Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian, the son of Fingal

A POEM. 235
The king of Morven sat on his hill : the sun-beam
of battle flew on the wind : the companions of his youth
are near, with all their waving locks of age. Joy rose
in the hero's eyes when he beheld his sons in war ;
when he saw them amidst the lightning of swords, and
mindful of the deeds of their fathers. Erragon came
on, in his strength, like the roar of a wintei-srream ;
the battle falls in his course, and death is at his side.
*' Who comes," said Fingal, " like the bounding roe,
like the hart of echoing Cona ? His shield glitters on
his side ; and the clang of his armour is mournful. He
meets with Erragon in the strife 1 Behold the battle of
the chiefs 1 it is like the contending of ghosts in a
gloomy storm. But fallest thou, son of the hill, and is
thy white bosom stained with blood ? Weep, unhappy
Lorma, Aldo is no more."
The king took the spear of his strength ; for he was
sad for the fall of Aldo : he bent his deathful eyes on
the foe : but Gaul met the king of Sora. Who can
relate the fight of the chiefs ? The mighty stranger fell.
" Sons of Cona I" Fingal cried aloud, " stop the
hand of death. Mighty is he that is now so low I and
much is he mourned m Sora 1 The stranger will come
towards his hall, and wonder why it is silent. The
king is fallen, O stranger, and the joy of his house is
ceased. Listen to the sound of his woods : perhaps
his ghost is there ; but he is far distant, on IMorven,
beneath the sword of a foreign foe." Such were the
words of Fingal, when the bard raised the song of peace ;
we stopped our uplifted swords, and spared the feeble
foe. We laid Erragon in that tomb ; and I raised the
voice of grief: the clouds of night came roiling down,
and the ghost of Erragon appeared to some. His face
was cloudy and dark ; and an half formed sign is in
his breast. Blest be thy soul, O king of Sora I thine
arm was terrible in war I
Lorma sat, in Aldo's hall, at the light of a flaming
oak : the night came, but he did not return, and the
soul of Lorma is sad. '* What detains thee, hunter of
Cona ? for thou didst promise to return? Has the deer