Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian > Volume 2

114 T E M O R A: BookV.
Thou wert the laft of his race, O blue-eyed
Dardu-lena !
Wide-spreading over eccholng Lubar,
the flight of Bolga Is rolled along. Fillan
hangs forward on their fteps. He ftiews, with
dead, the heath. Fingal rejoices over his fon.
Blue- 111 ielded Cathmor rofe*.
Son of Alpin, bring the harp. Give Fillan's
praife to the wind. Raife high his praile, in
mine ear, while yet he fhines in war.
*' Leave, blue-eyed Clatho, leave thy hall !
Behold that early beam of thine ! The hoft is
withered in its courfe. No further look, it is
dark. Light-trembling from the harp, ftrike,
virgins, flrike the found. No hunter he de-
fcends, from the dewy haunt of tlie bounding
roe. He bends not his bow on the wind ; nor
fends his grey arrow abroad.
* " The fufpence, in which the miml of the reader is left
here, conveys the idea of Fillan's danger more forcibly
home, than any defcription that could be introduced. There
is a fort of eloquence, in filence with propriety. A minute
detail of the circumftances of an important fcene is generally
cold and infipid. The human mind, free and fond of think-
ing for itfclf, is difgufted to find every thing done by the
poet. It is, therefore, his bufinefs only to mark the mofl
Ilriking out- lines, and to allow the imaginations oi'his readers
to finiih the figure for theinfeh-es."
1 he boo!: ends in the afternoon of lUe iliird day, from the
■opening of the poem.
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