Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian > Volume 2

po T E M O R A: Book IV.
is a pleafant gale. The mournful founds arife \
On Lubar's field there is a voice ! Louder ftill,
ye fhadowy ghofts ! The dead were full of fame 1
Shrilly fwells the feeble found. The rougher
blaft alone is heard ! Ah, foon is Cathmor
low 1" Rolled into himfelf he flew, wide on the
bofom of winds. The old oak felt his depar-
ture, and fhook its whlftling head. Cathmor
fiarts from reft. He takes his deathful fpear.
He lifts his eyes around. He fees but dark-
Ikirted night.
"It * was the voice of the king," he faid.
** But now his form Is gone. Unmarked is your
path in the air, ye children of the night. Often
like a reflected beam, are ye feen in the defart
■wild : but ye retire in your blafts, before our
fieps approach. Go then, ye feeble race !
Knowledge with you there is none ! Your joys
are weak, and like the dreams of our reft, or
the light-winged thought, that flies acrofs the
foul. Shall Cathmor foon be low ? Darkly laid
in his narrow houfe ? Where no morning comes,
with her half-opened eyes ? Away, thou fhade !
• The foliloquy of Cathmor fu'ts the magnanimity of his
chara ,ler. Though flaggered at firft with the prediflion of
Cairbar's ghoft, he foon comforts himfelf with the agreeable
prcfppct of his future renown ; and, like Achilles, prefers a
ftiort and glorious life, to an obfcure length of years in xetire-
ment and cafe,
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