  From the "Sickbed of Cuchulain." Arise, O Champion of Ulster! In joyous health mayest thou awake; Look thou on Macha's King, beloved, Thy heavy slumber likes him not. Behold his shoulder full of brightness, Behold his horns for battle-array, Behold his chariots sweeping the glens, Behold the movement of his chess-warriors. Behold his champions in their might, Behold his maiden-troop, tall and gentle, Behold his kings—a storm of war— Behold his honourable queens. Look forth! the winter has begun! Note thou each wonder in its turn, Behold, for it avails thee well, Its cold, its length, its want of colour! Exhaustion from unequal strife; Repose too lengthened is "a drop when one is filled," Weakness like this is next to death. Awake from sleep, the peace which drinkers seek, With mighty ardour throw it off; Many smooth speeches woo thee here, Arise, O Champion of Ulster! FOOTNOTES: |
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