e White Field in
Armagh. But long since the Milesians had come into Ireland, and
the Danaans had passed into the hills and the unseen; and with
the old centuries of their enchantment heavy on them, their eyes
had grown no better than the eyes of mortals: gorse-grown hills
they saw, and green nettles growing, and no sign of the walls and
towers of the palace of Lir. And they heard the bells ringing
from a church, and were frightened at the "thin, dreadful sound."
But afterwards, in their misery, they took refuge with the saint
in the church, and were converted, and joined him in singing the
services. Then, after a while, the swanhood fell from them, and
they became human, with the whole of their nine centuries heavy
on them. "Lay us in one grave," said Fionuala to the saint;
"and place Conn at my right hand, and Fiachra at my left, and Aed
before my face; for there they were wont to be when I sheltered
them many a winter night upon the seas of Moyle." So it was they
were buried; but the saint sorrowed for them till the end of his
days. And there, if you understand it, you have the forgotten
story of Ireland.

She was once Danaan, and fortunate in the Golden Age. Then she
was enchanted, and fell from her high estate; and sorrow and the
wildness of ages of decivilizing wars were her portion; but
she retained her wonderful Danaan gift of song. Then came
Christianity, and she sang her swan-song in the services of the
Church;--when she had overcome her terror of the ominous sound of
the bells. She became human again: that is, enjoyed one more
period of creative greatness, a faint revival of her old
splendor; and then,--Ah, it was a long time ago; a long time
the hermit had been sorrowing over her grave! But listen, by the
lake of Derryvaragh, on the seas of Moyle, or by Erris and
Innishglory, and you will hear still the ghostly echoes of the
singing of Danaan swans. _Danaan_ swans: music better than of
the world of men!

O Swan-child, come from the grave, and be bright as you were
of old
When you sing o'er the sun-bright wave in the Danaans' Age
of Gold!
Are you never remembering, darling, the truth that you knew
well then,
That there's nobody dies from the world, asthore, but is
born in the world again.

It brings me naturally to the place where we take her up in our
history. At the end of the fourth century, "the sea," says the
Roman poet Claudian,