Classic Poem

Wondrous my vision in Eamhain on a still May morning: it indicates to me that something that has not been done will be done. I went one day to view Eamhain on a delectable, remarkable visit; it was a pleasant visitation; serene was my visit to the citadel. I sat in green Eamhain in the fortress of Macha Mongruadh, in the rath in which Mughain dwelt, the dwelling-place of Conchobhar and the rest. I was there a short while, sleep came upon me; about my eye there fell the drowsiness of slumber upon the down of a quilt of cool timothy-grass. I saw a vision in the heavy sleep into which I had fallen: I saw the angel of God upon my right — he was my faithful stronghold. I saw on the northern side coming to Eamhain Macha mounted hosts; full was every bright slope with the herds of them; every plain was red with pennants. " Who are this great host in the plain?" I said there to my apostle, " Their faces are like live coals, bright are their cheeks from the swift galloping of the cavalry". " You see yonder coming towards you the sons of the kings of Siol Eoghain of Aileach; rightful is the sovereignty of every territory to the host that you see coming towards you". " Who is this powerful host from the east in the plain of Eamhain making for Eamhain? They are arrayed for battle with lances, a coloured shield upon their backs. There is an ornamented sword at each man's belt, sharp spears at their shoulders, a beautiful pennant by each slender shaft and the shoulder of each horse is against the spear's butt." " That great host which you see are the champions of the men of all Ireland, the sons of the kings of the Ulaidh and the Ulaidh themselves, the progeny of the hero Conchobhar." " Who is this group of princes before me to the south, coming to the fort of Eamhain of the poets? Like a pasture that has just been ploughed is every green lawn by reason of the horses. Like a wave of the sea against a sheer cliff, like a wind against a copse of oak-trees is the noise of the red and white fluttering satin of the cavalry-host with its many pennants." " The brightly-coloured, proud hosts are the kings of Oirthear of Eamhain Macha; the host of Eamhain in the Field of the Irish (i.e. Ireland) are men to whom eager courage is natural." " Who is this fresh-looking host from the west, marching to Eamhain of the Airghialla? Fresh their people seem even when the host is far from me — it is the most beautiful that I have ever seen. The greatest host that man ever saw, has no weapons but poets' wands; proud beauty rests upon them all; brown and green are their clothes." " The assembly there is a noble progeny, men of the Tuatha De Danann; the beautiful and strange host are the schools of the sages of the pale land of Banbha. Noble is the man whom they surround: Roalbh of Cluain, the sprig of Durlas, a wet-ridged millstone protecting Banbha, one of the beloved Race of Mathghamhain. The poets of Inis Laoghaire are the ravens of his fortune about the king of the Dubh; precious to them is the prince of great Banbha — noble the presage of his good fortune." The poet-bands of the world made Roalbh from the rath of Conchobhar king; like waves filling the strand was the sound of the poet-bands making Roalbh king. The scion of Sligeach came to the rath of Eamhain — it was his house — with his host of poets; when everyone had been arranged in order upon the mound, the rath was granted to Roalbh. The four hosts converged at once upon the meeting-place of Eamhain; as their steeds passed, every plain had been ploughed up by the racing of the horses. They thrust the butts of their weapons into the rath where Roalbh was made king; the four hosts sat at rest about the prince of Ceachain. Then the sons of the kings of Conchobhar's province made the prince of Fobhar their king; like an osier winding about a door-post was each king's son about that same Roalbh. The poets of Inis Fail recite the poem of each of them to the champion of Iomghan; I too was a poet there; I did not let the opportunity pass. I began a poem — so it seemed — to the prince of Craobhruadh; it is dangerous for poets to conceal the praise due to each man. From Carn ├ì Neid to Cloch Stacain — fresh the plain — lies Ireland of Conn; you will hear no man from the Cloch to the Carn whom Roalbh does not excel. I often assessed everybody — no false judgment do I give — I chose a man who is to be tried in the balance; he is the balance that weighs noble men. No goodly Irishman that I have not scrutinized gives honour to a chief poet; (often I went to judge them en masse ) I sought out the hosts of Ireland. I have visited far off Munster, I have addressed the Sons of Carthach; I have ere now been in Cliu of the kings among the Race of Brian Boraimhe. I searched out the Laighin on my way back; I sought the nobles of Midhe; the visitation of the Connachta was a fruitful wood to me — I beheld the Sons of Conchobhar. I got to know — greater their fame as a result — the Connachta and the province of Ulster; I adjudged all Leath Cuinn so that there is no man of prowess whom I do not assess. Of all those west and east of the nobles of Ireland that I sought, no-one could defend himself against me except Roalbh, the champion of Ruidhe. I went around Banbha in search of the fame of the son of Mag Mathghamhna: to reach the good report of that same Roalbh is like passing through a day-long storm into good weather. The greatest of its miracles — though the wonders engendered by his generosity are great — is that the poets of every nobleman he has slain pray for good fortune for Roalbh. It is no disgrace for anybody on earth to praise a man of his liberality; his enemy does not avenge it on me that I call Roalbh noble. His fame among the poet-bands of Connaught is not a seed that has found no soil; his largesse has smothered the reputation of the Race of Creidhe, whom no man ever criticized. His fame has exceeded their good name, his prowess has put an end to their valour; as in every respect he has turned the tide of battle against them all, his prosperity has outshone their good fortune. No-one will go to fight him — it is right to avoid fire — it is foolish to attempt arms; Roalbh has not yet been challenged. Was such a flood as his of valour or generosity ever granted to anyone under heaven? Who of you with short or long hair ever got all he has of charm and humour? When the cattle consume the field, all the better is the growth of the grass on the land; the root of a tree when it is cut from the tree stem, would be a wood when it has found its place to be planted. The hawk of Fal will be all the richer that everybody spends his wealth; a cairn does not usually lack stones; Roalbh's prosperity will not forsake him. His beauty will not leave his bright countenance by reason of the hardship of raids or warfare; the princesses of Airghialla have been smitten by the great, regal comeliness of this same Roalbh. There are many women who would like to beguile the red-cheeked hero with the white teeth; few women are to be allowed into his house: the house must be guarded against fire. Hair is curled, eyebrows are plucked by a woman for the son of Eochaidh; a woman was just now about to bind her arm with bracelets for the son of Slaine. In the north the noise has been heard of the torrent of the river of Roalbh's generosity; the clamour of his prowess never ceases; his warlike grimness is a wondrous river.