J. F. Campbell Collection > Temora, an ancient epic poem, in eight books

,30 T E M O R A:
Beneath the fpear of Cathmor, rofe that voice which awakes
the bards. They came, dark-winding, from every fide ; each,
with the found of his harp. Before them rejoiced the king, as
the traveller, in the day of the fun ; when he hears, far-rolling
around, the murmur of molTy ftreams ; ftreams that burft, in the
defart, from the rock of roes.
Wiiv, faid Fonar, Iicar v/e the voice of the king, in the fea-
fon of liis reft ? Were the dim forms of thy fathers bending in
thy dreams ? Perhaps they ftand on that cloud, and wait for Fo-
nar's fong ; often they come to the fields where their fons are to
lift the fpear. — Or Hiall our voice arife for him who lifts the fpear
no more ; he that confumed the field, from Moma of the groves ?
Not forgot is that cloud in war, bard of other times. High
fhall his tomb rife, on Moi-lena, the dwelling of renown. But,
now, roll jjack my foul to the times of my fathers : to the years
when firfc they rofe, on Inis-huna's waves. Nor alone pleafant to
Cathmor is the remembrance of wood-covered Lumon. — Lumon
of the ftreams, the dwelling of white-bofomed maids.
* Lumon of the llreams, thou rifeft on Fonar's foul ! Thy fun
is on thy fide, on the rocks of thy bending trees. The dun roe is
feen
foam ? — Look, from ihy darkncfs, on Cro-
iiath, OiTi.in of ihe harps of old ! — Send
tliy light on the blue rolling waters, that
I may behold the Iciiig. 1 fee him dark
in his own (liell of oak ! fea-tofled Lar-
thoi), thy foul is ftrong. — It is carelefs as
the wind of thy fails ; as the wave that
roll, by thy fide. But the filent green iflc
is before ihce, with its fons, who are tall
as woody Lumon ; Lumon which fends,
from its top, a thoufand flreams, white-
wandering down its fides. — "
It may, perhaps, be for the credit of this
bard, to tranflate no mire of this poem,
for the continuation of his dcfcription of
the Irifh giants betrays his want of judg-
ment.
* Lumon, as I have remaiked in a pre-
ceding