II.

The shredding dawn in beauty spread

Its shafts of splendour, golden-red,

High over the eastern heaven, and broke

Through flaking clouds in silvern smoke

That burst aflame, and fold o'er fold,

Let loose their oozing floods of gold,

Splashed over the foamless deep that lay

Tremulous and clear. In fiery play

The rippling beams that swept between

The sea-cleft Sutor crags serene,

Broke quivering where the waters bore

The soft reflection of the shore.

The pipes of morn were sounding shrill

Through budding woods on plain and hill,

And stirred the air with song to wake

The sweet-toned birds within the brake.

The Fians from their sheilings came,

With offerings to the god a-flame,

And round them thrice they sun-wise went;

Then naked-kneed in silence bent

Beside the pillar stones...

But now

Brave Conn upon the ship's high prow

Hath raised his burnished blade on high,

And calls on Woden and on Tigh

With boldness, to avenge the death

Of his great sire... In one deep breath

He drains the hero's draught that burns

With valour of the gods; then turns

His long-sought foe to meet... Great Conn

Sweeps, stooping in a boat, alone.

Shoreward, with rapid blades and bright,

That shower the foam-rain pearly white,

And rip the waters, bending lithe,

In hollowing swirls that hiss and writhe

Like adders, ere they dart away

Bright-spotted with the flakes of spray.

When, furrowing the sand, he drew

His boat the shallowing water through,

A giant he in stature rose

Straight as a mast before his foes,

With head thrown high, and shoulders wide

And level, and set back with pride;

His bared and supple arms were long

As shapely oars: firm as a thong

His right hand grasped his gleaming blade,

Gold-hilted, and of keen bronze made

In leafen shape.

With stately stride

He crossed the level sands and wide,

Then on his shield the challenge gave —

His broad sword thund'ring like a wave —

For single combat.

Red as gold

His locks upon his shoulders rolled;

A brazen helmet on his head

Flashed fire; his cheeks were white and red;

And all the Fians watched with awe

That hero young with knotted jaw,

Whose eyes, set deep, and blue and hard,

Surveyed their ranks with cold regard;

While his broad forehead, seamed with care,

Drooped shadowily: his eyebrows fair

Were sloping sideways o'er his eyes

With pondering o'er the mysteries.

The eyes of all the Fians sought

Heroic Groll, whose face was wrought

With lines of deep, perplexing thought —

For gazing on the valiant Conn,

He mourned that his own youth was gone,

When, strong and fierce and bold, he shed

The life-blood of the boastful Red,

Whom none save he would meet. He heard

The challenge, and nor spake, nor stirred,

Nor feared; but now grown old, when hate

And lust of glory satiate —

His heart took pride in Conn, and shared

The kinship of the brave.

Who dared

To meet the Viking bold, if he

The succour of the band, should be

Found faltering or in despair?

Until that day the Fians ne'er

Of one man had such fear.

Old Goll

Sat musing on a grassy knoll,

They deemed he shared their dread... Not so

Wise Finn, who spake forth firm and slow —

“Goll, son of Morna, peerless man,

The keen desire of every clan,

Far-famed for many a valiant deed,

Strong hero in the time of need.

I vaunt not Conn... nor deem that thou

Dost falter, save with meekness, now —

But why shouldst thou not take the head

Of this bold youth, as of The Red,

His sire, in other days?”

Goll spake —

“O noble Finn, for thy sweet sake

Mine arms I'd seize with ready hand,

Although to answer thy command

My blood to its last drop were spilled —

By Crom! were all the Fians killed,

My sword would never fail to be

A strong defence to succour thee.”

Upon his hard right arm with haste

His crooked and pointed shield he braced,

He clutched his sword in his left hand —

While round that hero of the band

The Fian warriors pressed, and praised

His valour... Mute was Goll... They raised,

Smiting their hands, the battle-cry,

To urge him on to victory.

The one-eyed Goll went forth alone,

His face was like a mountain stone,—

Cold, hard, and grey; his deep-drawn breath

Came heavily, like a man nigh death —

But his firm mouth, with lips drawn thin,

Deep sunken in his wrinkled skin,

Was cunningly crooked; his hair was white,

On his bald forehead gleamed a bright

And livid scar that Conn's great sire

Had cloven when their swords struck fire —

Burly and dauntless, full of might,

Old Goll went humbly forth to fight

With arrogant Conn... It seemed The Red

In greater might was from the dead,

Restored in his fierce son...

