Last year I posted three translations
of a medieval Irish poem about a scholar and his cat. I just happened upon a fourth translation of the same poem, from Alfred Perceval Graves' A Celtic Psaltery
Pangar, my white cat, and I
Silent ply our special crafts;
Hunting mice his one pursuit,
Mine to shoot keen spirit shafts.
Rest, I love, all fame beyond,
In the bond of some rare book;
Yet white Pangar from his play
Casts, my way, no jealous look.
Thus alone within one cell
Safe we dwell -- not dull the tale --
Since his ever favourite sport
Each to court will never fail.
Now a mouse, to swell his spoils,
In his toils he spears with skill;
Now a meaning deeply thought
I have caught with startled thrill.
Now his green full-shining gaze
Darts its rays against the wall;
Now my feebler glances mark
Through the dark bright knowledge fall.
Leaping up with joyful purr,
In mouse fur his sharp claw sticks,
Problems difficult and dear,
With my spear I, too, transfix.
Crossing not each other's will,
Diverse still, yet still allied,
Following each his own lone ends,
Constant friends we here abide.
Pangar, master of his art,
Plays his part in pranksome youth;
While in age sedate I clear
Shadows from the sphere of Truth.