THE CHILDREN OF LIR
Long the swans have wandered over lake and river.
Gone is all the glory of the race of Lir,
Gone and long forgotten like a dream of fever:
But the swans remember the sweet days that were.
Gone is all the glory of the race of Lir,
Gone and long forgotten like a dream of fever:
But the swans remember the sweet days that were.
Hugh, the black and white swan with the beauteous feathers,
Fiachra, the black swan with the emerald breast,
Conn, the youngest, dearest, sheltered in all weathers,
Him his snow-white sister loves the tenderest.
These her mother gave her as she lay a-dying;
To her faithful keeping; faithful hath she been,
With her wings spread o'er them when the tempest 's crying,
And her songs so hopeful when the sky 's serene.
Fiachra, the black swan with the emerald breast,
Conn, the youngest, dearest, sheltered in all weathers,
Him his snow-white sister loves the tenderest.
These her mother gave her as she lay a-dying;
To her faithful keeping; faithful hath she been,
With her wings spread o'er them when the tempest 's crying,
And her songs so hopeful when the sky 's serene.
Other swans have nests made 'mid the reeds and rushes,
Lined with downy feathers where the cygnets sleep
Dreaming, if a bird dreams, till the daylight blushes,
Then they sail out swiftly on the current deep.
With the proud swan-father, tall, and strong, and stately,
And the mild swan-mother, grave with household cares,
All well-born and comely, all rejoicing greatly:
Full of honest pleasure is a life like theirs.
Lined with downy feathers where the cygnets sleep
Dreaming, if a bird dreams, till the daylight blushes,
Then they sail out swiftly on the current deep.
With the proud swan-father, tall, and strong, and stately,
And the mild swan-mother, grave with household cares,
All well-born and comely, all rejoicing greatly:
Full of honest pleasure is a life like theirs.
But alas! for my swans, with the human nature,
Sick with human longings, starved for human ties,
With their hearts all human cramped to a bird's stature,
And the human weeping in the bird's soft eyes,
Never shall my swans build nests in some green river,
Never fly to Southward in the autumn gray,
Rear no tender children, love no mates for ever,
Robbed alike of bird's joys and of man's are they.
Sick with human longings, starved for human ties,
With their hearts all human cramped to a bird's stature,
And the human weeping in the bird's soft eyes,
Never shall my swans build nests in some green river,
Never fly to Southward in the autumn gray,
Rear no tender children, love no mates for ever,
Robbed alike of bird's joys and of man's are they.
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