Classic Poem

O messenger who comes from Rome, by whom every sermon is propagated, do as the pen says: do not utter stories but produce the document. Give us the prohibition from Peter's successor as it was given to you in the east; if he did give you a dark leaf that cannot be refuted, speak of it. Let there be an improvement as was ordained in Rome — a sufficient sermon; there could not be another voice of authority; it were a sufficient burden to bear. You were not told in Rome, O cleric, of the ejection of the poets; a foul sermon was found by you for the nonce in some anti-Rome. Where is the document in which was written that the poetic art should be altered? Do as I have declared and display the message of your document. It is a saying that was not found in books that poetry in all its various forms should be given nothing; it is grim, barbaric learning to expel the poet-bands of Ireland. Every melodious poem in the very heart of the body of learning is donum Dei ; recite it and dissect its sense — it is clearly the gift of God. If goodly men are told not to give poems their price, that means that no man is to be satirized, that everyone is to be ennobled, O cleric. If it is in order to increase wealth that their honorarium is to be denied to the poets, is not everybody's wealth sufficient anyway when the poets' fees are subtracted, O cleric? When he came from the Roman land, why did Patrick of the best of faiths not eject poetry from the soft-turfed island of Ireland? What induces Colum Cille, who would not learn anything but righteousness, to lay out wealth for a poem every Thursday on his way to heaven? On another occasion the poet-bands of grassy Fodla were banished; the demands of the poets were fulfilled by Colum in the next year. Pious Mo-Bhi Claireineach, though his reputation was outstanding, gave his life — generous the deed — to the poet-bands who asked for it, though it was excessive. It was given by her for an easily-heard poem, though this was a request of inordinate presumption: the statue put off her shoe; indeed, since it is not now upon her. The son of great Mary will give a reward that no human would give me; I shall get heaven as did ├ô hIfearnain for a composition of my excellent poetry. Another indication of the good name of the composers of verse, to whom everyone listens, is this: that the generous man is free from hell — the proof of this has long since been given to you. The praising of men is the praising of Him who created them; no man has anything in the world that is not praise of His miraculous power. The rinn of every quatrain, the meaning of every utterance tell of the Lord; the sound of every flooding wave against the land is all praise to the High King. Though what a poem contains be all lies, it is a lasting falsehood instead of a transitory one; though wealth be all false, however large, the man by whom it is acquired, is himself falsehood. If a man were niggardly, his gold or horses would be none the greater; if there were no interest in the world in poetry, there would be no permanence for people's cattle. If poetry were suppressed, O people, so there was neither history nor ancient lays, every man for ever would die unheard of except for the name of everybody's father. If the well of knowledge were to dry up, but for us, noble men would not be told of the illustrious among their ancestors nor the branches of the pedigress of the Irish. There would be lasting, evil consequences for softly-fingered warriors: the forgetting of their ancestry such that they knew not the roots from which they derive, would be no small destruction. The suppression of encounters and battles of the men of Ireland would be a faulty matter: there would be no interest shown in prince nor noble descendants after their death, though their courage had been good. Although he is dead, Guaire lives on as does Cu Chulainn of the Craobhruadh; since his reputation is heard west and east, Brian is still alive. Conall and Conchobhar are alive because their fame lives; with his fame alive in the world, Fearghas has not yet died. Not a bone remains of the body of Lugh who was slain by Mac Cuill; though he has departed this world, Lugh's fame preserves him still. If poems did not preserve all that they had done, even though they were noble heroes, there would long since have been a cloak of silence upon Niall, Conn and Cormac. The princes of Cruachain and Caiseal, the rods from the household of the Three Hostels, Da Thi of Teamhair and Tuathal, the poets are the roots of their orchard. Were it not for poetry, sweet-tongued harp or psaltery would not know of a goodly hero after his death, nor of his reputation nor his prowess. Noble men would have no knowledge of their traditions and nobility; allow these to be composed in poetry or else bid farewell to their ancient histories. If the lore of the Sons of Conn were suppressed along with your poems, O Domhnall, the children of your kennel-keepers and your noble progeny would be equally high-born, equally base. If it be the great desire of the men of Ireland to expel the poets, every Irishman would have an insignificant birth, every nobleman would be a churl.