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