales, and told them well;

No tale should need a magic dress Or modern art, its life to give: Each
for itself, or great, or less, Should speak, if it deserves to live.
Think not a dull, a scribal pen Dead legends wrote, half-known, and
feared: In lettered lands to poet men Romance, who lives to-day,
appeared.
For when, in fear of warrior bands, Had Learning fled the western
world, And, raised once more by Irish hands, Her banner stood again
unfurled;
'Twas there, where men her laws revered, That Learning aided Art's
advance; And Ireland bore, and Ireland reared These Eldest Children of
Romance.
Her poets knew the Druid creeds; Yet not on these their thoughts would
rest: They sang of love, of heroes' deeds, Of kingly pomp, of cheerful
jest.
Not as in Greece aspired their thought, They joyed in battles wild and
stern; Yet pity once to men they taught From whom a fiercer age could
learn.
Their frequent theme was war: they sang The praise of chiefs of
courage high; Yet, from their harps the accents rang That taught to
knighthood chivalry.
Their heroes praise a conquered foe, Oppose their friends for honour's
sake, To weaker chieftains mercy show, And strength of cruel tyrants
break.
Their nobles, loving fame, rejoice In glory, got from bards, to shine;
Yet thus ascends Cuchulain's voice: "No skill indeed to boast is mine!"
They sang, to please a warlike age, Of wars, and women's wild lament,
Yet oft, restraining warriors' rage, Their harps to other themes were
bent.
They loved on peaceful pomp to dwell, Rejoiced in music's magic
strains,. All Nature's smiling face loved well, And "glowing hues of
flowery plains."
Though oft of Fairy Land they spoke, No eerie beings dwelled therein,
'Twas filled throughout with joyous folk Like men, though freed from
death and sin.
And sure those bards were truest knights Whose thoughts of women
high were set, Nor deemed them prizes, won in fights, But minds like
men's, and women yet.

With skilful touch they paint us each, Etain, whose beauty's type for all;
Scathach, whose warriors skill could teach Emer, whose words in
wisdom fall;
Deirdre the seer, by love made keen; Flidais, whose bounty armies
feeds The prudent Mugain, Conor's queen; Crund's wife, more swift
than Conor's steeds;
Finnabar, death for love who dared; Revengeful Ferb, who died of grief
Fand, who a vanquished rival spared; Queen Maev, who Connaught led,
its chief.
Not for the creeds their lines preserve Should Ireland's hero tales be
known Their pictured pages praise deserve From all, not learned men
alone.
Their works are here; though flawed by time, To all the living verses
speak Of men who taught to Europe rhyme, Who knew no masters,
save the Greek.
In forms like those men loved of old, Naught added, nothing torn away,
The ancient tales again are told, Can none their own true magic sway?

PRONUNCIATION OF PROPER NAMES

The following list of suggested pronunciations does not claim to be
complete or to be necessarily correct in all cases. Some words like
Ferdia and Conchobar (Conor) have an established English
pronunciation that is strictly speaking wrong; some, like Murthemne
are doubtful; the suggestions given here are those adopted by the editor
for such information as is at his disposal. It seems to be unnecessary to
give all the names, as the list would be too long; this list contains those
names in the first