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

BOOK II. AN EPIC POEM. 35
fits, on the blaft which bend its trees. Pleaiant
is the fong of the morning from the bard of Erin,!
" The waves crowd away for fear : they bear
the found of thy coming forth, O fun ! Terrible is
thy beauty, fon of heaven, when death is folded
in thy locks ; when thou rolleft thy vapours before
thee, over the blafted hofl. But pleafant is thy
beam to the hunter, fitting by the rock in a ftorm,
when thou lookcft from thy parted cloud, and
brighteneft his dewy locks -, he looks down on the
ilreamy vale, and beholds the defcent of roes.
How long fhalt thou rife on war, and roll, a
bloody fliield, through heaven ? I fee the deaths
of heroes dark- wandering over thy face !"
*' Why wander the words of Carril ! does the
fon of heaven mourn ! he is unftained in his courfe,
ever rejoicing in his fire. Roll on, thou carelefs
light ; thou too, perhaps, muft fall. Thy dun
robe ^ may feize thee, ftruggling, in the fky.
" Pleafant is the voice of the ibng, O Carril, to
Oflian's foul ! It is like the Ihowcr of the morn-
ing, when it comes through the ruftling vale, on
which the fun looks through mifi:, juft rifing from
his rocks. But this is no time, O bard, to fit
down, at tl)« ftrife of fong. Fingal is in arms on
the yale. Thou feefi: the flaming fliield of the
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