Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian

62 CABTHONN.
Thou'rt the next beneath the hill's brow.
The years are not slow, sped with might
By the wind from dark desert hills,
That sounds in the warrior's hall,
Fallen to a third on the ground. 180
Come, dark blast of the desert hills ;
But we shall be brave in our day ;
My sword's mark shall be left in battle ;
My soul shall be with heroes' bards.
Raise the song and send round the shell ; 185
Let happiness round me abound.
When thou'lt fall, whom I see on high,
If fall thou wilt, glorious light ;
If, from time to time, thou art faint,
Like Fionngal of the fleetest steps ; 190
My fame shall last long as thy beams."
It was so the king raised the song,
On the days of chiefs great in deeds ;
Full a thousand spokesmen above,
Leaned forward to the hero's lay, 195
Which resembled the sound of harps,
When slow rises wind from the east.
Charming were thy thoughts, warrior ;
Why is Ossian in weakness left ?
But thou, father, wilt stand alone ; 200
Who with Selma's king can compare ?
Thus the night passed over with song ;
Morning rose with exceeding joy.
Hills were seen o'er the grey-topped waves ;
The blue ocean was in great joy, 205
With billows in foam breaking round