flew.
From all its angry, swelling folds, with uproar unconfined,
Direct against the King's pursuit a mighty blast of wind:
Loud flapped the mantle, tempest-lined, while fluttering
down the gale,
As leaves in Autumn, man and hound were swept into the vale,
And heard through all the huge uproar, through startled
Dalaray,.
The giant went with stamp and clash, departing south away.
A conspicuous feature of the excellence of Congal as an original poem is the vividness and faithfulness with which the natural scenery of Ireland is painted. The dark and barren hills, the tawny and foam-flecked streams, the misty seas, the vast and lonely raths and burial places of heroes, the emerald fields bathed with dew and glittering with sunshine, all the characteristics of Irish scenery, with their soul of meaning, which appeals to the heart as well as the outward form to the eye, are depicted with remarkable power, and make a living element in which the figures move. Almost every page has a touch of this skill, and every aspect of field and sea and sky is enlivened. As fine a specimen as any is this picture of an autumn champaign from a hilltop in Leinster:—