Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian

CARTHON. 61
beams of other days, the delight of heroes of old. I have
seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were desolate.
The fire had resounded in the halls : and the voice of the
people is heard no more. The stream of Clutha was
removed from its place, by the fall of the walls. The
thistle shook, there, its lonely head : the moss whistled
to the wind. The fox looked out from the windows, the
rank grass of the wall waved round its head. Desolate
is the dwelling of Moina, silence is in the house of her
fathers. Raise the song of mourning, O bards ! over the
land of strangers. They have but fallen before us : for,
one day, we must fall. Why dost thou build the hall,
son of the winged days ? Thou lookest from thy towers
to-day ; yet a few years, and the blast of the desert
comes ; it howls in thy empty court, and whistles round
thy half-worn shield. And let the blast of the desert
come ! we shall be renowned in our day ! The mark of
my arm shall be in battle ; my name in the song of bards.
Raise the song ; send round the shell : let joy be heard in
my hall. When thou, sun of heaven, shalt fail ! if thou
shalt fail, thou mighty light ! if thy brightness is for
a season, like Fingal ; our fame shall survive thy beams !
Such was the song of Fingal, in the day of his joy.
His thousand bards leaned forward from their seats, to
hear the voice of the king. It was like the music of
harps on the gale of the spring. Lovely were thy
thoughts, O Fingal ! why had not Ossian the strength of
thy soul ? But thou standest alone, my father ! who can
equal the king of Selma ?
The night passed away in song ; morning returned in