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

^€> TEMORA
thee, my fon, or thy path of fire in the field ? Not
fuch, on the foul of the king, come the deeds of
the mighty in arms. They are not there a beam
of lightning, which is feen, and is then no more.
I remember thee, O Fillan, and my wrath begins
to rife."
The king took his deathful fpear, and ftruck the
deeply-founding fhield : his fliield that hung high
on night, the difmal fign of war ! Ghofts fled on
every fide, and rolled their gathered forms on the
wind. Thrice from the winding vale arofe the
voices of death. The harps'^ of the bards, un-
touched, found mournful over the hill.
He ftruck again the fliield : battles rofe in the
dreams of his hoft. The wide-tumbling ftrife is
gleaming over their fouls. Blue-fhielded kings de-
fcend to war. Backward-looking armies fly ; and
mighty deeds are half-hid, in the bright gleams of
fteel.
But when the third found arofe ; deer ftarted
from the clefts of their rocks. The fcrcams of
fowl are heard, in the defart, as each flew, fright- '
ed, on his blaft-. The fons of Albion half-rofe,
and half-alTumed their fpears. But filence rolled
back on the hoft : they knew the lliield of the king.
Sleep returned to their eyes : the field was dark
aiid ftill;
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