Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian

Duan III.] TIGHMORA. 255
Be, Ossian, at thy father's arm
Against this mountain- stream that wastes him.
Then leave off your singing, ye bards ;
Let Selma move to the bare plain;
For the last of my fields it is ; 85
Put no feeble fire in the conflict."
As suddenly rises the wind
With strong rush on the ridge of ocean,
When the hideous darkness raises
A gaunt spectre on the rolling waves 90
Round the island of rocky sides,
The black island — dwelling of mist,
Amid the deep, in the grey of years —
As dreadful as that was the sound
That rose from the host on the field. 95
At their head was Gall, with high steps
Leaping o'er the grey-shining streams ;
The bards raised a song by his side ;
He from time to time struck his shield.
In the shroud of blasts from the hill 100
Indistinctly was heard the song.
" On Croma," 'twas thus spoke the bards,
" A flood shall burst at dead of night,
►Swelling in the windings of streams,
Till the morning's rays come with light; 105
It will then descend from the hill,
Whose rocks of a hundred trees glisten.
Let my steps be distant from Croma,
For death is for ever around it.
Be ye like the torrents of Mora, 110
Men of Morbheinn of darkest clouds.