like a cloud of mist on the silent hill!’
“Many, chief of heroes!” I said,
“many are our hands of war.
Well art thou named, the mighty man;
but many mighty men are seen from
Tura’s windy walls.”
He spoke, like a wave on a rock,
“Who in this land appears like me?
Heroes stand not in my presence:
they fall to earth from my hand.
Who can meet Swaran in fight?
Who but Fingal, king of Selma of storms?
Once we wrestled on Malmor;
our heels overturned the woods.
Rocks fell from their place;
rivulets, changing their course,
fled murmuring from our side.
Three days we renewed the strife;
heroes stood at a distance and trembled.
On the fourth, Fingal says, the king of the ocean fell,
but Swaran says he stood!
Let dark Cuthullin yield to him,
that is strong as the storms of his land!
#x2019; “No!” the blue-eyed chief replied.
I never yield to mortal man!
Dark Cuthullin shall be great or dead!
Go, son of Fithil, take my spear.
Strike the sounding shield of Semo.
It hangs at Tura’s rustling gale.
The sound of peace is not its voice!
My heroes shall hear and obey.’
He went. He struck the bossy shield.
The hills, the rocks reply.
The sound spreads along the wood:
deer start by the lake of roes.
Curach leaps from the sounding rock!
and Connal of the bloody spear!
Crugal’s breast of snow beats high.
The son of Favi leaves the dark-brown hind.
“It is the shield of war,” said Ronnart;
“the spear of Cuthullin,” said Lugar!
Son of the sea, put on thy arms!
Calmar, lift thy sounding steel!
Puno! dreadful hero, arise!
Cairbar, from thy red tree of Cromla!
Bend thy knee, O Eth!
descend from the streams of Lena.
Caolt, stretch thy side as thou movest along
the whistling heath of Mora:
thy side that is white as the foam of
the troubled sea,
when the dark winds pour it on
rocky Cuthon.
Now I behold the chiefs,
in the pride of their former deeds!
Their souls are kindled at the battles of old;
at the actions of other times.
Their eyes are flames of fire.
They roll in search of the foes of the land.
Their mighty hands are on their swords.
Lightning pours from their sides of steel.
They come like streams from the mountains;
each rushes roaring from the hill.
Bright are the chiefs of battle,
in the armour of their fathers.
Gloomy and dark, their heroes follow
like the gathering of the rainy clouds
behind the red meteors of heaven.
The sounds of crashing arms ascend.
The grey dogs howl between.
Unequal bursts the song of battle.
Rocking Cromla echoes round.
On Lena’s dusky heath they stand,
like mist that shades the hills of autumn;
when broken and dark it settles high,
and lifts its head to heaven.
PABO POST PRYDAIN
Pabo Post Prydain, “The Pillar of Britain,” was a king of the northern Pennines and brother of Eliffer of York. His territory was south of the Tyne, with borders on the Vale of York and the Pennine frontier of Rheged. His son Dunawt was chief of the Northern Alliance that eventually destroyed Urien.
PATRICK
St. Patrick, patron saint of Ireland, was probably born in South Wales. His father was a Romano-British deacon named Calpurnius, and his own Celtic name was Succat.
According to legend, Patrick was abducted as a 16-year-old boy by Irish slave traders in about 405 or 410 and carried off to Ireland. He was sold in County Antrim to a chief called Milchu. He managed to escape after six years of captivity and made his way 200 miles overland to board ship. He was at sea for three days, then made his way home to his parents. They urged him never to leave again, but a deep restlessness inspired dreams that made him travel to Rome. He became a monk in Gaul, first at Tours, then at Lerins, before returning to convert his captors. According to Patrick himself, he had decided a long time before that he would