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] NYMPH. “Thy hounds I saw not in the chase, O noble prince of the Fenian race; But I have cause of woe more deep, For which I linger here and weep.” FIONN. “O, hast thou lost a husband dear? Falls for a darling son thy tear, Or daughter of thy heart? Sweet, soft-palmed nymph, the cause reveal To one who can thy sorrows feel, Perchance can ease thy smart?” The maid of tresses fair replied-- “A precious ring I wore; Dropped from my finger in the tide, Its loss I now deplore: But by the sacred vows that bind Each brave and loyal knight, I now adjure thee, Chief, to find My peerless jewel bright.” He feels her adjuration’s ties; Disrobes each manly limb, And for the smooth-palmed princess hies The gulfy lake to swim. Five times deep-diving down the wave, Through every cranny, nook, and cave, With care he searches round and round, Till the golden ring at length he found; But scarce to shore the prize could bring, When by some blasting ban-- Ah! piteous tale--the Fenian king Grew a withered, grey, old man! Meanwhile the Fenians passed the hours In the hall of spears, at Almhuin’s towers; The goblet crowned, with chessmen played, Or gifts for gifts of love repaid, When Caoilte rose and asked in grief, “Ye spearmen, where is our gallant chief? O, lost I dread is the Fenians’ boast-- Then who shall lead our bannered host?”