Going to garner Every bird's eyrie? Fell from her fishy-perch Answers the Bald-Beak, Scream no more, little cfne, Feeders are coming. Hearkening their colloquy, Grins the grey beast, The wolf on the wold. This is my sentence: These are the Norseman's Pandect and canon. Thyrfing is thirsty; Quern-biter hungers; Shield-walker wearieth Shut in the scabbard. This is my sentence: Bring us to battle. Perhaps, however, the greatest strength in Congal will be found in the dealing with the apparitions, the gigantic and malign demons, who haunt the hill and the stream, and represent the primitive imaginings of a race not yet emancipated from the terrors of the supernatural in the forces and forms of nature. These figures of ancient Irish poetry, the Herdsman Borcha, who swept down Finn's fortress with his staff, and counts the kine in the unconquered lands, the Giant Walker, who strides angrily around the hostile camp at night, and the Washer at the Ford, who dabbles with slain men's heads, live again in Ferguson's verse with their original reality and terror, and amid the setting of natural scenery from which their phantoms were created. This is the picture of the Giant Walker, whose apparition presaged doom to Cougal at his first night's camp:-- Around the Mound of Sighs They filled the woody-sided vale; but no sweet sleep their eyes Refreshed that night; for all the night, around their echo ing camp, Was heard continuous from the hills a sound as of a tramp Of giant footsteps; but so thick the white mist lay around None saw the Walker save the King. He, starting at the sound,. Called to his foot his fierce red hound; athwart his shoulders cast A shaggy mantle, grasped his spear, and through the moon light passed Alone up dark Ben-Boli's heights, towards which, above the woods, With sound as when at close of eve the noise of falling floods Is borne to shepherd's ear remote on stilly upland lawn, The steps along the mountain-side with hollow sound came on. Fast beat the hero's heart; and close, down-crouching by his knee Trembled the hound, while through the haze, huge as through mists at sea, The week-long sleepless mariner descries some mountain cape, Wreck-infamous, rise on his lee, appeared a monstrous shape Striding impatient, like a man much grieved, who walks alone Considering of a grievous wrong; down from his shoulders thrown A mantle skirted stiff with soil, splashed from the miry ground,