IV.

Soft-couch'd upon a bank

Lay Caoilte on the cliff-top, while he drank

The sweetness of the morning air, that brought

A spell of dreamful ease and pleasant thought,

With mem'ries from the deeps of other years

When Dermaid, unforgotten by his peers,

And Oscar, fair and young, went forth with mirth

A-hunting o'er the hills around the firth

On such an April morn....

He leapt to hear

The Fians shouting from a woodland near

Their hunting-call. Then swift he sped a-pace,

With bounding heart, to join the gladsome chase;

Stooping he ran, with poised, uplifted spear,

As through the woods approached the nimble deer

That swerved, beholding him. With startled toss

Of antlers, down the slope it fled, to cross

The open vale before him... To the west

The Fians, merging from the woodland, pressed

To head it shoreward... All the fierce hounds bayed

With hungry ardour, and the deer, dismayed,

With foaming nostrils leapt, and strove to flee

Towards the deep, dark woods of Calrossie.

But Caoilte, fresh from resting, was more fleet

Than deer or dogs, and sped with naked feet,

Until upon a loose and sandy bank,

Plunging his spear into the smoking flank,

Its flight he stayed.... He stabbed it as it sank,

The life-blood spurting; and he saw it die

Or ever dog or huntsman had come nigh.

Then eager feast they made; and after long

And frequent fast of winter, they grew strong

As they had been of old. And of their fare

The lean and scrambling hounds had ready share.

Nor over-fed they in their merry mood,

But set to hunt again, and through the wood

Scattered with eager pace, ere yet the sun

Had climbed to highest noon; for lo! each one

Had mem'ry of the famished cheeks and white

Of those who waited their return by night,

In steep Knockfarrel's desolate stockade —

O’ many a beauteous and bethrothèd maid,

And mothers nursing babes, and warriors lying

In winter-fever's spell, the old men dying,

And slim, fair lads who waited to acclaim,

With gladsome shout, the huntsmen when they came

With burdens of the chase... So they pursued

The hunt till eve was nigh. In Geanies wood

Another deer they slew...

Caoilte, who stood

On a high ridge alone... with eager eyes

Scanning the prospect wide... in mute surprise

Saw rising o'er Knockfarrel, a dark cloud

Of thick and writhing smoke... Then fierce and loud

Upon his horn he blew the warning blast —

From out the woods the Fians hastened fast —

Lo! when they stared towards the western sky,

They saw their winter dwelling blazing high.

Then fear possessed them for their own, and grief

Unutterable. And thus spake their wise chief,

To whom came knowledge and the swift, sure thought —

“Alas! alas! an enemy hath wrought

Black vengeance on our kind. In yonder gleam

Of fearsome flame, the horrors of my dream

Are now accomplished — all we loved and cherished,

And sought, and fought for, in that pyre have perished!”

White-lipped they heard.... Then, wailing loud, they ran,

Following the nimble Caoilte, man by man,

Towards Knockfarrel; leaping on their spears

O'er marsh and stream. MacReithin, blind with tears,

Tumbled or leapt into a swollen flood

That swept him to the sea. But no man stood

To help or mourn him, for the eve grew dim —

And some there were, indeed, who envied him.