The Wanderings of Oisin (Book 1) - W.B. Yeats

A Mythic Journey between Mortal Realm and Faery Lands
S. Patrick
You who are bent, and bald, and blind,
With a heavy heart and a wandering mind,
Have known three centuries, poets sing.
At your manhood’s verge you’ve been a king,
And built high nations in your day;
But some strange scourge has swept away
Your swords, your sceptres, and your throne;
Your children and your people gone
Into the world’s wild voyage, blind and weak.
Now none remain to hear you speak,
And now your body droops and sighs,
Now none remain to close your eyes.
Oisin
I am but waiting till the slanting shade
Lies upon turn and meadow and glade,
That I may pass to the dim shore
Where the sweet eyes of Niamh no more
Gaze out for me across the foam;
But while I wait I tell of home,
And the wonders of old days that fell.
Your priests say this is all a spell
Cast by the powers of darkness deep,
And that I stray in dreams, or sleep,
Telling of things that never were.
Be it dream or not, I care not, sir;
But these grey fields are not my own,
These men and women all unknown;
And heard amidst their feasts or songs
My name that once to me belongs
Sounds but a memory—like a strain
Of parted music come again.
Therefore, O holy man, I swear
That this, my story, is most fair,
And it is truth, or truth-like tale—
I, Oisin of the Gael, can fail
In many things, but not in this:
I rose from Banba’s land of bliss,
I strove with men in mortal fight,
I loved a shape of faery light,
I roamed to strange, enchanted isles,
Where Tyrrhene foam in silver piles
Lapped on the shores of some new day,
And there in festal throng and fray
Learned stranger music, saw new skies,
Wore crowns of blossoms in mine eyes,
And ate bright fruits of timeless trees
In gardens girded by far seas.
The spells of Banba followed me,
Unwearied air, unending sea,
Till all was swirl of flake and foam,
And every wave a call to home.
S. Patrick
Relate in order all you saw,
Lest the dark fiends from Hell’s own maw
Have snared your soul by shape or hue
Devised to keep you from the true
Salvation found in penance sore.
Let fasting cleanse, let prayer restore,
And cast away these faery wiles.
Oisin
A weightier penance for my toils
Were I to keep from man’s dull ear
Such wonders as befell me here.
Your Gaelic tongues speak but in part
Those airy joys that drave my heart
When Niamh’s sweet music wound around
My breast, and raised me from the ground.
But you shall know how first the cry
Rang out in woodland suddenly,
And how the deer fled from the brake,
And how the swan upon the lake
Took flight; how all the leaves did shake
In that deep hush of Faery’s wing,
And how I heard that maiden sing.
For I was young among the young,
Hunting with many a spear and tongue
Of hound, beside the forest’s bound,
When from the brush I heard a sound
Like silver horns faint echoing,
And out there stepped, in wild gold ring,
A woman fair, a woman proud,
About whose brow there shone a cloud
Of yellow hair that fell so bright
You might have thought it caught the light
That hides within the sun at noon.
She spoke my name, and all the tune
Of braying hounds and huntsmen’s cries
Grew hush’d, and took me by surprise.
She said, “Oisin, Oisin of the race
Of him who never turned his face
From foeman’s brand, nor from the call
Of any damsel in a thrall,
I come from far to bring you news
Of joy no living man shall lose.
Come mount this horse of snow and gold,
And roam with me the waters cold,
To lands beyond your mortal ken,
Where dwell immortal maids and men.
There none shall moan, or sicken sore,
Nor dream of wars, nor want of store,
But singing, feast for endless years
In lovely palaces no tears
Have wet, nor gloom of mortal mind
Can tarnish.” Then her hair did bind
My eyes in webs of shining haze,
And in my breast soared silent praise,
For well I guessed she was a queen
Of that bright land men scarce have seen,
And that her name was Niamh of old,
Though none had heard her story told.
So on the steed she made me rise,
And with a cry that broke the skies,
We galloped on the spume of seas,
We soared upon the ocean breeze,
Till many a reef and islet dim
Shone out and sank behind the rim,
And then a shore with shining sand
Of pearls did welcome us to land.
A gentle place of orchard green,
Showering blossoms bright between
Wide glades that gleaned the summer’s breath,
Where all was youth, and none saw death;
And many a princely throng did roam
In gold and scarlet round each dome,
And each did bow and greet their queen
With music’s cry and glances keen.
Then Niamh led me by the hand,
And said, “Behold, Oisin, the land
Thy sword and spirit well deserve.
Here let no memory disturb,
Here dwell in feasting, dancing, song,
And find each day but never long.”
O holy man, we so did dwell,
And joy and laughter rose and fell
Like raindrops on the orchard grass;
No day was woe, no year did pass,
Or seemed to pass. I cannot say
How many dawns or eves made gray
The east or west in mortal sense.