A deep

Swift silence fell, like sudden sleep,

On all the Fians waiting there

In sharp suspense and half despair...

The morn was still. A skylark hung

In mid-air flutt'ring, and sung

A lullaby that grew more sweet

Amid the stillness, in the heat

And splendour of the sun: the lisp

Of faint wind in the herbage crisp

Went past them; and around the bare

And foam-striped sand-banks gleaming fair,

The faintly-panting waves were cast

By the wan deep fatigued and vast.

O great was Conn in that dread hour,

And all the Fians feared his power,

And watched, as in a darksome dream,

The warriors meet... They saw the gleam

Of swift, up-lifted swords, and then

A breathless moment came, as when

The lithe and living lightning's flash

Makes pause, until the thunder's crash

Is splintered through the air.

Loud o'er

The blue sea and the shining shore

Broke forth the crash of arms... The roll

Of Conn's fierce blows that baffled Goll

On sword and shield resounding rang,

While that old warrior stooped and sprang

Sideways, and swerved, or backward leapt,

As swiftly as the bronze blade swept

Above him and around... He swayed,

Stumbling, but rose... But, though his blade

Was ever nimble to defend,

The Fians feared the fight would end

In victory for Conn.

...‘ Twas like

As when an eagle swoops to strike,

But swerves with flutt'ring wings, as nigh

Its head a javelin gleams... A cry

That banished fear of Conn's great blows

From out the Fian ranks arose,

As, like a plumed reed in a gust,

Goll suddenly stooped — a deadly thrust

That drew the first blood in the fray

He darting gave... With quick dismay

The valiant Conn drew back...

Again

He leapt at Goll, but sought in vain

To blind him with his blows that fell

Like snowflakes on a sullen well —

For Goll was calm, while great Conn raged,

As hour by hour the conflict waged;

He was a blast-defying tree —

A crag that spurned a furious sea,

And all the Fians with one mind

Set firm their faith in Goll

The wind

Rose like a startled bird from out

The heather at the huntsman's shout

In swift and blust'ring flight At noon

The sun rolled in a cloudy swoon

Dimly, and over the rolling deep

Gust followed gust with shadowy sweep;

And waves that streamed their snowy locks

Were tossing high against the rocks

Seaward, while round the sands ebbed wide

Scrambled the fierce devouring tide

O, Conn was like a hound at morn,

That springs upon an elk forlorn

Among the hills. He was a proud

Cascade that leaps a cliff with loud

Unspending fall So fierce, so fair

Was arrogant Conn, but Goll fought there

Keen-eyed, with ready guard, at bay —

He was as a boar in that fierce fray.

The waves were humbled on the shore,

And silent fell, amid the roar

And crash of battle Mute and still

The Fians watched; while on the hill

The little elves came out and gazed,

To be amused and were amazed...

They saw upon the shrinking sands

The warriors with restless hands

And busy blades, with shields that rose

To buffet the unceasing blows;

They saw before the rising flood

The flash of fire, the flash of blood;

And watched the men with panting breath,

Striving to be the slaves of death;

Now darting wide, now swerving round,

Now clashed together in a bound,

With splitting swords that smote so fast,

As hour by hour unheeded past.

The sands were torn and tossed like spray

Before the whirlwind of the fray,

That waged in fury till the sun

Sank, and the day's last loops were spun —

Then terrible was Goll... He rose

A tempest of increasing blows,

More furious and fast, as dim,

Uncertain twilight fell... More grim

And great he grew as, looming large,

He fought, and pressing to the marge

Of ocean, he o'erpowered and drave

The Viking hero back; till wave

O'er ready wave that hurried fleet,

Snuffled and snarled about their feet...

Then with a mighty shout that made

The rocks around him ring, his blade

Swept like a flash of fire to smite

The last fell blow in that fierce fight —

So great Conn perished like The Red

By Goll's left hand... his life-blood spread

Over the quenching sands where rolled

His head entwined with locks of gold.

Then passed like thunder o'er the sea

The Fian shout of victory.

And, trembling on the tossing ships,

The Vikings heard, with voiceless lips

And dim, despairing eyes... Alone

Stood Goll, and like a silent stone

Bulking upon a ben-side bare,

He bent above the hero fair —

Remembering the mighty Red,

And wondering that Conn lay dead.