Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian > Volume 2

114 oixa-morul:
seen. But steel * resounds in my hall ; and not
the joyful shells. Come to my dwelling, race
of heroes ! dark-skirted night is near. Hear the
voice of songs, from the maid of Fuarfed wild."
We went. On the harp arose the white hands
of Oina-morul. She waked her own sad tale,
from every trembling string. I stood in silence ;
for bright in her locks was the daughter of ma-
• There is a severe satire couched in this expression,
against the guests of Mal-orchol. Had his feast been
still spread, had J03' continued in his hall, his former pa-
rasites would not have failed to resort lo him. But as
the time of festivity was past, their attendance also cea-
sed. The sentiments of a certain old bard are agreeable
to this observation. He, poetically, compares a great
man to a fire kindled in a desert place. " Those that
pay court to him,'' says he, " are rolling large around
him, like the smoke about the fire. This smoke gives the
fire a great appearance at a distance ; but it is but an
empty vapour itself, and varying its form at every breeze.
AVhcn the trunk, which fed the fire, is consumed, the
smoke departs on all the winds. So the flatterers fursake
their chief, when his i)owcr declines." I have chosen
to give a paraplira^ie, rather than a translation, of this
passage, as the original is verbose and frothy, notwith-
standing of the sentimental merit of the author. He was
one of the less ancient bards, and their compositions arc
not nervous enough to bear a literal translation.