Ossian Collection > Fingal

An E P I C POEM. 183
And falleft thou, fon of my fame ! And fliall I never fee thee,
Ofcar ! When others hear of their fons, I fliall not hear of thee.
The mofs is on the ftones of his tomb, and the mournful wind is
there. The battle fliall be fought without him : he fliall not pur-
fue the dark-brown hinds. When the warrior returns from battles
and tells of other lands, he will fay, I have feen a tomb, by the
roaring ftream, where a warrior darkly dwells : he was flain by car-
borne Ofcar, the firfl: of mortal men. — I, perhaps, fliall hear him,
and a beam of joy will rife in my foul.
The night would have defcended in forrow, and morning re-
turned in the fliadow of grief: our chiefs would have ftood like,
cold dropping rocks on Lena, and have forgot the war, did not
the king difperfe his grief, and raife his mighty voice. The chiefs,
as new-wakened from dreams, lift their heads around.
How long fliall we weep on Lena; or pour our tears in Ullin ?
The mighty will not return. Ofcar fliall not rife in his flreno-fli.
The valiant muft fall one day, and be no more known on his hills.
— Where are our fathers, O warriors ! the chiefs of the times of
old ? They have fet like ftars that have flione, we only hear the
found of their praife. But they were renowned in their day, and
the terror of other times. Thus fliall wepafs, O warriors, in the day
of our fall. Then let us be renowned when we may ; and leave
our fame behind us, like the lafc beams of the fun, when he hides
his red head in the wefl:.
Ullin, my aged bard! take the fliip of the king. Carry Ofcar
to Selma, and let the daughters of Morven weep. We fhall fight
in Erin for the race of fallen Corniac. The days of my years beg'n
to fail : I feel the weaknefs of my arm. My fathers bend from
3 their