At the noise of them
running to battle all Ireland shook, and the illimitable Lir
[Footnote: Lir was the sea-god, the Oceanns of the Celt; no doubt
the same as the British Lear, the wild, white-headed old king, who
had such singular daughters; two, monsters of cruelty, and one,
exquisitely sweet, kind, and serene, viz.: Storm, Hurricane, and
Calm.] trembled in his watery halls; the roar of their brazen
chariots reverberated from the solid canopy of heaven, and their
war-steeds drank rivers dry.
A vast murmur rose from the assembly, for like distant thunder or
the far-off murmuring of agitated waters was the continuous hum of
their blended conversation and laughter, while, ever and anon,
cleaving the many-tongued confusion, uprose friendly voices,
clearer and stronger than battle-trumpets, when one hero
challenged another to drink, wishing him victory and success, and
his words rang round the hollow dome. Innumerable candles, tall as
spears, illuminated the scene. The eyes of the heroes sparkled,
and their faces, white and ruddy, beamed with festal mirth and
mutual affection.
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