Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE TRYST AFTER DEATH, by ANONYMOUS


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE TRYST AFTER DEATH, by                    
First Line: "hush, woman, do not speak to me!"
Last Line: "my speech, my shape are spectral - hush, woman, do not speak to me!"
Subject(s): Mythology - Irish


Hush, woman! Do not speak to me;
My thoughts are not with thee to-night.
They glance again and yet again
Among the slain at Feic fight.

Who'd find my bloody corpse must grope
Upon the Slope of Double Brink;
My head unwashed is in the hands
Of bands who ne'er from slaughter shrink.

Dark Folly is that tryster's guide
Who Death's black tryst aside would set;
To keep the tryst at Claragh made,
The living and the dead are met.

Unhappy journey! Evil doom
Had marked my temb on Feic field,
And pledged me in that fateful strife
To foreign foes my life to yield.

Not I alone from Wisdom's way
Have gone astray by Passion led;
Yet though for thee to death I came,
I put no blame on thy bright head.

Full wretched is our meeting here
In grief and fear, O hapless one!
Yet had we known it should be thus,
Not hard for us our sin to shun.

The proud-faced, grey-horsed warrior band
At my command fought faithful on:
Till all their wondrous wood of spears
Beneath Death's shears to earth had gone.

Had they but lived, their valour bright
To-night had well avenged their lord.
Had Death not all my purpose changed,
I had avenged them with my sword.

Theirs was the blithe and lithesome force,
Till man and horse lay on the mould.
The great, green forest hath received
And overleaved the champions bold.

The sword of Domnall drank red dew,
The Lugh of hosts accoutred well,
Before him in the River Ford
By Death's award slim Comgal fell.

The three fierce Flanns, the Owens three,
From sea to sea six outlaws famed--
Each with his single hand slew four,
No coward's portion thus they claimed.

Swift charged Cu-Domna, singling out
With glessome shout, his name-sake dread,
Down the Hill of Conflict rolled
Lies Flann the Little cold and dead

Red Falvey how your spear-string's play
Amid the fray made manhood melt;
Forchorb, the Radiant, on his foes
Seven murderous blows, outleaping, dealt.

Twelve warriors in the battle brunt
Front to front against me stood.
Now of all the twelve are left
But corses cleft and bathed in blood.

Then I and Alill, Owen's son,
To shun each other we were loath,
With dropping sword and lowered shield,
Still stood the field to view us both.

Oh, then we two exchanged our spears,
Heroic peers, with such dread art,
I pierced him to the very brain,
He me again unto the heart.

Abide not on the battle-plain
Among the slain in terror's toils;
Shun ghostly converse; home with speed
Bear thou my meed of manly spoils.

All know that I was never seen,
Oh, Queen, apparelled as a boor,
But crimson-cloaked, with tunic white,
And belt of silver, bright and pure.

A five-edged spear, a lance of trust,
Of many-slaying thrust I bore;
A shield five-circled, bronze its boss,
Firm oaths across its midst they swore.

My silver cup, a shining gem--
Its glittering stem will flash to thee;
Gold ring and bracelets, famed afar,
By Nia Nar brought over sea.

Then Cailte's brooch, a pin of luck,
Though small, a buckle of price untold;
Two little silver heads are bound
Deftly around its head of gold.

My draught-board, no mere treasure stake,
Is thine to take without offence;
Noble blood its bright rim dyes,
Lady it lies not far from hence.

While searching for that treasure prized,
Be thou advised thy speech to spare.
Earth never knew beneath the sun
A gift more wonderfully fair.

One-half its pieces yellow gold,
White bronze of mould are all the rest;
Its woof of pearls, a peerless frame,
By every smith of fame confessed.

The piece-bag--'tis a tale of tales--
Its rim with golden scales enwrought.
Its maker left a look on it
Whose secret no want-wit hath caught.

Small is the casket and four-square,
Of coils of rare red gold its face,
The hundreth ounce of white bronze fine
Was weighed to line that matchless case.

O'er sea that red gold coil firm-wrought
Dinoll brought, the goldsmith nice;
Of its all-glittering clasps one even
Is fixed at seven bondwomen's price.

Tradition tells the treasure is
A masterpiece of Turvy's skill;
In the rich reign of Art The Good
His cattle would a cantred fill.

No goldsmith at his glittering trade
A wonder made of brighter worth;
No royal jewel that outdid
Its glory hath been hid in earth.

If thou appraise its price with skill,
Want shall thy children ne'er attack;
If thou keep safe this gem of mine,
No heir of thine shall ever lack.

There are around us everwhere
Great spoils to share of famous luck;
Yet horribly at entrails grim
The Morrigan's dim fingers pluck.

Upon a spear-edge sharp alit,
With savage wit she urged us on.
Many the spoils she washes, dread
The laughter of red Morrigan.

Her horrid mane abroad is flung
That heart's well-strung that shrinks not back,
Yet though to us she is so near,
Let no weak fear thy heart attack.

At dawn I part from all that's human,
To join, O woman! the warrior band.
Delay not! Homeward urge thy flight;
The end of night is nigh at hand.

Unto all time each ghostly rann
Of Fothad Canann shall remain,
My speech with thee reach every breast,
If my bequest I but obtain.

Since many to my grave will come,
Raise thou for me a tomb far-seen.
Such trouble for thy true love's sake
Wilt thou not undertake, O Queen!

My corse from thee must earthward pass,
My soul, alas! to torturing fire.
Save worship of Heaven's Lord of lords
All earth affords but folly dire.

I hear the dusky ousel's song,
To greet the faithful throng, outpour;
My voice, my shape, turn spectral weak--
Hush, woman, speak to me no more!





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net