Ossian Collection > Galic antiquities

1 68 GAUL:
lifts the dry, ruftling leaf, upon its eddying wing. The perching
eagle fits already on its lofty top, and marks it out as the place of
herrepofe. " Here," fhe feems to fay, " I may fafely build my neft;
for who can climb its height, to make my brown fons afraid ?" —
The dun little fon of the roe beholds her, as, wandering below,
he looks up to what he thinks a gray rock. — He beholds her, and
is afraid. He hides himfelf under a broad fhield, near the gate of
the houfe. — Stretched acrofs the threfhold, fwift Cof-ula lies. He
hears a ruftling near. He thinks it may be the tread of Gaul. In
his joy he ftarts up, and makes from his dim eye the tear. But
when he fees it is only the fon of the roe, he turns his mournful
face away. He lies again on his cold ftone, and the fong of his
grief is difmal.
But who can tell the fadnefs of Morven's heroes ? They come
in filence, each from his own winding vale; flowly moving, like
the dark fliadow of mift on the brown rufhy plain, when the wind
is fcarce awake on the hill. They fee the bulwark of the battle
low ; and their burfting tears, like the ooze of rocks, defcend.
Fingal leaned to a blafted pine, that was overturned at the head
of Gaul. His gray locks, as he bends, half-hide his tears ; but
in his white beard they meet the whiftling wind.
" And art thou fallen," at length hefaid ; " art thou fallen, firft of
my heroes ! when my ftrength has failed ? Shall I hear thy voice
no more in my halls, nor the found of thy fhield in my battles ?
Shall thy fword no more lighten the dark path of my danger ; nor
thy fpear fcatter whole hofts of my enemies ? Shall thy dark fhip
ride no more the ftorm, while thy joyful rowers pour before them
the fong on the watery mountains ? Shall the children of Morven
no