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26 FINGAL.
Enough we say, the field was our's,
Scattered were haughty Tarah's pow'rs ;
And he, the boy without a name,
His sword was heav'n's avenging flame ;
Consuming, withering, blasting fire,
The bolt of death, the stroke of ire ;
So to Carthollan's foes it fell,
So may th' escap'd lamenting tell ;
With Tarah's king, but few return'd,
To boast how he the foundling spurn'd ;
Then come, ye lovely nymphs and sing,
And freshly blooming garlands bring.
And crown him, crown the gallant youth ;
The arm of power, the soul of truth ;
Whose sword the blast of death arose,
A whirlwind to Carthollan's foes."
Thus the war-minstrels ent'ring sang,
The wide dome echoed with the clang.
And loud the lofty arches rang,

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