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

192 TEMORA : BookVn»
laughed from her parted cloud. Larthon o rejoiced at
the guiding beam, as it faint-gleamed on tlie tumbling
waters.
Beneath the spear of Cathmor, awaked tliat voice
which awakes the bards. They came, dark-winding,
from every side ; each with the sound of his harp. Be-
fore them rejoiced the king, as the traveller, in the day
of the sun, when he hears, far rolling around, the mur-
mur of mossy streams; streams that burst in the desert,
fiom the rock of roes.
. " Why," said Eonar, "hear we the voice of the king,
in the season of his rest? Were the dim forms of thy
fathers bending in thy dreams ? Perhaps they stand on
that cloud, and wait for Fonar's song ; often they come
to the fields where their sons are to lift the spear. Or
shall our voice arise for hiin who lifts the spear ro
Q Larthon is compounded of Lear, ' sea,' and thon, ' wave.' This
itarne was given to the chief of the first coloiiy of the Firbolg, who
retllcd in Ireland, onaccor.sit of his knowledge in navigation. Apart
of as old poem is still extair., concerning thisj hero. 'Ihe author of
if, probably, took the hint from the episode in tliis book, relative tt>
the tir>t discovery of Ireland by Larthon. It abounds with those ro-
mantic fables of giants and magicians, which distinguish the com-
positions of the less anciei>t bards, Tiie descriptions, contained ia
it, are ingenious and proportionable to the magnitude of the persons
introduced ; but, being un'.wtural, they are insipid and tedious. Had
the bard kept witliin t!',c bounds of probability, his genius was far
from being contcmpt'r;;s. The exordium of his poem is not destitute
of merit ; but it is tiie only purt of it that I think worthy of being
presented to the reader.
" Who first sent the Mack ship through ocean,like a whale through
the bursting of foam > Look, from thy darkness, on Cronatl), Ossian
of the harps of old ! 8end thy ligl-.t on the blue rolling waters, that I
H'.ay behold tl*e king. I see him dark in his own shell of oak ! sea-
tossed Larthon, thy soul is fire. It is careless as the wnd of th/
sails ; as the waves that roll by thy side. But the silent green i^ic
ii before thee, with its sons, who ar* tall as woody Lumon ; Lunion,
whicii sends from its top a thousand streams, white wandering down
its sides "
It may, perhaps, be for the credit of this bard, to translate no more
■r,f this poem, fi)r t he continuation of hjs desciiption of the Iris?: grants
■ ■- .»yb his wan*- cf judgment.