Here let this vain contention rest,
For frenzy, Bard, inspires thy breast.
Supreme in bliss God ever reigns:
Thy Fionn groans in hell’s domains—
In penal fire—in lasting chains.
OISIN.
Small glory to thy potent King
His chains and fires on our host to bring!
Oh! how unlike our generous chief,
Who, if thy King felt wrong or grief,