Ossian Collection > Morison's edition of the Poems of Ossian, the son of Fingal

BOOK iir. AN EPIC POEM. 57
let the bards of many fongs footh Erin's friends to
reft. And, Fingal, fheath thy fword of death ;
and let thy people fight. We wither away without
our fame; for our king is the only breaker of
fhields. When morning rifes on our hills, behold
at a diftancc our deeds. Let Lochlin feel the fword
of Morni's fon, that bards may fiver of me. Such
was the cuftom heretofore of Fingal's noble race.
Such was thine own, thou king of fwords, in bat-
tles of the fpear."
" O ion of Morni," Fingal replied, " I glory in
thy fame. Fight ; but my fpear fliall be near to
aid thee in the midft of danger. Raife, raife the
voice, fons of the fong, and lull me into reft.
Here will Fingal lie amidll the wind of right. And
if thou, Agandecca, art near, among the children
of thy land ; if thou fittcfl on a blaft of wind among
the high-fhrowded mafts of Lochlin; come to my
dreams ", my fair one, and fhew thy bright face
to my foul."
Many a voice and many a harp in tuneful founds
arofe. Of Fingal's noble deeds they fung, and of
the noblQ race of the hero. And Ibmetimes on
the lovely found was heard the name of the now
mournful Offian.
Often have I fought, and often won in bittles
of the fpear. But blind, and tearful, and forlorn
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