Ossian Collection > Fingal

(,2 F I N G A L, .Book \^
But behold the king of Morven ; he moves below like a pillar of
fire. His ftrength is like the ftream of Lubar, or the wind of the
ecchoing Cromla ; when the branchy forefls of night are overturned.
Happy are thy people, O FIngal, thine arm fhall fight their
battles : thou art the firft in their dangers ; the wifeft in the days of
their peace. Thou fpeakefl: and thy thoufands obey; and armies
tremble at the found of thy fteel. Happy are thy people, Fingal,
chief of the lonely hills.
Who is that (o dark and terrible coming In the thunder of his
courfe ? who is it but Starno's fon to meet the king of Morven ? Be-
hold the battle of the chiefs : it is like the ftorm of the ocean, when
two fpirits meet far diftant, and contend for the rolling of the wave.
The hunter hears the noife on his hill ; and fees the high billows
advancing to Ardven's fliore.
Such were the words of Connal, when the heroes met In the
midfl of their falling people. There was the clang of arms ! there
every blow, like the hundred hammers of the furnace ! Terrible is
the battle of the kings, and horrid the look of their eyes. Their
dark-brown fliields are cleft in twain ; and their fteel flies, broken,
from their helmets. They fling their weapons down. Each rullies *
to his hero's grafp. Their flnewy arms bend round each other :
they turn from fide to fide, and flrain and ftretch their large ipread-
* This pafTage refembles one in the Now to the grafp each manly body bends;
twenty third Iliad. The humid fweat fro:n ev'ry poredefcends ;
Clofe lock'd above their heads and arms Their bones refound with blows : fides,
are mixt ; (houlJers, thighs,
Below their planted feet at dillanceflxt; Swell to each gripe, and bloody fumoars rife.
Pope.
3 ^"g