Well--though afresh my bosom bleeds,
Remembering days of old--
When I think of my sire and his mighty deeds--
Yet shall the tale be told.
While the Fenian bands at Almhuin’s towers,
In the hall of spears, passed the festive hours,
The goblet crowned, with chessmen played,[1]
Or gifts for gifts of love repaid;
From the reckless throng Finn stole unseen,
When he spied a young doe on the heath-clad green
With agile spring draw near:
On Sceolan and Bran his nimble hounds
He whistles aloud, and away he bounds
In chase of the hornless deer.
With his hounds alone and his trusty blade,
The son of Luno’s skill,
On the track of the flying doe he strayed
To Guillin’s pathless hill.
But when he came to its hard-won height
No deer appeared in view;
If east or west she had sped her flight
Nor hounds nor huntsman knew.
But those sprang westward o’er the sod,
While eastward Fionn press’d--
Why did not pity touch thy God
To see them thus distress’d?
There while he gazes anxious round,
Sudden he hears a doleful sound,
And by a lake of crystal sheen
Spies a nymph of loveliest form and mien:
Her cheeks as the rose were crimson bright,
Her lips the red berry’s glow;
Her neck as the polished marble[2] white,
Her breast the pure blossom’s full blow;
Downy gold were her locks, and her sparkling eyes
Like freezing stars in the ebon skies.
Such beauty, O Sage, all cold as thou art,
Would kindle warm raptures of love in thy heart.
Nigh to the nymph of golden hair
With courteous grace he drew--
“O hast thou seen, enchantress fair,
My hounds their game pursue?”[3]