V.
Who knoweth not the spell that lurks in twilight?—
When mystic murmurs float across the world
From strange, vague forms that hate the brazen highlight
Of day, and sleep in hidden corners curled
Till, westward, day has nigh his banner furled.
Then fare they forth: rich spoil, in sooth, they found
Where Fergus had his mighty figure hurled
Upon the chariot’s floor. They drew around,
Plucked from its sheath his sword, and bore him to the ground,