DEIRDRE
Ulan, what king was he dwelt here of yore ?
ILLAN.
Fergus, the son of Leidi' Lithe-o'-limb,
Ere yet he reigned at Eman, did dwell here
DEIRDRE.
What, Fergus Wry-mouth ? I have heard of him,
And how he came by his ill-favoured name,
And struck his bond-maid, and should pay for it.
'Tis a fair valley. And 'twas here he lived ?
Methinks I see him when he rose again
From combat with the monster, and his face,
That had that blemish till love wiped it off,
Serene and ample-featured like a king
ILLAN
Not love, but anger, made him fight the beast.
DEIRDRE.
No, no, I will not have it anger Love
Prompts every deed heroic. 'Tis the fault
Of him who did compose the tale at first,
Not to have shown 'twas love unblemish'd him.
And so 'tis here we cross Ollarva's fords.
And, with our wheels still dripping, skirt the lake }
No longer shows it like the ample shield
I pictured it, when gazing from above.
'Tis now a burnished falchion half-unsheathed
From cover of the woods and velvet lawns.
Oh ! happy fancy, what a friend art thou,
That, with thy unsubstantial imagery,
Effacest solidest and hardest things.
And mak'st the anxious and o'erburthened mind
Move for a while forgetful of itself,
Amid its thick surrounding obstacles,
As easy as a maiden young and gay
Moves through the joyous mazes of the dance '
Thanks, gracious Ulan, for thy fair discourse
That has beguiled the way so happily.
