Song of the Fomoroh
Who dare set bounds to the Red Wind,
The East Wind in his wrath?
Lo! we have bitted and bridled him,
And turned him from his path:
From the waves that beat we have called his feet
To the long grass of the rath.
He hath heard our call through his tempest fall,
And he maketh no delay,
Though the house of the Dawn's his homestead,
Yet there he will not stay:
And the voice that compels his coming
Is neither of night nor day.
The voice blows out of the twilight,
As thistle-drift is blown,
It's light, and tender, and merry,
And the seeds that its call has sown
Are sin, and desire, and sorrow,
And the world hears, and moves on.
From his wings we've ta'en the scarlet stain,
The red plumes from his crest:
We've snatched from his hands the sea-pinks
Wherewith his cliffs were drest:
We have fed our fire to heart's desire,
With the bird that beat in his breast.
Ay, we ha' bridled the red East Wind
With none to say him Nay —
With his heart's blood red our fires we fed
That the sword might be swift to slay,
And the ashes at last to his own wind cast,
That they might be blown away.
For we are the dark Formoroh,
And sore we travail that ye
May cast off care, and grow strong and fair,
And still our bondsmen be:
We shall enter in your souls, our kin,
And who shall our slaying see?