 
King Guaire died 662; but the poem, as we have it, is of T here is a shieling hidden in the wood Unknown to all save God; An ancient ash-tree and a hazel-bush Their sheltering shade afford. Around the doorway's heather-laden porch Wild honeysuckles twine; Prolific oaks, within the forest's gloom, Shed mast upon fat swine. Comes winding to my door; Lowly and humble is my hermitage, Poor, and yet not too poor. From the high gable-end my lady's throat Her trilling chant outpours, Her sombre mantle, like the ousel's coat, Shows dark above my doors. From the high oakridge where the roe-deer leaps The river-banks between, Renowned Mucraime and Red Roigne's plains Lie wrapped in robes of green. Here in the silence, where no care intrudes, I dwell at peace with God; What gift like this hast thou to give, Prince Guaire, Were I to roam abroad? The heavy branches of the green-barked yew That seem to bear the sky; The spreading oak, that shields me from the storm, When winds rise high. Like a great hostel, welcoming to all, My laden apple-tree; Low in the hedge, the modest hazel-bush Drops ripest nuts for me. Straight from the rock, Wild goats and swine, red fox, and grazing deer, At sundown flock. The host of forest-dwellers of the soil Trysting at night; To meet them foxes come, a peaceful troop, For my delight. Like exiled princes, flocking to their home, They gather round; Beneath the river bank great salmon leap, And trout abound. Rich rowan clusters, and the dusky sloe, The bitter, dark blackthorn, Ripe whortle-berries, nuts of amber hue, The cup-enclosed acorn. A clutch of eggs, sweet honey, mead and ale, God's goodness still bestows; Red apples, and the fruitage of the heath, His constant mercy shows. The goodly tangle of the briar-trail Climbs over all the hedge; Far out of sight, the trembling waters wail Through rustling rush and sedge. And covers all the land; Bright blue-bells, sunk in woods of russet oak, Their blooms expand. The movements of the bright red-breasted men, A lovely melody! Above my house, the thrush and cuckoo's strain A chorus wakes for me. The little music-makers of the world Chafers and bees, Drone answer to the tumbling torrent's roar Beneath the trees. From gable-ends, from every branch and stem, Sounds sweetest music now; Unseen, in restless flight, the lively wren Flits 'neath the hazel-bough. Deep in the firmament the sea-gulls fly, One widely-circling wreath; The cheerful cuckoo's call, the poult's reply, Sound o'er the distant heath. The lowing of the calves in summer-time, Best season of the year! Across the fertile plain, pleasant the sound, Their call I hear. Voice of the wind against the branchy wood Upon the deep blue sky; Most musical the ceaseless waterfall, The swan's shrill cry. Comes welling up for me; The music made for Christ the Ever-young, Sounds forth without a fee. Though great thy wealth, Prince Guaire, happier live Those who can boast no hoard; Who take at Christ's hand that which He doth give As their award. Far from life's tumult and the din of strife I dwell with Him in peace, Content and grateful, for Thy gifts, High Prince, Daily increase. (Guaire replies) Wisely thou choosest, Marvan; I a king Would lay my kingdom by, With Colman's glorious heritage I'd part To bear thee company! |
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