Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ETAIN THE QUEEN, by EMILY HENRIETTA HICKEY


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ETAIN THE QUEEN, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: I see with the eye of my mind where a lady sitteth
Last Line: For poets had honour and praise of kings when the world was young.
Subject(s): Courts & Courtiers; Goddesses & Gods; Love - Marital; Mythology; Poetry & Poets; Royal Court Life; Royalty; Kings; Queens; Wedded Love; Marriage - Love


IN the days when Julius Cæsar ruled the world beyond the eastern seas,
the Milesians kinged it in Eirin, and the great Tuatha de Danaan,
who for so long had reigned there, were in the world of the unseen ones,
dwelling in stately palaces underneath the earth, fairer than any dwellings that
were upon her breast. They were gods, and in their light and radiance they had
conquered the Fomorians, the gods of night and darkness: and in their turn
the de Danaan were conquered by the wonderful sons of Mile, who had
spied the Western Island from their Great Plain, and had come over and
won to the taking and the holding of it. Now Mider of the de Danaan, who
dwelt in the palace of Bregleith, had a very fair wife whose name was
Etáin. And she was carried away from him and set in a beautiful
dwelling by his foster-son, Oengus. And Mider lamented her sore. And
through evil jealousies and hardnesses Etáin was swept away, and
whirled by a wind of violent blowing into the land of Ultonia. There did
strange things befall her, and it came to pass that, lo! Etáin the
goddess was born anew of a mortal mother, and her old life dropt away from her,
and all was with her as if that old life had never been. So it was that
Etáin grew to be the fairest of all the fairest women of Eirin, and
the Ard-Righ, that is to say the High-King of Eirin, Eochaid Airem,
loved her and took her to wife, and she dwelt with him at Tara in love and
spousehead.
Mider of Bregleith loved Etáin with a love undying as the gods
themselves, and he came to the Queen at Tara, when the High-King was not
there, and he put her in mind of the days when he had been husband to her in the
world of the gods. But the love of earth and the fairness thereof were about the
eyes and the soul of Etáin, and the world of the gods was to her as
nought, and she would not go with Mider to his palace at Bregleith.

I see with the eye of my mind where a lady sitteth,
A lady sweet in her youth, and as fair as dawn;
I would kneel to kiss her hand, as it well befitteth
For she is the High-King's wife, the Queen Etáin.

And I see that, a little apart, in a glory tender,
A stranger stands, from the head to the feet all bright;
A stranger, of grace no painter's brush could render,
Nor song-sweet lips of sweetest poet recite.

Will she sit for ever, with head poised calm and steady?
Doth not her heart beat fast in a presence like this?
Should not thy cheek grow pale or red, O lady,
Waiting to hear if he brings thee bale or bliss?

Hark, he speaketh, and calleth the Queen by her name!
Lo, she turneth, but not as in pride or in shame,
Looketh serene on the guest with her star-clear eyes,
That have nevera matron's fear or a maid's surprise.

Hark, he singeth, and now, by his voice, I know
Mider the god, who had loved her long ago;
Mider she loved, and Mider she loveth not;
Loved in the deathless life, in the mortal life forgot.

MIDER sings:

Come, my beloved, come!
Child of the great de Danaan strain,
Etáin, come to thine own again.
Thee, in the glorious day of yore,
No mortal got, no mortal bore:
Thy people dwell in palaces
Below the earth, more fair than these
Which Mile's sons in pride erect,
And with their cunning hands have deckt
In all device of pleasant things
That know the call of mortal kings;
Things that delight the ear and eye
With sound and colour and symmetry.
But we, who are the immortal ones,
Need not the light of moons or suns,
We being light itself, and so
Bringers of light where'er we go.
Come, O beloved, come!

We need not craft of smiths to make
Fair things and noble, for we take
Beauty itself along with us,
In high perfection glorious.
Come back to us, Etáin, Etáin,
Come to the day that has no dawn,
The day whose beauty never knows
The mournful splendour of a close.
Come, O beloved, come!

ETÁIN

I know thee not, O Bright One, who thou art.
Why dost thou come to me, the High-King's love?
Is thy name Death, and art thou come indeed
To tell me I must go from my beloved,
Into a strange dim country, where the skies
Droop low, with never a light of star, but vague
Soft twilight, full of little sounds and thin,
And not the red cock's voice can lift a shout,
But all is hush? I heard a cuckoo cry
Last night i' the dark; he cried three little cries,
And then I counted sixteen times, but all
Were muffled in the darkness; and I rose
An-hungered for the dawn; and then he cried
Loud-voiced and strong. Oh, let me hear my birds
I' the sunshine, not i' the dark, and smell my flowers
New-scented from its kiss, and sing my songs
With Eochaid's love happed warm about my breast.

