Riding the wings of the dark cairns, like smoke
A sapling raises with a stick in hand,
About a hearth of discord and of gloom.
The Wraith of Lodin’s form shrieked on the Ben,
Collecting his essentials in the wind;
The Innis of the boars the tumult heard:
The trembling waves stopped action in their course.
The heroes of great Cuhal’s son arose.
And in each hand a spear was held aloft;
“Where is he?”—and their fury gathering gloom,