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Purple or amber, dangled a hundred fathom of grapes, And the warm melon lay like a little sun on the tawny sand,

And the fig ran up from the beach and rioted over the land,

And the mountain arose like a jewell'd throne thro' the fragrant air,

Glowing with all-colour'd plums and with golden masses of pear,

And the crimson and scarlet of berries that flamed upon bine and vine,

But in every berry and fruit was the poisonous pleasure of wine;

And the peak of the mountain was apples, the huge that ever were seen,

And they prest, as they grew, on each other, with hardly a leaflet between,

And all of them redder than rosiest health or than utterest


And setting, when Even descended, the very sunset aflame; And we stay'd three days, and we gorged and we madden'd, till every one drew

His sword on his fellow to slay him, and ever they struck and they slew;

And myself, I had eaten but sparely, and fought till I sunder'd the fray,

Then I bad them remember my father's death, and we sail'd away.


And we came to the Isle of Fire: we were lured by the light from afar,

For the peak sent up one league of fire to the Northern Star;

Lured by the glare and the blare, but scarcely could stand upright,

For the whole isle shudder'd and shook like a man in a mortal affright;

We were giddy besides with the fruits we had gorged, and so crazed that at last

There were some leap'd into the fire; and away we sail'd, and we past

Over that undersea isle, where the water is clearer than air:

Down we look'd: what a garden! O bliss, what a Paradise there!

Towers of a happier time, low down in a rainbow deep Silent palaces, quiet fields of eternal sleep!

And three of the gentlest and best of my people, whate'er I could say,

Plunged head down in the sea, and the Paradise trembled



And we came to the Bounteous Isle, where the heavens lean low on the land,

And ever at dawn from the cloud glitter'd o'er us a sunbright hand,

Then it open'd and dropt at the side of each man, as he rose from his rest,

Bread enough for his need till the labourless day dipt under the West;

And we wander'd about it and thro' it. O never was time so good!

And we sang of the triumphs of Finn, and the boast of our ancient blood,

And we gazed at the wandering wave as we sat by the gurgle of springs,

And we chanted the songs of the Bards and the glories of fairy kings;

But at length we began to be weary, to sigh, and to stretch and yawn,

Till we hated the Bounteous Isle and the sunbright hand of the dawn,

For there was not an enemy near, but the whole green Isle was our own,

And we took to playing at ball, and we took to throwing the stone,

And we took to playing at battle, but that was a perilous play,

For the passion of battle was in us, we slew and we sail'd away.


And we past to the Isle of Witches and heard their musical cry

"Come to us, O come, come" in the stormy red of a sky

Dashing the fires and the shadows of dawn on the beautiful shapes,

For a wild witch naked as heaven stood on each of the loftiest capes,

And a hundred ranged on the rock like white sea-birds

in a row,

And a hundred gamboll'd and pranced on the wrecks in the sand below,

And a hundred splash'd from the ledges, and bosom'd the burst of the spray,

But I knew we should fall on each other, and hastily sail'd away.


And we came in an evil time to the Isle of the Double Towers,

One was of smooth-cut stone, one carved all over with flowers,

But an earthquake always moved in the hollows under the dells,

And they shock'd on each other and butted each other with clashing of bells,

And the daws flew out of the Towers and jangled and wrangled in vain,

And the clash and boom of the bells rang into the heart and the brain,

Till the passion of battle was on us, and all took sides with the Towers,

There were some for the clean-cut stone,

there were

more for the carven flowers,

And the wrathful thunder of God peal'd over us all the


For the one half slew the other, and after we sail'd



And we came to the Isle of a Saint who had sail'd with St. Brendan of yore,

He had lived ever since on the Isle and his winters were

fifteen score,

And his voice was low as from other worlds, and his

eyes were sweet,

And his white hair sank to his heels and his white beard fell to his feet,

And he spake to me, "O Maeldune, let be this purpose of thine!

Remember the words of the Lord when he told us 'Vengeance is mine!'

His fathers have slain thy fathers in war or in single strife,

Thy fathers have slain his fathers, each taken a life for a life,

Thy father had slain his father, how long shall the murder last?

Go back to the Isle of Finn and suffer the Past to be Past."

And we kiss'd the fringe of his beard and we pray'd as we heard him pray,

And the Holy man he assoil'd us, and sadly we sail'd


And we


came to the Isle we were blown from, and there on the shore was he,

The man that had slain my father. I saw him and let him be.

O weary was I of the travel, the trouble, the strife and the sin,

When I landed again, with a tithe of my men, on the Isle of Finn.


[The Death of Oenone etc. 1892.]

HAD the fierce ashes of some fiery peak

Been hurl'd so high they ranged about the globe?
For day by day, thro' many a blood-red eve,
In that four-hundredth summer after Christ,
The wrathful sunset glared against a cross
Rear'd on the tumbled ruins of an old fane
No longer sacred to the Sun, and flamed
On one huge slope beyond, where in his cave
The man, whose pious hand had built the cross,
A man who never changed a word with men,
Fasted and pray'd, Telemachus the Saint.

Eve after eve that haggard anchorite
Would haunt the desolated fane, and there
Gaze at the ruin, often mutter low
"Vicisti Galilæe"; louder again,
Spurning a shatter'd fragment of the God,
"Vicisti Galilæe!" but-when now

Bathed in that lurid crimson-ask'd "Is earth

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