grew and died, and shed forth seedlings which, in time, over-grew
and killed the parent stock. Great names became obscure and passed
away, and new ones grew and became great. Gods, worshipped by the
whole nation, declined and became topical, and minor deities
expanding, became national. Gods lost their immortality, and were
remembered as giants of the old time--mighty men, which were of
yore, men of renown.

"The gods which were of old time rest in their tombs,"

sang the Egyptians, consciously ascribing mortality even to gods.
Such was Mac Ere, King of Fir-bolgs. His temple [Note: Strand near
Ballysadare, Co. Sligo], beside the sea at Iorrus Domnan [Note:
Keating--evidently quoting a bardic historian], became his tomb.
Daily the salt tide embraces the feet of the great tumulus, regal
amongst its smaller comrades, where the last king of Fir-bolgs was
worshipped by his people. "Good [Note: Temple--vide post.] were the
years of the sovereignty of Mac Ere. There was no wet or
tempestuous weather in Ireland, nor was there any unfruitful year."
Such were all the predecessors of the children of Dana--gods which
were of old times, that rest in their tombs; and the days, too, of
the Tuatha De Danan were numbered. They, too, smitten by a more
celestial light, vanished from their hills, like Ossian lamenting
over his own heroes; those others still mightier, might say:--

"Once every step which we took might be heard throughout the
firmament. Now, all have gone, they have melted into the air."

But that divine tree, though it had its branches in fairy-land, had
its roots in the soil of Erin. An unceasing translation of heroes