LITMIR.BIZ

      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

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