'When fled Swaran from the
battle of spears? When did I shrink from danger, chief of the
little soul? Shall Swaran fly from a hero? Were Fingal himself
before me my soul should not darken in fear. Arise, to battle my
thousands! pour round me like the echoing main. Gather round the
bright steel of your King; strong as the rocks of my land, that
meet the storm with joy, and stretch their dark pines to the
wind.'
"Like autumn's dark storms, pouring from two echoing hills,
towards each other approached the heroes. Like two deep streams
from high rocks meeting, mixing, roaring on the plain; loud,
rough and dark in battle meet Lochlin and Innis-fail. chief
mixes his strokes with chief, and man with man; steel clanging
sounds on steel. Helmets are cleft on high. Blood bursts and
smokes around. Strings murmur on the polished yews. Darts rush
along the sky, spears fall like the circles of light which gild
the face of night. As the noise of the troubled ocean when roll
the waves on high, as the last peal of thunder in heaven, such is
the din of war.
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