Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian

32 COMALA.
hid in her locks ! Blow, O gentle breeze J lift thou the
heavy locks of the maid, that I may behold her white
arm, her lovely cheek in her grief.
COMALA.
And is the son of Comhal fallen, chief of the mournful
tale ? The thunder rolls on the hill ! The lightning
flies on wings of fire! They frighten not Comala ; for
Fingal is low. Say, chief of the mournful tale, fell the
breaker of the shields?
HlDALLAN.
The nations are scattered on their hills ! they shall
hear the voice of the king no more.
Comala.
Confusion pursue thee over thy plains ! Ruin over-
take thee, thou king of the world ! Few be thy steps to
thy grave ; and let one virgin mourn thee ! Let her be
like Comala, tearful in the days of her youth ! Why hast
thou told me, Hidallan, that my hero fell ? I might
have hoped a little while his return, I might have thought
I saw him on the distant rock ; a tree might have
deceived me with his appearance ; the wind of the hill
might have been the sound of his horn in mine ear. O
that I were on the banks of Carun ! that my tears might
be warm on his cheek !