Poems MacCarthy, Florence Denis

83
Ah! hapless deed, that still my heart doth rue!--
None have I found, Ferdiah, like to thee.
Thy dream it was to win fair Finavair,
From Mave her beauteous daughter's hand to gain;
As soon might'st thou in the wide fields of air
The glancing sunbeam's swift-winged flight restrain.
He paused awhile, still gazing on the dead,
Then to his charioteer he spoke: "Friend Laegh,
Strip now Ferdiah, take his armour off,
That I may see the golden brooch of Mave,
For which he undertook the fatal fight."
Laegh took the armour then from off his breast,
And then Cuchullin saw the golden pin
That cost so dear, and then these words he spake:
CUCHULLIN.
Alas! O brooch of gold!
O chief, whose fame each poet knows,
O hero of stout slaughtering blows,
Thy arm was brave and bold.
Thy yellow flowing hair,
Thy purple girdle's silken fold
Still even in death around thee rolled,--
Thy twisted jewel rare.
Thy noble beaming eyes,
Now closed in death, make mine grow dim,
Thy dazzling shield with golden rim,
Thy chess a king might prize.
Oh! piteous to behold,
My fellow-pupil falls by me:
It was an end that should not be,
Alas! O brooch of gold!
After another pause Cuchullin spoke:--
"O Laegh, my friend, open Ferdiah now,