Sudden thronged High on the neighbouring hills a jubilant troop, Their banners waving, while the midway vale With harp and horn resounded. Patrick spake: “Rejoice! thy son returns! not sole he comes, But in his hand a princess, fair and good, A kingdom for her dowry. Aodh’s realm, By me late left, welcomed _my_ King with joy: All fire the mountains shone. ‘The God I serve,’ Thus spake I, Aodh pointing to those fires, ‘In mountains of rejoicing hath no joy While sad beyond them sits a childless man, His only son thy captive. Captive groaned Creation; Bethlehem’s Babe set free the slave. For His sake loose thy thrall!’ A sweeter voice Pleaded with mine, his daughter’s ’mid her tears. ‘Aodh,’ I said, ‘these two each other love! What think’st thou? He who shaped the linnet’s nest, Indifferent unto Him are human loves? Arise! thy work make perfect! Righteous deeds Are easier whole than half.’ In thought awhile Old Aodh sat; then to his daughter turned, And thus, imperious even in kindness, spake: ‘Well fought the youth ere captured, like the son Of kings, and worthy to be sire of kings: Wed him this hour: and in three days, at eve, Restore him to his father!’ King, this hour Thou know’st if Christ’s strong Faith be empty words, Or truth, and armed with power.”
That night was passed In feasting and in revel, high and low Rich with a common gladness. Many a torch Flared in the hand of servitors hill-sent, That standing, each behind a guest, retained Beneath that roof clouded by banquet steam Their mountain wildness. Here, the splendour glanced On goblet jewel-chased and dark with wine, Swift circling; there, on walls with antlers spread, And rich with yew-wood carvings, flower or bud, Or clustered grape pendent in russet gleam As though from nature’s hand. A hall hard by Echoed the harp that now nor kindled rage, Nor grief condoled, nor sealed with slumber’s balm Tempestuous spirits, triumphs three of song, But raised to rapture, mirth. Far shone that hall Glowing with hangings steeped in every tinct The boast of Erin’s dyeing-vats, now plain, Now pranked with bird or beast or fish, whate’er Fast-flying shuttle from the craftsman’s thought Catching, on bore through glimmering warp and woof, A marvellous work; now traced by broiderer’s hand With legends of Ferdìadh and of Meave, Even to the golden fringe. The warriors paced Exulting. Oft they showed their merit’s prize, Poniard or cup, tribute ordained of tribes From age to age, Eochaid’s right, on them With equal right devolving. Slow they moved In mantle now of crimson, now of blue, Clasped with huge torque of silver or of gold Just where across the snowy shirt there strayed Tendril of purple thread. With jewelled fronts Beauteous in pride ’mid light of winsome smiles, Over the rushes green with slender foot In silver slipper hid, the ladies passed, Answering with eyes not lips the whispered praise, Or loud the bride extolling—“When was seen Such sweetness and such grace?”