Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian, the son of Fingal

238 T E M o Pv A : Book III.
Temora. Duth-caron received his fame, and brighten-
ed, as he rofe on the wind."
" Pleafant to the ear," faid Fingal, " is the praife of
the kings of men ; when their bows are ftrong in battle ;
when they foften at the light of the fad. Thus let my
name be renowned, when bards fliall hghten my rifing
foul. Carril, fon of Kinfena ; take the bards and raife
a, tomb. To night let Connal dwell, within his narrow
houfe : let not the foul of the vahant wander on the
■winds. Faint glimmers the moon on Moi-lena, through
the broad-headed groves of the hill : raife Hones, beneath
its beams, to all the fallen in war. Though no chiefs
•were they, yet their hands were ftrong in fight. They
were my rock in danger : the mountain from which I
fpread my eagle-wings. Thence am I renow^ned : Car-
ril forget not the low."
Loud, at once, from the hundred bards, rofe the fong
of the tomb. Carril ftrode before them ; they are the
murmur of ftreams behind him. Silence dwells in the
Tales of Moi-lena, where each, with its own dark ftream,
is winding between the hills. I heard the voice of the
bards, leflening, as they moved along. I leaned forward
from my fhield; and felt the kindling of my foul. Half-
formed the words of my fong, burft forth upon the wind.
So hears a tree, on the vale, the voice of fpring around :
it pours its green leaves to the fun, and fliakes its lonely
head. The hum of the mountain bee is near it; the hunt-
er fees it, with joy, from the blafled heath.
Young Fillan, at a diftance ftood. His helmet lay glit-
tering on the ground. His dark hair is loofe to the blaft :
a beam of hght is Clatho's fon. He heard the w^ords of
the king with joy; and leaned forward on his fpear.
" My
fun in the gathering of clouds. Why dofl thou hide thee in fhades ? Young love
of heroes riie.
Kos-crdna. My fluttering foul Is high ! Let mc turn from the fleps of the king.
He has heard my fucret voice, and iliall my blue eyes roll, in his prefcr.ce 1 Roe
cf the hill of mofs, toward thy dwelling I move. Meet me, ye breezes of Mora,
iis I move thro' the valley of winds. But why fhould he afcend his ocean ? Son of
heroes, my ibul is thine ! My fteps ftiall not move to the defai t : the light of Kos.
crana is here.
Fingal. It was the light tread of a ghoft, the fair dweller of eddying winds.
Why decciveft thou me, with thy voice ? Here kt mc rell in (hades. Shouldll
thou flreich thy white arm, from thy grove, thou fun-beam of Coiniac of Erin !
Ros-crana. He is gone ! and my blue eyes are dim : faint rolling, in all my tears.
But, tlicre, I behold him, alone; king of Moi"i'en, my foul is thine. Ah me! what
clanging of armour ! Colc-uUa of Atha is near I"