Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian

Temora. 413
of heaven looked abroad. The hero saw his people,
and heard their shouts of joy. In broken ridges
round, they glittered to the beam. The king re-
joiced, as a hunter in his own green vale, when, after
the storm is rolled away, he sees the gleaming sides
of the rocks. The green thorn shakes its head in
their face ; from their top look forward the roes.
Grey, at his mossy cavej is bent the aged form
of Clonmal. The eyes of the bard had failed. He
leaned forward on his staff. Bright in her locks,
before him, Sul-malla listened to the tale ; the tale
of the kings of Atha, in the days of old. The noise
of battle had ceased in his ear : he stopt, and raised
the secret sigh. The spirits of the dead, they said,
often lightened along his soul. He saw the king
of Atha low, beneath his bending tree.
" Why art thou dark?" said the maid. " The
strife of arms is past. Soon shall he come to thy
cave, over thy winding streams. The sun looks
from the rocks of the west. The mists of the lake
arise. Grey, they spread on that hill, the rushy
dwelling of roes. From the mist shall my king
appear ! Behold, he comes in his arms. Come to
the cave of Clonmal, O my best beloved !"
It was the spirit of Cathmor, stalking, large, a
gleaming forhi. He sunk by the hollow stream,
that roared between the hills. " It was but the
hunter," she said, " who searches for the bed of the
roe. His steps are not forth to war ; his spouse
expects him with night. He shall, whistling, re-
turn with the spoils of the dark-brown hinds." Her
eyes were turned to the hill ; again the stately form
came down. She rose in the midst of joy. He retired
again in mist. Gradual vanish his limbs of smoke,
and mix with the mountain wind. Then she knew
that he fell ! "King of Erin, art thou low ?" Let
Ossian forget her grief; it wastes the soul of age.
Evening came down on Moi-lena. Grey rolled
the streams of the land. Loud came forth the