But once I yearned, in vain pretence,
To see again my father’s halls,
My poet’s corner in the stalls,
My men who roved at call of war,
My dogs that barked at even’s star.
Niamh read my grief, though hid,
And in her eyes a sorrow slid,
Yet said she, “Go, but quick return,
For these pale mortal ways will burn
Thy soul; their dust shall dim thy eyes.
Think not, Oisin, thou art wise
To try them. Yet take thou this steed,
And on the path let him still lead;
Touch not the ground with foot or limb,
Or thou art lost to me and him.”
Thus parted we, and swift I flew
To Banba’s shores: the meadows grew
Thick as of old with daisies white,
The rivers glinted in the light,
But all was changed. The men I met
Were dwarfed and swarthy, and they set
A curious gaze upon my face,
And called me giant of some race
Long dead. I asked them of the King—
No King was theirs, nor harping ring,
Nor poet’s gatherings in the spring.
From place to place I roamed in woe,
Finding that time had laid them low,
All my clan and all my kin,
All that once had flourished in
The glow of battles, songs of feasts;
Till, in a frantic hour, like beasts
Surrounded, I for one dear sign
Dismounted, not remembering the line
Niamh gave. At once my limbs grew cold,
My beard grew grey, my youth of old
Fell from me like a garment worn,
And on that coast I stood forlorn.
They found me thus, O man of prayer,
And said I raved of Niamh the fair,
Of times gone by three hundred years.
They gave me raiment, calmed my fears,
And would have had me kneel in awe,
Absolve my sins by their new law.
But the memory of that land did burn
Within me—how could I return?
Weak with age, a stranger-lord
Of that bright realm where none grow bored?
Thus do I wander, tired and sore,
Always calling for that shore,
Always hearing in the surge
Her voice—a slowly dying urge.
And now, O man with shaven head,
You say my glorious land is dead,
A demon-lie, a faery’s spell.
But O, had you seen those meadows dwell
In love, had heard their silver horns,
You would not scorn these ancient morns
When man and faery thronged the hall,
And none went sorrowful at all.
If it be dream, then let me dream:
Better such gold than all you deem
A truth of penance, sorrow, care—
For I have known a land more fair.
If living souls can see no more,
Then soon I go to that far shore
Where Niamh’s smile in memory gleams,
And the falling waters fill my dreams.
S. Patrick
Pray for your soul; be done with lies,
And you shall know those paradise
That Scripture’s promise does decree.
Oisin
Paradise is not for me,
Since I have known that shining band,
And vowed to serve that other land.
Fare you well—I speak no more
Of days that were and are no more.
I wait the tide, I wait the foam,
I wait the trump of Niamh to come—
Or if not, let me pass in peace,
And find my rest where yearnings cease.
(Here ends Book I of “The Wanderings of Oisin.”)
First published in 1889, “The Wanderings of Oisin” was one of W.B. Yeats’s earliest long poems, composed in three books. Book I introduces the central figures: the legendary Irish hero Oisin, who narrates his sojourn in the enchanted land of Niamh, and St. Patrick, who represents Christian authority and rational piety. The poem is structured as a dialogue: Patrick questions Oisin’s accounts, while Oisin passionately defends his experiences in the Faery realm.
In this first book, Oisin recalls how the otherworldly maiden Niamh lured him from mortal Ireland across the sea to a domain free from sickness, age, and sorrow. Life there, he recounts, is an unending feast of youth and beauty. Yet eventually, Oisin’s homesickness compels him to return, only to discover centuries have passed in Ireland and all he once knew is gone. By stepping onto earthly ground, he ages instantly. Now bent and grey, he faces St. Patrick’s disbelief.
For Yeats, Oisin’s lament symbolizes the collision between romantic imagination and a more austere, Christian worldview. The poet extends this tension to examine the modern world’s skepticism about the supernatural or the visionary. Oisin’s longing for Niamh’s realm reflects Yeats’s belief in the creative and spiritual possibilities of the Celtic twilight tradition—an assertion that myth and dreams can be just as essential as hard facts. The two voices in the poem therefore capture a cultural and philosophical struggle: one that pits the intuitive, mythic consciousness against rigid doctrines and historical change.
As the foundation for the subsequent books, Book I sets up themes of nostalgia, devotion, and the cost of immortality. Oisin’s choice—whether to embrace the faery domain or rejoin mortal Ireland—remains unresolved by the close of the section, resonating with the poem’s larger motif of perpetual wandering. Yeats’s rich, sweeping language highlights a heroic past filled with symbolic landscapes, foreshadowing his lifelong endeavor to merge Irish lore with universal poetic expression.
Key points
1. Oisin embodies the romantic or mythic imagination, in contrast to St. Patrick’s rigid piety.
2. Yeats explores how enchantment and reality collide when one crosses into immortal realms.
3. The poem highlights Irish cultural identity through Celtic legends, praising a heroic past.
4. Book I sets the stage for the tension between visionary ideals and the constraints of mortal life.