Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian, the son of Fingal

Book VII. ANEPICPOEM. 273
But when the third found arofe ; deer ftarted from the
clefts of their rocks. The fcreams of fowl are heard, in
the defart, as each flew, frighted, on his blaft. The fons
of Albion half-rofe, and half-alTumed their fpears. But
iilence rolled back on the hoft : they knew the Ihield of
the king. Sleep returned to their eyes : the field was
dark and ftill.
No fleep was thine in darknefs, blue-eyed daughter of
Conmor I Sul-malla heard the dreadful fliield, and rofe,
amidft the night. Her fteps are towards the king of Atha.
" Can danger fhake his daring foul I" In doubt, flie
ftands, with bending eyes. Heaven burns with all its,
ftars.
Again the fhield refounds I She rufhed. She flopt.
Her voice half-rofe. It failed. She faw him, amidil his
arms, that gleamed to heaven's fire. She faw him dim
in his locks, that rofe to nightly wind. Away, for fear,
ihe turned her fteps. " Why fhould the king of Erin a-
wake ? Thou are not a dream to his reft, daughter of Inis-
huna."
More dreadful rung the fhield. Sul-malla ftarts. Her
helmet falls. Loud-echoed Lubar's rock, as over it roll-
ed the fteel, Burfting from the dreams of night, Cath-
mor half-rofe, beneath his tree. He faw the form of the
maid, above him, on the rock. A red ftar, with twink-
ling beam, looked down through her floating hair.
" Who comes through night to Cathmor, in the dark
feafon of his dreams ? Brmgeft thou ought of war } Who
art thou, fon of night ? Standeft thou before me, a form
of the times of old ? A voice from the fold of a cloud, to
warn me of Erin's danger ?"
" Nor traveller of night am I, nor voice from folded
cloud : but I warn thee of the danger of Erin. Doft thou
hear that found ? It is not the feeble, king of Atha, that
rolls his figns on night."
" Let the warrior roll his figns ; to Cathm_or they are
the found of harps. My joy is great, voice of night, and
burns over all my thoughts. This is the mufic of kings,
on lonely hills, by night ; when they light their daring
fouls, the fons of mighty deeds I The feeble dwell alone,
in the valley of the breeze ; where mifts lift their morning
Ikirts, from the blue-winding ftreams."
M m " Not