Far distant in the murky gloom. Fingal raised his spear in the night, His challenge was heard on the plain-- "Son of the night, from my side, Take the wind--away; Why shouldst come to my presence, feeble one, Thy form as powerless as thy arms? Do I dread thy dark-brown shape, Spirit of the circles of Lodin? Weak is thy shield and thy form of subtle cloud, Thy dull-edged sword as fire in the great waves, A blast parts them asunder, And thou [thyself] art straightway dispersed From my presence, dark son of the skies. Call thy blast--away!" "Wouldst thou drive me from my own circle?" Said the hollow voice of eeriest sound. "To me bends the host of the braves; I look from my wood on the people, And they fall as ashes before my sight; From my breath comes the blast of death; I come forth on high on the wind; The storms are pouring aloft Around my brow, cold, gloomy, and dark. Calm is my dwelling in the clouds, Pleasant the great fields of my repose." "Dwell in thy plains," Said the mighty king, his hand on his sword; "Else remember the son of Cumal in the field; Feeble is thy phantom, great is my strength. Have I moved my step from the mountain To thy halls on the peaceful plain? Has my powerful spear met In the skyey robe the voice Of the dark spirit of the circle of Lodin? Why raise thy brow in gloom? Why brandishest thy spear on high? Little I fear thy threats, feeble one, I fled not from hosts on the field, Why should flee from the seed of the winds The mighty hero, Morven's king? Flee he will not, well he knows The weakness of thy arm in battle." "Flee to thy land," replied the Form, "Flee on the black wind--away! The blast is in the hollow of my hand-- Mine are the course and wrestling of the storm, The king of Soroch is my son, He bends on the hill to my shade, His battle is at Carrick of the hundred braves, And safe he shall win the victory-- "Flee to thy own land, son of Cumal, Else feel to thy sorrow my rage." High he lifted his dark spear, Fiercely he bent his lofty head. Against him Fingal advanced amain, [a-fire,] His bright-blue sword in hand, Son of Loon--the swartest cheek'd. The light of the steel passed through the Spirit, The gloomy and feeble spirit of death. Shapeless he fell, yonder [opposite] On the wind of the black cairns, as smoke Which a young one breaks, rod in hand, At the hearth of smoke and struggle, The Form of Lodin shriek'd in the hill, Gathering himself in the wind, Innis-Torc heard the sound, The waves with terror stay their courses: Up rose the braves of Cumal's son. Each hand grasp'd a spear on the hill, "Where is he?" they cried with frowning rage, Each armour sounding on its lord. EXTRACTS FROM FINGAL.