Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian > Volume 2

Book IV. An E P I C P O E M. 87
THOU haft part over hofts. Thou haft laid
them low In blood. But who has heard thy
words returning from the field ? The wrathful
delight in death : Their remembrance rtfls on
the wounds of their fpear. Strife is folded in
THEIR thoughts : THEIR words are ever heard.
Thy courfe, chief of Moma, was like a troubled
ftream. The dead were rolled on thy path : but
others alfo lift the fpear. We were not feeble
behind thee ; but the foe was ftrong."
Cathmor beheld the rifmg rage, and bend-
ing forward of either chief: for, half-unllieathed,
they held their fwords, and rolled their lilent
eyes. Now would they have mixed in horrid
fray, had not the wrath of Cathmor burned.
He drew his fvvord : it gleamed thro' night, to
the high-flaming oak. ! *' Sons of pride," fald
the king, " allay your fwelling fouls. Retire
in night. Why lliould my rage arlfe ? Should I
contend witli both in arms ? It is no time for
ftrife ! Retire, ye clouds, at my fcaft. Awake
my foul no more."
They funk from the king on either fide;
like* two columns of morning mift, when the
fun
* This comparifon is favourable to the fuperiority of Cath-
mor over his two chiefs. I fhall iiluilrate this paflage with
another from a fragment of an ancient poem, juft now in my
hands. " As the fun is above the vapours, which his beams
G 4. have