MIDER

Not so, dear heart, I am not Death, but Love.
I come of glorious strain; thou wert mine own
And art, and shalt be evermore mine own,
And I am thine, and in this love is all
Possession of beauty and joy and everything
That bringeth gladness home from day to day,
The delicate day whose light, nor keen nor fierce,
Can never fade into the grey of even,
Nor glow into the blinding splendour of noon.
Etáin, I am thy love, and thou art mine.
Etáin, I call thee not to death, but life.

ETÁIN

I know thee not, O Bright One.

MIDER

Me thou knew'st
Full well in that old bliss whose name was love;

ETÁIN

Nay, nay, if ever there was such a bliss,
'Tis gone for evermore and evermore:
Come thou not hither from a vanished past
To me who live within a blessed now.

MIDER

There is no past in immortality.
Thou art my love who wast, shalt be my love
For evermore and evermore my love;
Thy mortal lover will wax old and droop;
His hair grow sparse and grey; his eyes be dim;
His bell-voice break to piping querulous-weak;
His limbs that touch the heather, light as air,
Fail, totter, till they stop for the long rest
In earth-bed, yawning wide to take them in;
While thou, Etáin, shalt know no touch of eld,
Safe in my love which has the dew of youth,
Never dried up by time. O sweet, my sweet,
How can a mortal love thee like to me?

ETÁIN

Thy love is no more to me
Than a fluffy cloud that melts
At the smiling of the sun.
Thy love is no more to me
Than insect-piping, lost
In the laughter of the wind:
I know thee not: thou hast
No strain that I should know;
And who begat thy sires
I know not, care no whit.
The High-King is my mate;
I change him not for thee.

My love hath splendour and beauty that pass the telling,
Splendour and beauty of grace and of noble deed;
Lips of him never the place for a light lie's dwelling;
Brow of him girt with the sheen of the conqueror's meed.

What be god-sire and dame to me whose love is a mortal?
Mortal father and mother begat him and bare;
Mortal is he, and with him I go through the portal
That opens a strange dim dwelling, I know not where;
Only where he is, there I, come foul, come fair.

I see him smile on the lady he looks upon,
With the smile of a deathless god, and he turns, and is gone.

'Tis Eochaid the King, and he sitteth at Tara in kingly wise;
And calm from the height of the fortress he sweepeth the plain with his eyes;
He seeth how fertile the land where the oats and the barley are swayed
By the delicate wind of the west, that stirreth, nor maketh afraid;
He seeth the strength of the oak, and the grace of the birch, and the gleam
Of the water that runneth apace where the meadows slope down to the stream;
Content is the sight of his eyes, and the heart in his bosom is fain,
And earth is the place of his pleasure, unwitting of sorrow and pain.
And the noblest and sweetest of all the gifts that are laid on his life
Is the Lady Etáin, whom the bosom of Eirin has given him to wife:
But, lo, as he looketh, he seeth a warrior draw nigh to the hold,
And nought of his face or his frame, or his going, could Eochaid have told.
Oh, purple the hue of his tunic, the hair of him yellow as gold,
And his eyes from the depth of their blue send light that is great to behold.
He carries a five-pointed lance, and a shield with a gold-bossèd rim;
And Eochaid, albeit he knoweth him not, giveth welcome to him.

MIDER

I know thee, O King Eochaid, who thou art,
Yea, and have known thee from the days of old.
Mider of Bregleith is the name I bear,
And I am come to play the chess with thee.

Then Eochaid is well content, for he knows how the land is filled
With his fame beyond all the rest who are good at the chess and skilled.

EOCHAID

Right glad am I to play the chess with thee.
But Queen Etáin, my wife, is sleeping now
Within the chamber where I have my chess.

MIDER

Nay, Eochaid, nay, High-King, that matters not,
Because I bear mine own chess here with me,
And not less fine and beautiful than thine.

True is the word, for the board is brightest silver sheer,
At every corner set with the sheen of jewels clear;
And the bag of shining wire is marvel to behold,
And the men he draws thereforth are all of the beaten gold.

MIDER

Say, High-King of Eirin, say what shall be the stake?
What shall the loser give, and what shall the winner take?

EOCHAID

Thou, O Mider of Bregleith, choice at thy will shalt make.

MIDER

King, if thou win, thou shalt have fifty bay horse high-kinned,
Deep in the chest, and slender of hoof, and swift as the wind.

EOCHAID

And, lo, if I lose, thou shalt have whate'er thy desire may be.
(For he thinks in his heart, there is none to be victor over me.)

