Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian > Volume 2

Book VI. An E P I C P O E M. 125
" Is thy fplrit on the eddying winds, O Fil-
lan, young breaker of Ihleld ! Joy purfue my
hero, through his folded clouds. The forms of
thy fathers, O Fillan, bend to receive their fon.
I behold the fpreading of their fire on Mora ;
the blue-rolling of their mifty wreaths. ]oy
meet thee my brother! But we are dark and
fad ! I behold the foe round the aged. I be-
hold the wafting away of his fame. Thou art
left alone In the field, O grey-haired king of
Selma!"
I LAID him In the hollow rock, at the roar
of the nightly ftream. One red ftar looked In
on the hero. Winds lift, at times, his locks. I
llften. No found is heard. The warrior llept !
As lightening on a cloud, a thought came rufh-
ing along my foul. My eyes roll in fire : my
Fillan, thou art a beam by his fide ; beautiful, but terrible,
is thy light. Thy fvvord is before thee, a blue fire of night.
When fhalt thou return to thy roes ; to the fl:reams of thy
rulhy fields ? When fhall I behold thee from Mora, while winds
Ilrew my long locks on their blafts ! But fhall a young eagle
return from the field where the heroes fall!
Clatho.
Soft, as the fong of Loda, is the voice of Sclma's maid.
Pleafant to the ear of Clatho is the name of the breaker of
fhiejds. Behold, the king comes from ocean : the fliield of
Morven is borne by bards. The foe has fled before him, like
the departure of mift. I hear not the founding wings of my
eagle J the rulhing forth of the fon of Clatho. Thou art
dark, O Fingal j fliall the warrior never return ? * # * *
ftride