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.