Soon was it when Ferdiah’s charioteer
Heard the approaching clamour and the shout,
The rattle and the clatter, and the roar,
The whistle, and the thunder, and the tramp,
The clanking discord of the missive shields,
The clang of swords, the hissing sound of spears,
The tinkling of the helmet, the sharp crash
Of armour and of arms, the straining ropes,
The dangling bucklers, the resounding wheels,
The creaking chariot, and the proud approach
Of the triumphant champion of the Ford. 
  Clutching his master’s robe, the charioteer
Cried out, “Ferdiah, rise! for lo, thy foes
Are on thee!” Then the Spirit of Insight fell
Prophetic on the youth, and thus he sang.

Charioteer.

I hear the rushing of a car,
  Near and more near its proud wheels run
A chariot for the God of War
  Bursts—­as from clouds the sun! 
Over Bregg-Ross it speeds along,
  Hark! its thunders peal afar! 
Oh! its steeds are swift and strong,
  And the Victories guide that car.

The Hound of Ulster shaketh the reins,
  And white with foam is each courser’s mouth;
The Hawk of Ulster swoops o’er the plains
  To his quarry here in the south. 
Like wintry storm that warrior’s form,
  Slaughter and Death beside him rush;
The groaning air is dark and warm,
  And the low clouds bleed and blush.[49]

Oh, woe to him that is here on the hill,
  Who is here on the hillock awaiting the Hound;
Last year it was in a vision of ill
  I saw this sight and I heard this sound. 
Methought Emania’s Hound drew nigh,
  Methought the Hound of Battle drew near,
I heard his steps and I saw his eye,
  And again I see and I hear.

Then answer made Ferdiah in this wise: 
“Why dost thou chafe me, talking of this man? 
For thou hast never ceased to sing his praise
Since from his home he came.  Thou surely art
Not without wage for this:  but nathless know
Ailill and Mave have both foretold—­by me
This man shall fall, shall fall for a reward
Just as the deed:  This day he shall be slain,
For it is fated that I free the Ford. 
’Tis time for the relief.”—­And thus they spake: 

Ferdiah.

Yes, it is time for the relief;
  Be silent then, nor speak his praise,
For prophecy forebodes this chief
  Shall pass not the predestined days;
Does fate for this forego its claim,
  That Cuailgne’s champion here should come
In all his pride and pomp of fame?—­
  Be sure he comes but to his doom.

Charioteer.

If Cuailgne’s champion here I see
  In all his pride and pomp of fame,
He little heeds the prophecy,
  So swift his course, so straight his aim. 
Towards us he flies, as flies the gleam
  Of lightning, or as waters flow
From some high cliff o’er which the stream
  Drops in the foaming depths below.