He knew

      The strange ship bore brave Conn, and blew

      Clear on his horn the Warning Call;

      And round him thronged the Fians all

      With wond'ring gaze.

                           The sun drew nigh

      The bale-fires of the western sky,

      And faggot clouds with blood-red glare,

      Caught flame, and in the radiant air

      Lone Wyvis like a jewel shone—

      The Fians, as they stared at Conn,

      Were stooping on the high Look-Out.

      They watched the ship that tacked about,

      Now slant across the firth, and now

      Laid bare below the cliff's broad brow,

      And heaving on a billowy steep,

      Like to a monster of the deep

      That wallowed, labouring in pain—

      And Conn stared back with cold disdain.

      Pondering, he sat alone behind

      The broad sail swallowing the wind,

      As over the hollowing waves that leapt

      And snarled with foaming lips, and swept

      Around the bows in querulous fray,

      And tossed in curves of drenching spray,

      The belching ship with ardour drove;

      Then like a lordly elk that strove

      Amid the hounds and, charging, rent

      The pack asunder as it went,

      It bore round and in beauty sprang—

      The sea-wind through the cordage sang

      With high and wintry merriment

      That stirred the heart of Conn, intent

      On vengeance, and for battle keen—

      So hard, so steadfast, and serene.

      Then Ossian, sweet of speech, spake low,

      With musing eyes upon the foe,

      "Is Conn more noble than The Red,

      Whom Goll in battle vanquished?"

      "The Red was fiercer," Conan cried—

      "Nay, Conn is nobler," Finn replied,

      "More comely, stalwart, mightier far—

      What sayest thou, Goll, my man of war?"

      Then Goll made answer on the steep,

      Nor ceased to gaze on Conn full deep—

      "His equal never came before

      Across the seas to Alban shore,

      Nor ever have I peered upon

      A nobler, mightier man than Conn"

      The ship flew seaward, tacking wide,

      Contending with the wind and tide,

      And when upon the broad stream's track

      It baffled hung, or drifted back,

      With grunt and shriek, like battling boars,

      The shock and swing of bladed oars

      Came sounding o'er the sea

                                 The dusk

      Grew round the twilight, like a husk

      That holds a kernel choice, and keen,

      Cold stars impaled the sky serene,

      When Conn's ship through the slackening tide

      Drew round the wistful bay and wide,

      Behind the headlands high that snout

      The seas like giant whales, and spout

      The salt foam high and loud

                                  Then sighed

      The gasping men who all day plied

      Their oars in plunging seas, with hands

      Grown stiff, and arms, like twisted bands

      Drawn numbly, as they rose outspent,

      And staggering from their benches went

      The sail napped quarrelling, and drank

      The wind in broken gasps, and sank

      With sullen pride upon the boards,

      And smote the mast and shook the cords

      Darkly loomed that alien land,

      And darkly lowered the Fian band,

      For hovering on the shoreland grey

      The ship they followed round the bay

      Nor sought the sheltering woods until

      The shadows folded o'er the hill

      Full heavily, and night fell blind,

      And laid its spell upon the wind

      The swelling waters sank with sip

      And hollow gurgle round the ship,

      The long mast rocked against the dim,

      Soft heaven above the headland's rim

      But while the seamen crouched to sleep,

      Conn sat alone in reverie deep,

      And saw before him in a maze

      The mute procession of his days,

      In gloom and glamour wending fast—

      His heart a-hungering for the past—

      Again he leapt, a tender boy,

      To greet his sire with eager joy,

      When he came over the wide North Sea,

      Enriched with spoils of victory—

      Then heavily loomed that fateful morn

      When tidings of his fall were borne

      From Alban shore … Again he saw

      The youth who went alone with awe

      To swear the avenging oath before

      The smoking altar red with gore.

      Ah! strange to him it seemed to be

      That hour was drawing nigh when he

      Would vengeance take … And still more strange,

      O sorrow! it would bring no change

      Though blood for blood be spilled, and life

      For life be taken in fierce strife;

      'Twill ne'er recall the life long sped,

      Or break the silence of the dead.

      But when he heard his mother's wail,

      Once more uplifted on the gale,

      Moaning The Red who ne'er returned—

      His cheeks with sudden passion burned;

      And darkly frowned that valiant man,

      As through his quivering body ran

      The lightnings of impelling ire

      And impulses of fierce desire,

      That