131. The Dark Palace

THERE beams no light from thy hall to-night,

Oh, House of Fame;

No mead-vat seethes and no smoke upwreathes

O’er the hearth’s red flame;

No high bard sings for the joy of thy kings,

And no harpers play;

No hostage moans as thy dungeon rings

As in Muircherteach’s day.

Fallen! fallen! to ruin all in

The covering mould;

The painted yew, and the curtains blue,

And the cups of gold;

The linen, yellow as the corn when mellow,

That the princes wore;

And the mirrors brazen for your queens to gaze in,

They are here no more.

The sea-bird’s pinion thatched Gormlai’s grinnan;

And through windows clear,

Without crystal pane, in her Ard-righ’s reign

She looked from here

There were quilts of eider on her couch of cedar;

And her silken shoon

Were as green and soft as the leaves aloft

On a bough in June.

Ah, woe unbounded where the harp once sounded

The wind now sings;

The grey grass shivers where the mead in rivers

Was outpoured for kings;

The min and the mether are lost together

With the spoil of the spears;

The strong dun only has stood dark and lonely

Through a thousand years.

But I’m not in woe for the wine-cup’s flow,

For the banquet’s cheer,

For tall princesses with their trailing tresses

And their broidered gear;

My grief and my trouble for this palace noble

With no chief to lead

’Gainst the Saxon stranger on the day of danger

Out of Aileach Neid.