At every stride against his calves struck with as loud rebound As makes the mainsail of a ship brought up along the blast, When with the coil of all its ropes it beats the sounding mast. So, striding vast, the giant passed; the King held fast his breath; Motionless save his throbbing heart; and still and chill as death Stood listening while a second time the giant took his round Of all the camp; but when, at length, the third time the sound Came up, and through the haze a third time huge and dim Rose out the Shape, the valiant hound sprang forth and challenged him. And forth, disdaining that a dog should put him so to shame, Sprang Congal and essayed to speak. "Dread shadow, stand! Proclaim What wouldst thou that thou thus around my camp shouldst keep Thy troublous vigil, banishing the wholesome gift of sleep From all our eyes, who, though inured to dreadful sounds and sights By land and sea, have never yet in all our perilous nights Lain the ward of such a guard." The Shape made answer none, But with stern wafture of his hand went angrier striding on, Shaking the earth with heavier steps. Then Congal on his track Sprang fearless. "Answer me, thou Churl,"he cried, "I bid thee back." But, while he spoke, the giant's cloak around his shoulders grew Like a black-bulged thunder-cloud; and sudden out there flew. From all its angry, swelling folds, with uproar unconfined, Direct against the King's pursuit a mighty blast of wind: Loud flapped the mantle, tempest-lined, while fluttering down the gale, As leaves in Autumn, man and hound were swept into the vale, And heard through all the huge uproar, through startled Dalaray,. The giant went with stamp and clash, departing south away. A conspicuous feature of the excellence of Congal as an original poem is the vividness and faithfulness with which the natural scenery of Ireland is painted. The dark and barren hills, the tawny and foam-flecked streams, the misty seas, the vast and lonely raths and burial places of heroes, the emerald fields bathed with dew and glittering with sunshine, all the characteristics of Irish scenery, with their soul of meaning, which appeals to the heart as well as the outward form to the eye, are depicted with remarkable power, and make a living element in which the figures move. Almost every page has a touch of this skill, and every aspect of field and sea and sky is enlivened. As fine a specimen as any is this picture of an autumn champaign from a hilltop in Leinster:-- Such as one Beholds, and thankful-hearted he, who casts abroad his gaze