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

A POEM. 2^5
rifing of liiufic from Lutha of the firings. Luthaj
^ of many ftrings, not lilent are thy ftreamy rocks,
when the white hands of Malvina move upon the
harp. Liglit of the fliadowy thoughts, that fly
acrofs my foul, daughter of Tofcar of helmets,
wilt thou not hear the fong ! We call back, maid
of Lutha, the yeara that have rolled away.
It was in the days of the king * , while yet my
locks Were young, that I marked Con-cathlin ^ , ot^
high, from ocean's nightly wave. My courfe was
towards the ifle of Fuarfed, woody dweller of
feas. Fingal had fent me to the aid of Mail-orcholj,
king of Fuarfed v/ild : for war was around him,,
■and our fathers had met, at the feaft.
In Col-coiled, I bound my fails, and fent my
•fword to Mal-orchol of fliells. He knew the iig^
fflal of Albion, and the joy arofe. He came from:
his own high hall, and feized my hand in grief.
«' Why comes the race of heroes to a falling king?
Ton-thormod of many fpears is the chief of wavy
Sar-dronlo. He faw and loved my daughter white-,
bofomed Oina-morul. He fought j I denied the
maid J for our fathers had been foes. He camc^
with battle, to Fuarfed. My people are rolled
away. Why comes the race of heroes to a falling
fcing?"
Vol. IL F f I come
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