 
Loud roared the din of battle, fierce, Bloody and wild, With Ulster men and Connaught men The field was piled. Connor Mac-Nessa, Ulster’s King, In the mad fray Wounded to death and well-nigh spent And dying lay. A Druid came with healing balm Of herb and leaf, He poured it in the gaping wound, To give relief; The wound was healed, “Yet,” said the leech, “Beware, my Liege! Of war’s alarm or battle fray, Sally or siege; “No more o’er mere and fen with thee, Oh! noble king, Brave Knight and Lady fair will strive For bittern’s wing; No more thou’lt ride thy prancing steed After the doe, No more thou’lt tilt at tourney brave ’Gainst gallant foe; “For thee the fireside’s tranquil calm, Lest sudden rift Of wound break forth and cause thy death In anguish swift!” Quiet and calm, in war or peace, No more to roam, Connor Mac-Nessa, Ulster’s King, Abode at home. One day, when woods were green and fair, And hearts were light, Swiftly the gleaming mid-day sun Grew dark as night; Black portents unto Erin fair It seemed to bring. “What means this, mighty Druid?” asked The anxious king. “Far, far away, across the sea,” The Druid said, “Jesu, the Christ, upon a cross Bends low His head. Their King upon the shameful tree, With mocking cry, And scornful gibe, the cruel Jews Now crucify.” King Connor cried, “What crime had this Man done, I pray?” “But to be good were crime enough For such as they, My King,” the answer came. “He was To death enticed, Then broke His tender, loving heart, This fair, white Christ!” A generous flush o’erspread his cheek, Mac-Nessa sprang Quick to his feet; his quivering voice In anger rang. “Ah! wicked deed! Ah! poor, white Christ! They murder Thee! Why didst thou not unto the King Of Erin flee? “Thy battles he would fight to death, Poor, guiltless One, Ulster’s great chieftain ne’er could see Injustice done!” Then dashed he from the hall and seized With vigorous hand His keen and sharp-edged clevy— A wondrous brand! Under the turquoise sky, upon The emerald turf, His anger raged like foaming crest Of frothy surf. He hacked and hewed the giant trees With his keen sword. “Thus would I slay Thy foes, poor Christ, With blood out-poured!” Then quickly his forgotten wound Sprung gaping wide. He reeled and fell: “I go to Thee, Oh! Christ!” he sighed, For the King Christ he loved unseen, With flowers bespread, Connor Mac-Nessa, Ulster’s King Lay cold and dead! —M. F. N.-R. |
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