AN GAODHAL
335
The Meeting of the Waters.
Translated by
Archbishop McHale.
Ní bhfuil annsa g-cruinne aon chumar no
gleann,
Mar an lag a bh-fuil có-shruth na dís'
abhann ann;
Is luaithe bhéidheas éaluighthe uaim m' ar¬
rann 's mo bhrígh,
'Na chríonfas an gleann glas úd úr as
mo chroidhe.
Ní h-é an t-amharc breágh, aoiibhnn bhí
sgartha air gach taobh,
Ní h-é lonnair an chriostáil, no úr bhlath
na g-craobh,
Ní h-é comhgar na srutha, mar eug-cheol
mna-síghe,
Ach nídh éigin níos dílse ta a n-doimh¬
neacht an chroidhe:
Siad mo chairde, do cheangail mo chum¬
ann 's mo chlaon,
Do scap air gach nidh ann, sgéimh shasta
no mian;
Óir ní 'l aon nídh d'a áille nach meuduigh¬
eann a bhlath,
D'a fheicsint tré shúilibh air a m-bídheann
againn gradh.
A ghleann aoibhinn cath-abhna, budh suaimh¬
neach mo shuan
Faoi fhasgadh do chabhain lé mo chara
fíor-bhuan,
'N áit a m-bhéidhmid ó na síontaibh faoi
dhídean go saimh,
'S ar g-chroidhthe mar do chiuin-shrutha có-
mheasgtha le daimh.
One morning as I rambled nigh, a streamlet's margin brambled by
A blooming brake, that flourished in a grove’s lonely shade;
Where the nightingale was wont to sing the lay of blossom-bearing
[Spring,
And the mellow-throated thrush's note made vocal the glade —
As boyhood's guileless innocence was fairly my own —
Ere age the tares of sorrow in my life's field had sown —
Deep was the joy that thrilled my breast, on finding to reward my
(quest,
Safe, sheltered in a "sally” a sweet Cuckoo's Nest.
Now while no breeze could harm it, with fleecy down to warm it
The bird with rarest instinct had incased it around —
Both wool and fur the structure fair displayed — inwoven well with
(hair —
While plumes of snowy turtles too, the fairy-gem crowned :
To rob it were a Vandal’s act my mind could not bear,
I left it there with brood intact, as free as the air —
And while my feet but barely prest a plain arrayed in daisy-vest,
I quickly homeward hurried from the Cuckoo's Nest.
As keeps a saint a sacred vow, concealed I kept my secret now
Lest as the north-blast, blightful, bares a blown bough of bloom.
The hand of some predaceos elf — intent to revel in its pelf —
The May bird’s cosy, curtained, couch to ruin might doom :
It was visited at morning, noon, and ere the fall of night —
I saw it too in visions clear by slumber's dreamy light;
For of all the earthly treasures, with which human life is blest,
The full measure of my pleasure was the Cuckoo's Nest.
Now grown more sage by age, insooth, l own the error of my youth
That could so much affection, and so vainly bestow —
Yet, folly even haunts me now, while at another shrine l bow,
Where destiny's force urges me restraint to forego :
And it is not love of riches that inspires me, I own,
Nor of fame, to make my memory to future times known;
But 'tis woman — lovely woman, like a fairy-sylph drest
That replaces in my bosom's core the Cuckoo's Nest.
