Elves and Heroes | Page 6

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.
[Footnote 1: May Day.]

[Footnote 2: Traditional Holy Hill]
THE SONG OF GOLL.
O Son of The Red,
Undone and laid dead--
The blood of a hero

My cold blade hath shed.
Who fought me to-day?
Who sought me to slay?--
The son of yon
High King
I slew in the fray.
O blade that yon brave
Low laid in the grave,
Ye gladdened the
Fians
But grief to Conn gave.
Stone-hearted and strong,
Lone-hearted with long,
Dark brooding,
he sought to
Avenge his deep wrong.
Fair Son of The Red,
Care none thou art dead?--
Old Goll of Clan
Morna
Will mourn thou hast bled.
O where shall be found
To share with thee round
The halls of
Valhalla
Thy glory renowned?
O true as the blade
That slew thee, and made
My fear and thine
anger
For ever to fade--
Ah! when upon earth
Again will have birth
A son of such honour

And bravery and worth?
Above thee in splendour
A love that could render
Brave service,
burned star-like
And constant and tender.
With fearing my name,
With hearing my fame,
O none would dare
combat
With Goll till Conn came? ...
O great was thine ire--
The fate of thy sire,
Awaiting thy coming,

Consumed thee like fire.

O Son of The Red,
Undone and laid dead--
The blood of a hero

My cold blade hath shed.
THE BLUE MEN OF THE MINCH.
When the tide is at the turning and the wind is fast asleep, And not a
wave is curling on the wide, blue Deep,
O the waters will be churning
on the stream that never smiles, Where the Blue Men are splashing
round the charmèd isles.
As the summer wind goes droning o'er the sun-bright seas,
And the
Minch is all a-dazzle to the Hebrides;
They will skim along like
salmon--you can see their shoulders gleam, And the flashing of their
fingers in the Blue Men's Stream.
But when the blast is raving and the wild tide races,
The Blue Men
ere breast-high with foam-grey faces;
They'll plunge along with fury
while they sweep the spray behind, O, they'll bellow o'er the billows
and wail upon the wind.
And if my boat be storm-toss'd and beating for the bay,
They'll be
howling and be growling as they drench it with their spray-- For they'd
like to heel it over to their laughter when it lists, Or crack the keel
between them, or stave it with their fists.
O weary on the Blue Men, their anger and their wiles!
The whole day
long, the whole night long, they're splashing round the isles; They'll
follow every fisher--ah! they'll haunt the fisher's dream-- When billows
toss, O who would cross the Blue Men's Stream?
THE URISK.
O the night I met the Urisk on the