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.

[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.