Where is Alenn far-famed,
  How dear in delights! 
  Beneath her what Knights
  What Princes repose
  How feared by her foes
  When Crimthan was Chief—­
  Crimthan of Conquests—­now passes belief!

    Proudly the triumph-shout
  Rang from his victor lords,
  Round their massed shock of swords;
  While their foes’ serried, blue
  Spears they struck through and through;
  Blasts of delight
  Blared from their horns over hundreds in flight.

    Blithe, on their anvils
  Even-hued, blent
  The hammers’ concent;
  From the Brugh the bard’s song
  Brake sweet and strong;
  Proud beauty graced
  The field where knights jousted and charioteers raced.

    There in each household
  Ran the rich mead;
  Steed neighed to steed;
  Chains jingled again
  Unto Kings among men
  Under the blades
  Of their five-edged, long, bitter, blood-letting spear-heads.

    There, at each hour,
  Harp music o’erflowed;
  The wine-galleon rode
  The violet sea,
  Whence silver showered free,
  And gold torques without fail,
  From the land of the Gaul to the Land of the Gael.

    To Britain’s far coasts
  The renown of those kings
  On a meteor’s wings
  O’er the waters had flown. 
  Yea!  Alenn’s high throne,
  With its masterful lore,
  Made sport of the pomp of each palace before.

    But where, oh, where is mighty Cathair? 
  Before him or since
  No shapelier Prince
  Ruled many-hued Erin. 
  Though round the rath, wherein
  They laid him, you cry,
  The Champion of Champions can never reply.

    Where is Feradach’s robe,
  Where his diadem famed,
  Round which, as it flamed,
  Plumed ranks deployed? 
  His blue helm is destroyed,
  His shining cloak dust. 
  Overthrower of kings, in whom now is thy trust?

    Alenn’s worship of auguries
  Now is as naught! 
  None thereof takes thought. 
  All in vain is each spell
  The dark future to tell! 
  All is vain, when ’tis probed,
  And Alenn lies dead of her black arts disrobed.

    Hail, Brigit! whose lands
  To-day I behold,
  Whither monarchs of old
  Came each in his turn. 
  Thy fame shall outburn
  Their mightiest glory;
  Thou art over them all, till this Earth ends its story.

    Yea!  Thy rule with the King
  Everlasting shall stand,
  Apart from the land
  Of thy burial-place. 
  Child of Bresal’s proud race,
  O triumphing Bride,[A]
  Sit safely enthroned upon Liffey’s green side.

[Footnote A:  Brigit; hence St. Bride’s Bay.]

THE DEVIL’S TRIBUTE TO MOLING

(From the Early Irish)