In what far kingdom do you go, Ah, Fenians, with the shield and bow? Or are you phantoms white as snow, Whose lips had life’s most prosperous glow? O you, with whom in sloping valleys, Or down the dewy forest alleys, I chased at morn the flying deer, With whom I hurled the hurrying spear, And heard the foemen’s bucklers rattle, And broke the heaving ranks of battle! And Bran, Sgeolan, and Lomair, Where are you with your long rough hair? You go not where the red deer feeds, Nor tear the foemen from their steeds. S. PATRIC. Boast not, nor mourn with drooping head Companions long accurst and dead, And hounds for centuries dust and air. OISIN. We galloped over the glossy sea: I know not if days passed or hours, And Niamh sang continually Danaan songs, and their dewy showers Of pensive laughter, unhuman sound, Lulled weariness, and softly round My human sorrow her white arms wound. On! on! and now a hornless deer Passed by us, chased by a phantom hound All pearly white, save one red ear; And now a maiden rode like the wind With an apple of gold in her tossing hand, And with quenchless eyes and fluttering hair A beautiful young man followed behind. ‘Were these two born in the Danaan land, Or have they breathed the mortal air?’ ‘Vex them no longer,’ Niamh said, And sighing bowed her gentle head, And sighing laid the pearly tip Of one long finger on my lip. But now the moon like a white rose shone In the pale west, and the sun’s rim sank, And clouds arrayed their rank on rank About his fading crimson ball: The floor of Emen’s hosting hall Was not more level than the sea, As full of loving phantasy, And with low murmurs we rode on, Where many a trumpet-twisted shell That in immortal silence sleeps Dreaming of her own melting hues, Her golds, her ambers, and her blues, Pierced with soft light the shallowing deeps. But now a wandering land breeze came And a far sound of feathery quires; It seemed to blow from the dying flame, They seemed to sing in the smouldering fires. The horse towards the music raced, Neighing along the lifeless waste; Like sooty fingers, many a tree Rose ever out of the warm sea; And they were trembling ceaselessly, As though they all were beating time, Upon the centre of the sun, To that low laughing woodland rhyme. And, now our wandering hours were done, We cantered to the shore, and knew The reason of the trembling trees: Round every branch the song-birds flew, Or clung thereon like swarming bees; While round the shore a million stood Like drops of frozen rainbow light, And pondered in a soft vain mood, Upon their shadows in the tide, And told the purple deeps their pride, And murmured snatches of delight; And on the shores were many boats With bending sterns and bending bows, And carven figures on their prows Of bitterns, and fish-eating stoats,