King Conor sat in Emhain,
And wondered at the darkness
O'er all the land of Erin,
The sun as red as blood!

Then said the Druid High-Priest,
" Far off I see three crosses,
And on them three are drinking
Death's wine-cup to the lees."

" Ah, great must be their evil,
Their crime 'gainst Heaven," said Conor,
" The earth beneath doth shudder,
And the sun hides his face!"

" Nay," said the Priest, the midmost
Shines bright as an Immortal:
Their God the Priests are slaying,
Because he loved too much!"

A madness fell on Conor:
He drew his sword, the Gorm Glas,
And hewed the dark oak-branches, —
They were the wicked priests!

Then burst within his forehead
An old wound long forgotten,
Got in unrighteous battle;
'Neath the black trees he died.

*****

That night to spirits in prison
One came to offer freedom;
He turned and smiled to Conor:
" Thou too, and bring thy sword!"