Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian, the son of Fingal > Volume 2

176 temora: Book VI.
" Is thy spirit on the eddying winds, blue-eyed king
of shields ? Joy pursue my hero, through his folded
clouds. The forms of thy fathers, O Fillan, bend to
receive their son. I behold the spreading of their lire
on Mora ! the blue-rolling of their misty wreaths. Joy
meet thee, my brother. But we are dark and sad. I
behold the foe round the a^ed, and the wasting av/ay
of his fame. Thou art left alone in the field, grey-
haired king of Selma."
I laid liim in the hollow rock, at the roar of the night-
ly stream. One red star looked in on the hero : winds
lift, at times, his locks. I hstened : no sound was
heard : for the warrior slept. As lightning on a cloud,
a thought came riishing over my soul. My eyes roll-
ed in fire : my stride was in the chng of steel. " I will
find thee, chief of xitha, in the gathering of thy thou-
sands. Why should that cloud escape, that quenched
our early beam ? Kindle your meteors, my lathers, to
lightmy daring steps. I v/ill consume in wrath 'J. Should
cd away like a stream. I liear thy pleasant sound. I hear thee, O
harp, and my voice hhall rise.
How often shall ye rnsh to war ye dwellers of my soul ? Your paths
are distant, kings cf men, in Mrin of bine streams. Lift thy Vv-ing,
thou southern breeze, from Cono's darkening heath, spread the sails,
of Fingal towards the bays of his land.
But who is that in his strength, darkening in th.e presence of
war? His arm stretcher to the foe, like the beam of the sickly shu;
when hiifide is crusted with darkness ; and he rolls his dismal course
through the sky. Who is it but the father of Bosmina .' Shall he
return till danL;cr i« past?
Fillan, thou art a beam by his side; beautiful but ^errihlc is thy
lijht. Thy sword is before thee a bine i:re of night. When shalt
thou return to thy roes; to the streams of thy ru.«hyiie!ds.' When
shall I behold thee from Mora, while winds strew my locks on mess?
Eut sh.all a young eagle return from the tield where the eeroes fall i
Clatho. Soft, as the song of Loda, is the voice fof Sclma's maid.
Pleasant to the ear ofjClatho is the name oftlie breaker of the shields.
Ikho'.dthe king comes from ocean, the shield of Morven is borne by
bards. The foe lias fled before him, like the departure cf mist. I
hear not the Hnnuling wingsof my eagle; tlie rushing forth cf the
son of Clatho. 1 hou art dark, O Fingal, shall he not return !—
u Here the sentence is designedly left untiniihcd by the jioct.