Blair Collection > Galic antiquities

A P O E M. 153
is the heap. The heath and tlie rank grafs grow about its ilones ;
anfl the lonely thiftle fliakes here, in the midnight breeze, its head.
I feel it heavy with the drops of night. — The owl flutters around
my gray hairs : flie awakes the roe from his bed of mofs. He
bounds lightly, without fear ; for he fees it is but the aged OlTian.
— Roe of molly Selma, thy death is not in the thought of the bard.
Thou haft flarted from the bed where often llept Fingal and Ofcar,
and dofl thou think Offian will ftain it with his fpear ? No ; roe
of the bed of Fingal and Ofcar, tliy death is not in the thought
of the bard. — I only flretch my hand to the place where hung my
father's fliield ; where it hung, on high, from the roof of Selma.
But the blue bending fliell of heaven, O Selma! is now thy
only covering. I feek the broad fhield among the ruins : my
fpear ftrikes againfl one of its broken bolTes. — It is the bofs in
which dwelt the voice of war ! Its found is fhill pleafant to my ear:
it awakes the memory of the days that are pafl; as when the
breath of winds kindles the decaying flame on the heath of hinds.
— I feel the heaving of my foul. It grows like the fwelling of a
flood ; bu.t the burden of age preffes it back : retire, ye thoughts
of war ! — Ye dark-brown years that are pafl, retire. Retire with
your clanging fliields, and let the foul of the aged reft. Why
fhould war dwell, any more, in my thoughts, when I have for-
got to lift the fpear ? Yes, the fpear of Temora is now a ftafi';
never more fliall it ftrike the founding fliield. — But it does ftrike
againft a fliield : let me feel its fliape. — It is like the wafting
moon, half-confumed with the ruft of years. — It was thy blue
fliield, O Gaul ! — the fliield of the companion of my Ofcar ! —
But why this melting of my foul ? — Son of my love ! thou haft
U received