Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian, the son of Fingal

A t'OEM. 121
jFingiil was fad for Carthon ; he defired his bards to
Inark the day, when fliadowy autumn returned. And
often did they mark the day, and ling the hero's praife.
" Who comes fo dark from ocean's roar, like autumn's
Ihadowy cloud ? Death is trembling in his hand ! his eyes
iare flames of lire I Who roars along dark Lora's heath ?
Who but Carthon king, of f vvords ? The people fall I fee I
how he flrides, like the fallen ghoft of fvivirven ! But
there he lies a goodly oak, \\ hich fudden blafis overturn-
ed I When ihalt thou rife, Balclutha's joy I lovely car-
borne Carthon ? Who comes fo dark from ocean's roar,
hke autumn's fliadowy cloud ?" Such were the Vv'ords of
the bards, in the day of their mourning : I have accompa-
nied their voice ; and added to their fong. My foul has
been mournful for Carthon ; he fell in the days of his
valour :' and thou, O Ciefsammor I where is thy dwelling
In the air ? Has the youth forgot his wound ? And flies
he, on the clouds, with thee ? I feel the fun, O Malvina,
leave me to my refl:. Perhaps they may come to my
dreams ; I think I hear a feeble voice. The beam of
heaven delights to fliine on the grave of Carthon : I feel
it warm around.
O thou that roliefl: above, round as the fliield of my
fathers I Whence are thy beams, O fun I thy everlafting
light ? Thou comefl: forth, in thy awful beauty, and the
fl:ars hide themfelves in the Iky; the moon, cold and pale,
links in the weilern wave. But thou thyfelf movefl: alone:
who can be a companion of tliy courfe I The oaks of the
mountains fall : the mountains themfelves decay with
years ; the ocean fhrinks and grows again : the moon
herfelf is lo(i in heaven ; but thou art for ever the fame;
rejoicing in the brightneis of thy courfe. When the
world is dark with tempeils ; v/hen thunder rolls, and
lightning flies ; thou lookeit in thy beauty, from the
clouds, and laughed at the fl:orm. But to Offian, thou
lookelf in vain ; for he beholds thy beams no more ; whe-
ther thy yellow hair flows on the eaflern clouds, or thou
tremblefl: at the gates of the welt. But thou art perhaps,
like me, for a feaibn, and thy years will have ajj end.
Thou Ihalt lleep in thy clouds, carelefs of the voice of
the morning. Exult then, O fun, in the flrengthof thy
Q^ youth!