prisons are ye flung? To
what lowliness are ye bowed? How are ye ground between the laws and the
customs? The dark people of the Fomor have ye in thrall; and upon your
minds they have fastened a band of lead, your hearts are hung with iron,
and about your loins a cincture of brass impressed, woeful! Believe it,
that the sun does shine, the flowers grow, and the birds sing pleasantly
in the trees. The free winds are everywhere, the water tumbles on the
hills, the eagle calls aloud through the solitude, and his mate comes
speedily. The bees are gathering honey in the sunlight, the midges dance
together, and the great bull bellows across the river. The crow says a
word to his brethren, and the wren snuggles her young in the hedge....
Come to us, ye lovers of life and happiness. Hold out thy hand--a
brother shall seize it from afar. Leave the plough and the cart for a
little time: put aside the needle and the awl--Is leather thy brother, O
man?... Come away! come away! from the loom and the desk, from the shop
where the carcasses are hung, from the place where raiment is sold and
the place where it is sewn in darkness: O bad treachery! Is it for joy
you sit in the broker's den, thou pale man? Has the attorney enchanted
thee?... Come away! for the dance has begun lightly, the wind is
sounding over the hill, the sun laughs down into the valley, and the sea
leaps upon the shingle, panting for joy, dancing, dancing, dancing for
joy...."

They swept through the goat tracks and the little boreens and the
curving roads. Down to the city they went dancing and singing; among
the streets and the shops telling their sunny tale; not heeding the
malignant eyes and the cold brows as the sons of Balor looked sidewards.
And they took the Philosopher from his prison, even the Intellect of
Man they took from the hands of the doctors and lawyers, from the sly
priests, from the professors whose mouths are gorged with sawdust, and
the merchants who sell blades of grass--the awful people of the Fomor...
and then they returned again, dancing and singing, to the country of the
gods....

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Crock of Gold, by James Stephens

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