et by his dear
Or in the hall, or the dingle,
Or on the shingle.

She'll lie in mould,
All for her love's sake, pallid and cold,
Or she will bleed, by no other
Slain than her brother.

Hawk, left behind!
Thou shalt be mine and I'll prove ever kind:
Ever, wing'd hunter, I'll scatter
Food on thy platter.

Here on his hand
Work'd on my kerchiefs hem thou shalt stand,
Pinions of silver and glowing
Gold-talons showing.

Hawk-pinions tried
Freia {63} one time, and around about hied;
Sought North and South to discover
Oder her lover.

E'en shouldst thou lend
Me thy brave wings, yet I could not ascend;
Only Death brings me, poor minion,
The divine pinion.

Hunter so free!
Sit on my shoulder and look to the sea;
Spite of our looking and yearning,
He's not returning.

When I'm at rest,
And he comes safe, do thou mind my behest:
O with best greetings receive him,
Frithiof, who'll grieve him.

THE DELIGHTS OF FINN MAC COUL {65}

From the Ancient Irish.

Finn Mac Coul 'mongst his joys did number
To hark to the boom of the dusky hills;
By the wild cascade to be lull'd to slumber,
Which Cuan Na Seilg with its roaring fills.
He lov'd the noise when storms were blowing,
And billows with billows fought furiously,
Of Magh Maom's kine the ceaseless lowing,
And deep from the glen the calves' feeble cry;
The noise of the chase from Slieve Crott pealing,
The hum from the bushes Slieve Cua below,
The voice of the gull o'er the breakers wheeling,
The vulture's scream, over the sea flying slow;
The mariners' song from the distant haven,
The strain from the hill of the pack so free,
From Cnuic Nan Gall the croak of the raven,
The voice from Slieve Mis of the streamlets three;
Young Oscar's voice, to the chase proceeding,
The howl of the dogs, of the deer in quest;
But to recline where the cattle were feeding
That was the delight which pleas'd him best.
Delighted was Oscar, the generous-hearted,
To listen when shields rang under the blow:
But nothing to him such delight imparted
As fighting with heroes and laying them low.

CAROLAN'S LAMENT.

From the Irish.

The arts of Greece, Rome and of Eirin's fair earth,
If at my sole command they this moment were all,
I'd give, though I'm fully aware of their worth,
Could they back from the dead my lost Mary recall.

I'm distrest every noon, now I sit down alone,
And at morn, now with me she arises no more:
With no woman alive after Thee would I wive