Ossian Collection > Fingal

A D R A M A T I C P O E M. 93
FlNGAL.
Raise, ye fons of the fong, the wars of the flreamy Carun ^ that
my white-handed maid may rejoice : while I behold the feaft of
my love.
Bards.
Roll, ftreamy Carun, roll in joy, the fons of battle fled. The
fteed is not feen on our fields ; and the wings * of their pride fpread
in other lands. The fun will now rife in peace, and the fhadows
defcend in joy. The voice of the chace will be heard ; and the
fhields hang in the hall. Our delight will be in the war of the
ocean, and our hands be red in the blood of Lochlin. Roll, flreamy
Carun, roll in joy, the fons of battle fled.
Melilcoma.
Descend, ye light mifls from high; ye moon-beams, lift her
foul. Pale lies the maid at the rock ! Comala is no more !
FiNGAL.
Is the daughter of Sarno dead j the white-bofomed maid of my
love ? Meet me, Comala, on my heaths, when I fit alone at the
ftreams of my hills.
HiDALLAN.
Ceased the voice of the huntrefs of Galmal ? Why did I trouble
the foul of the maid ? When fhall I fee thee, with joy, in the chace
of the dark-brown hinds ?
FingAl.
Youth of the gloomy brow! no more Ihalt thou feaft in my
halls. Thou fhalt not purfue my chace, and my foes ihall not fall
* Perhaps the poet alludes to the Roman engle.
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