Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian, the son of Fingal

Book VI. AN EPIC POEM. l6^
of hods : their backward ileps, on either fide, and wildly
looking eyes. The chiefs were met in dreadful fight ;
the two blue-fliielded khigs. Tall and dark, through
gleams of Heel, are feen the driving heroes. I rufhed.
My fears for Fillan flew, burning acrofs my foul.
I came; nor Cathmor fled; nor yet advanced : he fide-
long llalked along. An icy rock, cold, tall he feemed.
I called forth all my fleel. Silent awhile we flrode, on
either fide of a rufiiing ftream: then, fudden turning, all
at once, we raifed our pointed fpears. We railed our
fpears, but night came down. It is dark and filent a-
round ; but where the diilant fl:eps of hofts are founding
over the heath.
I came to the place where Fillan fought. Nor voice,
nor found is there. A broken helmet lay on earth ; a
buckler cleft in twain. " Where, Fillan, where art thou,
young chief of echoing Morven ?" He heard me leaning
ugainft a rock, which bent its gray head over the llream.
He heard ; but fullen, dark he fl:ood. At length I law
the chief.
" Why dandefl: thou, robed in darknefs, fon of woody
Selma? Bright is thy path, my brother, in this dark-brown
field. Long has bpen thy ftrife in battle. Now the horn
of Fingal is heard. Afcend to the cloud of thy father,
to his hill of feafts. In the evening mifl he fits, and hears
the voice of Carril's harp. Carry joy to the aged, young
breaker of the fhields,"
" Can the vanquilhed carry joy ? Ofilan, no fiiield is
mine. It lies broken on the field. The eagle-wing of
my helmet is torn. It is when foes fly before them that
fathers delight in their fons. But their fighs burft forth,
in fecret, when their young warriors yield. No : Fillan
will not behold the king. Why fiiould the hero mourn ?"
" Son of blue-eyed Clatho, why dofl: thou awake my
foul ? Wert thou not a burning fire before him; and fliall
he not rejoice I Such fame belonged not to Offian ; yet
was the king ftill a fun to me. He looked on my fteps,
with joy ; fliadows never rofe on his face. Afcend, O
Fillan to Mora : his feafl: is fpread in the folds of mill."
" Offian, give me that broken fiiield : thefe feathers
that are rolled in the wind. Place them near to Fillan
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