And the High-King loseth, and Mider the god he hath the victory.

So Eochaid speaketh to Mider to tell him the heart-wished thing:
And Mider asketh Etáin, the wife of Eochaid the king.
But the High-King claimeth of Mider another game to play;
And if Mider prove the winner, Etáin shall be his that day;
And before that game be played, a twelvemonth shall pass away.

So Mider goes forth, and Eochaid sees him no more that year;
But he comes full oft to Etáin, and makes himself sweet to her;
And he sings with the voice of a god in melody fair and low,
And he bids her to rise from earth and forth in his love to go.

MIDER

Etáin, Etáin, come back to me;
Resume thine immortality.
Come back to youth perpetual,
Years that have neither spring nor fall,
But in sweet music pass away;
Years that are all one lovely day.

Come where Death never sets a foot,
Where lips for grief are never mute,
Where there is never a woe to feel,
Where there is never a wound to heal.
Oh, life and light and bliss for thee!
Come, O beloved, come with me!

But the life of the gods is gone, and their bliss from the lady all,
And the voice of Mider is weak from the life of men to call;
For now is she wholly and merely a lady of mortal birth,
Who loves, and who loves none other save only her spouse of earth;
And never a ray of remembrance she keeps for the deathless ones,
For she lives, a daughter of Eirin, with Eirin's daughters and sons.
But at last she speaks to the god, and weariful speaketh she,
If Eochaid shall bid me forth from Tara to go with thee
Then forth from Eochaid and Tara with thee I promise to go.

For she thinks in her heart of hearts that never it can be so.

King Eochaid waiteth in grief and goeth all tremblingly
In the black, black shadow of fear, to see the year go by;
And he kisseth Etáin in the shadow, and joy is smitten with blight,
And his heart is anguished sore, and quenched is the dear delight.

ETÁIN

Dearest, our loves were lovely fair,
Blest beyond thought or dream we were.
Oh, mine own one, what is this?
What the shadow that darks our bliss?
Shadow of fear that striketh numb—
He who divideth our loves will come.

Love, my king, my love, he told
Of a land wherein none groweth old;
Where the locks are crowned with flowers of spring;
And the body is white, and everything
Is comely of shape, and fair of hue—
But, O my lover, leal and true,
More should I love the silver streaks
Among your locks, and your faded cheeks,
And your eyes that had known the dew of tears,
And your heart made rich with the joy of years.
Better to me were these than all
The glory of gods' high festival.

The year goes by, and Mider to Tara cometh once more;
To challenge the King to play; and when the game is o'er
The winner shall have his will, and the stake he choose be paid,
And this be the end of the thing, the one last game to be played.

The game is lost, the game is won;
The game is over and done.

EOCHAID

O winner, say what thou art fain to have.

MIDER

Fain would I put mine arms around Etáin;
Fain would I lay my kiss upon her mouth.

EOCHAID

Give me one little moon of tarrying;
Then, O god Mider, thou shalt have thy will.

The day they have set is come, and Eochaid abides in his hall,
At Tara, his palace high, and great knights stout and tall
Are serried thick round him and his wife Etáin for guard,
And strong ones are standing outside the gates at watch and ward,
Lest stranger foot may enter, the gates are locked and barred.

They watch all day, but never a stranger foot draws near,
And close to her husband's side is Etáin the fair and dear.
They watch till the shadows fall and the coming of night is nigh,
Lest he, divider of loves, should come to them suddenly.
But, lo, the shadows flee, though the ruling of night is there,
For the presence of Mider who stands in his beauty godhead-fair;
And the hall is as light as though the strong sun shining were.
And Mider speaks to the King, and thus for Etáin asks he,
For, lo, he saith, thou didst promise to give Etáin to me.
The red flush takes her cheeks, upgoes to her forehead's snow—

ETÁIN

Ne'er will I go with thee, till Eochaid bids me go.

EOCHAID

Never, oh, never, Etáin, shall this thing be.
Yet suffer him to take thee in his arms,
And kiss thee on the mouth before us all.
For this, my wife, I surely promised him,
And 'tis mine honour that I should not lie.

Then Mider shifteth his lance from his left hand to his right,
And he lifteth Etáin in his arms, and up from the floor in their sight,
And out through the great roof-hole of the King's high hall they have past,
And a great shame falls on the men, and they mightily stir aghast;
In wrath they rush from the hall, but nothing avails their wrath,
For they see two swans o'erhead, that fly on the high wind's path,
Two swans that, in lovely flight, are wondrous to behold,
And each on the fair long neck is wearing a yoke of gold.

This is a story that kings have heard recited and sung:
For poets had honour and praise of kings when the world was young.





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