Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian

F1NGAL. 205
to Morven, to see the children of his pride. The oaks
resound on their mountains, and the rocks fall down
before him. Dimly seen, as lightens the night, he strides
largely from hill to hill. Bloody was the hand of my
father, when he whirled the gleam of his sword. He
remembers the battles of his youth. The field is wasted
in his course !
Ryno went on like a pillar of fire. Dark is the brow
of Gaul. Fergus rushed forward with feet of wind.
Fillan like the mist of the hill. Ossian, like a rock, came
down. I exulted in the strength of the king. Many
were the deaths of my arm ! dismal the gleam of my
sword ! My locks were not then so grey ; nor trembled
my hands with age. My eyes were not closed in dark-
ness ; my feet failed not in the race !
Who can relate the deaths of the people ? Who the
deeds of mighty heroes ? when Fingal, burning in his
wrath, consumed the sons of Lochlin ? groans swelled on
groans from hill to hill, till night had covered all. Pale,
staring like a herd of deer, the sons of Lochlin convene
on Lena.* We sat and heard the sprightly harp, at
Lubar's gentle stream. Fingal himself was next to the
foe. He listened to the tales of his bards. His godlike
race were in the song, the chiefs of other times. Atten-
tive, leaning on his shield, the king of Morven sat. The
wind whistled through his locks ; his thoughts are of the
clays of other years. Near him on his bending spear, my
* Fingal apparently had driven his foes "from hill to hill"
over some five miles of country from Carmona (Belfast) to the
banks of Lubar (Six-mile Water).— C. and E.-T.