Padraic Colum (1881–1972). Anthology of Irish Verse. 1922.
By Alice Milligan131. The Dark Palace
T
Oh, House of Fame;
No mead-vat seethes and no smoke upwreathes
O’er the hearth’s red flame;
No high bard sings for the joy of thy kings,
And no harpers play;
No hostage moans as thy dungeon rings
As in Muircherteach’s day.
The covering mould;
The painted yew, and the curtains blue,
And the cups of gold;
The linen, yellow as the corn when mellow,
That the princes wore;
And the mirrors brazen for your queens to gaze in,
They are here no more.
And through windows clear,
Without crystal pane, in her Ard-righ’s reign
She looked from here
There were quilts of eider on her couch of cedar;
And her silken shoon
Were as green and soft as the leaves aloft
On a bough in June.
The wind now sings;
The grey grass shivers where the mead in rivers
Was outpoured for kings;
The min and the mether are lost together
With the spoil of the spears;
The strong dun only has stood dark and lonely
Through a thousand years.
For the banquet’s cheer,
For tall princesses with their trailing tresses
And their broidered gear;
My grief and my trouble for this palace noble
With no chief to lead
’Gainst the Saxon stranger on the day of danger
Out of Aileach Neid.