And through each white robe gleaming, And under each snow-white breast, Is a golden dream-light streaming Like eve through an opal west.

One hand to the heart, another We raise to the dawn on high; For the sun in the heart is brother To the sun-heart of the sky.

A light comes rising and falling, As ringed in the druid choir We sing to the sun-G.o.d, calling By his name of yellow fire.

The touch of the dew-wet gra.s.ses, The breath of the dawn-cool wind, With the dawn of the G.o.d-light pa.s.ses And the world is left behind.

We drink of a fountain giving The joy of the G.o.ds, and then-- The Land of the Ever-living Has pa.s.sed from us again.

Pa.s.sed far beyond all saying, For memory only weaves On a silver dawn outraying A cloud of daffodil leaves.

And not indirectly through remembrance only, but when touched from within by the living beauty, the soul, the ancient druid in man, renews its league with the elements; and sometimes as the twilight vanishes and night lays on the earth her tender brow, the woods, the mountains, the clouds that tinted like seraphim float in the vast, and the murmur of water, wind and trees, melt from the gaze and depart from the outward ear and become internal reveries and contemplations of the spirit, and are no more separate but are part of us. Yet these vanishings from us and movements in worlds not realized, leave us only more thirsty to drink of a deeper nature where all things are dissolved in ecstasy, and heaven and earth are lost in G.o.d. So we turn seeking for the traces of that earlier wisdom which guided man into the Land of Immortal Youth, and a.s.suaged his thirst at a more br.i.m.m.i.n.g flood of the Feast of Age, the banquet which Manannan the Danann king inst.i.tuted in the haunt of the Fire-G.o.d, and whoever partook knew thereafter neither weariness, decay, not death.

These mysteries, all that they led to, all that they promised for the spirit of man, are opening today for us in clear light, their fabulous distance lessens, and we hail these kingly ideals with as intense a trust and with more joy, perhaps, than they did who were born in those purple hours, because we are emerging from centuries indescribably meagre and squalid in their thought, and every new revelation has for us the sweetness of sunlight to one after the tears and sorrow of a prison-house. The well at Ballykeele is, perhaps, a humble starting-point for the contemplation of such mighty mysteries; but here where the enchanted world lies so close it is never safe to say what narrow path may not lead through a visionary door into Moy Argatnel, the silver Cloudland of Manannan, where

"Feet of white bronze Glitter through beautiful ages."

The Danann king with a quaint particularity tells Bran in the poem from which these lines are quoted, that

"There is a wood of beautiful fruit Under the prow of thy little skiff."

What to Bran was a s.p.a.ce of pale light was to the eye of the G.o.d a land of pure glory, Ildathach the Many-coloured Land, rolling with rivers of golden light and dropping with dews of silver flame.

In another poem the Brugh by the Boyne, outwardly a little hillock, is thus described:

"Look, and you will see it is the palace of a G.o.d."

Perhaps the mystic warriors of the Red Branch saw supernatural pillars blazoned like the sunset, and entered through great doors and walked in lofty halls with sunset-tinted beings speaking a more beautiful wisdom than earth's. And they there may have seen those famous G.o.ds who had withdrawn generations before from visible Eire: Manannan the dark blue king, Lu Lamfada with the sunrise on his brow and his sling, a wreath of rainbow flame, coiled around him, the G.o.ddess Dana in ruby brilliance, Nuada silver-handed, the Dagda with floating locks of light shaking from him radiance and song, Angus Oge, around whose head the ever-winging birds made music, and others in whose company these antique heroes must have felt the deep joy of old companionship renewed, for were not the Danann hosts men of more primeval cycles become divine and movers in a divine world. In the Brugh too was a fountain, to what uses applied the mystical imagination working on other legends may make clearer.

The Well of Connla, the parent fountain of many streams visible and invisible, was the most sacred well known in ancient Ireland. It lay itself below deep waters at the source of the Shannon, and these waters which hid it were also mystical, for they lay between earth and the Land of the G.o.ds. Here, when stricken suddenly by an internal fire, the sacred hazels of wisdom and inspiration unfolded at once their leaves and blossoms and their scarlet fruit, which falling upon the waters dyed them of a royal purple; the nuts were then devoured by Fintann the Salmon of Knowledge, and the wisest of the druids partook also. This was perhaps the greatest of the mysteries known to the ancient Gael, and in the bright phantasmagoria conjured up there is a wild beauty which belongs to all their tales. The suddenly arising dreams of a remote divinity, the scarlet nuts tossing on the purple flood, the bright immortals glancing hither and thither, are pictures left of some mystery we may not now uncover, thought tomorrow may reveal it, for the dawn- lights are glittering everywhere in Ireland. Perhaps the strange woman who spoke of the well at Ballykeele, and the others like her, may know more about these fountains than the legend-seekers who so learnedly annoted their tales. They may have drunken in dreams of the waters at Connla's well, for many go to the Tir-na-nog in sleep, and some are said to have remained there, and only a vacant form is left behind without the light in the eyes which marks the presence of a soul. I make no pretence of knowledge concerning the things which underlie their simple speech, but to me there seems to be for ever escaping from legend and folk-tale, from word and custom, some breath of a world of beauty I sigh for but am not nigh to as these are. I think if that strange woman could have found a voice for what was in her heart she would have completed her vague oracle somewhat as I have done:

There's a cure for all things in the well at Ballykeele, Where the scarlet cressets o'erhang from the rowan trees; There's a joy-breath blowing from the Land of Youth I feel, And earth with its heart at ease.

Many and many a sun-bright maiden saw the enchanted land With star-faces glimmer up from the druid wave: Many and many a pain of love was soothed by a faery hand Or lost in the love it gave.

When the quiet with a ring of pearl shall wed the earth And the scarlet berries burn dark by the stars in the pool, Oh, its lost and deep I'll be in the joy-breath and the mirth, My heart in the star-heart cool.

--September 15, 1897