Poems (Hinchman)/The sedge on the wind-beaten shore
I
THE CHILDREN OF LIR
Because of her jealousy, Aoife changed her husband's children into four white swans. And the enchantment was to last thrice three hundred years, and their sufferings were to be very great. But appalled at what she had done, and unable to break the enchantment, Aoife permitted them to keep their loved speech of the Gael. And their singing was so beautiful that it overcame every one, and whoso had sorrows and heard it, his sorrows were as naught.
The sedge on the wind-beaten shoreGives back at the rush of the storm,The foam from the sea, toss'd before,Takes flight in tumultuous form.Afar from the sea-bound ledges,Scant shelter'd from anger of wind,Comes a promise of faery pledges,A respite from all that is drear,The boon that Queen Aoife could find;The song of the children of Lir.
The rain and the hail like to fire,Rage and leave ice where they burn;Cloud and wind with their bitter desireRush by and rushing return. Fionnuala, thy pitiful brothers—Fiachra and Aodh and Conn—Thou hast sought, thou hast found them, the others;Thy wings shield their bodies from fear,And together ye sing; sing onYour song, O children of Lir.
There be many that walk on Time's marge,And their lives are weary and long,And heavy some hearts are and large,But few are the hearts that make song.Fionnuala, more white than thy brothers,Fiachra and Conn,—when she sings—Aodh, with eyes more aflame than the others,Draw close that our faint hearts may hearThe beat of your turbulent wings,The song of the children of Lir.
White swans on the waste of the Maoil,That gladden these desolate parts,Sing and make cease the sharp toilThat the sorrowful find in their hearts.In the stream of your tremulous singingLet bathe the hurt of the world;Enchanted the murmurous ringingThat deep is, and silver, and clear,And soft as petals, dew-pearl'd,The song of the children of Lir.