Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian

492 THE POKiMS Ol- OSSIAN.
and the dark storm is past. My people are the
windy rocks, from which I spread my eagle-
wings, when I rush forth to renown, and seize
It on its field. Ossian, thou hast the spear of
Fingal ; it is not the staff of a boy with which
he strews the thistles round, young wanderer of
the field. No : it is the lance of the mighty,
with which they stretched forth their hands to
death. Look to thy fathers, my son ; they are
awful beains. With morning lead Ferad-artho
forth to the echoing halls of Temora. Remnid
him of the kings of Erin : the stately forms of
old. Let not the fallen be forgot : they were
mighty in the field. Let Carril pour his song,
that the kings may rejoice in their mist. To-
morrow I spread my sails to Selma's shaded
walls ; where streamy Duthula winds through the
seats of roes.'