BOOK II.

By the sound of the mountain's gushing stream,

The weary Connal lonely lay,

Sheltered beneath an aged tree

Whose branches in the moonbeams play;

The mossy stone supports his head,

And silence reigns throughout the vale, When shrill and clear the voice of night His wondering senses doth assail!

The fearless hero raised his head
And there beheld a sight of woe!
A dark red stream of livid fire

Rushed down upon the plain below;

'Twas Crugal sat upon the stream,
A noble chief who fell in fight,

His face was like the moon's pale beam,
His eye like fire's descending light!

His robes were of the misty cloud,
And dark the wound upon his breast,
The paleness of his manly cheek

A dreadful tale of woe expressed!

"Oh! why so pale and sad, my friend?"
The mighty Connal fearless cried,
"Thou breaker of the bossy shield,

Oh! why that wound upon thy side?

"My Crugal, why so pale thy brow?
Say! what disturbs thy wandering shade?"
The ghost o'er Connal stretched his hand,
But feeble was the sound he made;

"My spirit wanders on my hills,
On Erin's sand my corse doth lie;
The heath no more my footsteps press,
Like shadows of the mist I fly!

"Oh, Connal, Colgar's bravest son!
I see a gloomy cloud of death,
Darkly it hovers o'er the plain-
The sons of Erin fall beneath;

"Oh, from this field of ghosts remove!" Then he in majesty retired,

Lost in the whistling hollow blast

That voice which sorrow had inspired.

"Oh, stay," the mighty Connal cried,
"Oh, stay, my dark-red injured friend!
That beam of heavenly light lay by—
Oh! windy Cromla's son, attend!

"What cavern is thy lonely house?

On what green hill dost thou repose? Shall we not hear thee in the storm,

Or where the mountain streamlet flows?"

Old Carril on the distant heath

Bids the shrill horn of battle sound, Then raises high the voice of song, Till every valley echoes round!

"Where," said the tuneful bard of old, "Where is the brave young Crugal now?" He lies forgotten on the earth,

His youthful head in death laid low!

Sad is the spouse of Crugal's love,
A youthful stranger in his hall;
That hall is now the seat of grief,
For there she mourns her hero's fall.

But who is she, the beauteous maid

That darts like sunbeam 'midst the foe?

It is Degrena, lovely, fair,

The spouse of Crugal fallen low!

Her long hair floats upon the breeze,
Her beauteous eye is red and wild;

Her voice is dissonant and shrill,

For she is "hopeless sorrow's child!"

Pale is thy lover now, sweet maid!
His form sleeps in the hilly cave;

I hear his soft and feeble voice,

As the bee hums when breezes wave;

But oh! Degrena, thou dost fall

Like a bright cloud at early morn; The sword of Lochlin pierces deep,

And thou art low in life's young dawn!

Cairbar, thy fair Degrena's slain!

The daughter of thy youthful love, Pride of thy years, thy soul's delight, Her spirit sails on clouds above!

Fierce Cairbar heard the mournful sound,
And rush'd along like ocean's whale!
He saw his daughter's lifeless corpse,
And roared like thunder thro' the vale.

His spear, a son of Lochlin met,

The battle spreads from wing to wing," 'Twas like a hundred rising winds Which through a burning forest sing!

So loud, so ruinous, so vast

The deadly carnage raged around, Cuthullin's sword destruction spread, Like thistle tops they strew the ground.

Proud Swaran wasted Erin's land,

And laid the mighty Cairbar low! Morglan has gone to his last rest,

r

And Caolt bleeds with mortal blow.

His fair white breast is stained with blood,
And stretched in dust his yellow hair;

He oft had spread the feast of joy
On that same spot and revelled there!

Here, often had he tuned the harp,
His dogs around him leaped for joy,
His voice the youthful heroes loved,
For Caolt was a noble boy!-

Swaran advances as a stream

That wildly bursts upon the view, Removing, in its rapid course,

All that impedes its passage through;

But like a mount Cuthullin stood,

That catches e'en the clouds of heaven, The winds contending round its base, While o'er its brow the hail is driven.

Thus firm in strength the hero stands
And shades green Erin's sons from fight,
Blood flows like fountains from the rock,
While spears and broad-swords glitter bright!

On either wing, brave Erin falls

Like snow before the mid-day sun;
Lochlin is conqueror on the field;
Full many a chief his race has run!

"Oh, sons of Erin!" Grumal cried,
"Why strive as reeds against the wind?
Fly to yon dark-brown, distant hill,
And leave the bloody foe behind!"

He spake, and flew across the plain!
Chief of the little narrow soul,
While heroes' blood in battle slain

In crimson streams o'er Lena roll.

High on his car of many gems

The noble chief of Erin stood,

Dealing destruction to the foe,

His sword and garments dyed with blood!