Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian

359 THE POF„MS or OSSIAX.
Mora, when silence dwells on the hill of deex.
Rest, youngest of my sons I rest, O Ryno ! on
Lena. We too shall be no more. Warriors
one day must fall !'
Such was thy grief, thou king of swords, when
Ryno lay on earth. What must the grief of Os-
sian be, for thou thyself art gone ! I hear not
thy distant voice on Cona. My eyes perceive
thee not. Often forlorn and dark I sit at thjr
tomb, and feel it with my hands. When I
think I hear thy voice, it is but the passing blast-
Fingal has long since fallen asleep, the ruler of
the war I
Then Gaul and Ossian sat with Swaran, on
the soft green banks of Lubar. I touched the
harp to please the king ; but gloomy was his
brow. He rolled his red eyes towards Lena.
The hero mourned his host. I raised mine eyes
to Cromla's brow. I saw the sou of generous
Semo. Sad and slow he retired from his hill,
towards the lonely cave of Tura. He saw Fin-
gal victorious, and mixed his joy with grief. The
sun is bright on his armour. Connal slowly
strode behind. They sunk behind the hill, like
two pillars of the fire of night, when winds pur-
sue them over the mountain, and the flaming
death resounds ! Beside a stream of roaring
foam his cave is in a rock. One tree bends
above it. The rushing winds echo against its
sides. Here rests the chief of Erin, the son of
generous Semo. His thoughts are on the bat-
tles he lost. The tear is on his cheek. He
mourned the departure of his fame, that fled like
the mist of Cona. O Bragehi ! thou art too far
remote, to cheer the soul of the hero. But let
him see thy bright form in his mind, that his
thoughts may return to the lonely sun-beam of
his love !
Who comes with the locks of age ? It is the