“Go, and abide then on thy pleasant plains,” Replied the mighty king with hand on hilt, “Else, Cuhal’s Son, forget not in the field. Weak is thy spectre—and my strength is great. Did I direct my footsteps from the hill Toward thy hall, high on the peaceful plain? Or did my pow’rful spear e’er clash amid The garments of the skies against the voice Of the Black Ghost Cru-Lodin’s circle keeps? Why hast thou lifted with a scowl thy brow? Or wherefore shakest thou aloft thy spear? Little I dread thy words, thou Shadowy One! I fled not from an army in the field, Why flee before the Offspring of the Winds? The Valiant Brave, the King of Lofty Bens, He shall not flee! He knows, though he has not Been there, the frailty of thine arm in war.” THE GHOST. “Begone! flee to thy land,” replied the Form, “Flee on the dismal tempest, flee, begone! The blast is in the hollow of my hand. Mine are the conflict and the speed of storms; The King of Sora is a Son of mine; He kneels down in the mountain to my form; At Rock of Hundreds he upholds the strife, And scathless he shall gain the victory, Begone to thine own land, thou Cuhal’s son, Or to thy grief experience my wrath.” THE COMBAT. He lifted up his threatening spear on high, And fiercely forward bent his lofty head. Then Finn advanced, opposing him in wrath, Wielding his blue transparent sword in hand,— The sword—the Son of Luinn of duskiest cheek, The steely lustre pierced the Phantom through. The Evil wraith of death assumed a frown; He fell devoid of shape, far, far beyond, Riding the wings of the dark cairns, like smoke A sapling raises with a stick in hand, About a hearth of discord and of gloom. The Wraith of Lodin’s form shrieked on the Ben, Collecting his essentials in the wind; The Innis of the boars the tumult heard: The trembling waves stopped action in their course. The heroes of great Cuhal’s son arose. And in each hand a spear was held aloft; “Where is he?”—and their fury gathering gloom, And every mail loud clanking round its chief.