Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian, the son of Fingal

i62 THE SONGS OF SELMA.
stream of the hilK Sweet are thy murmurs, O stream ! but more
sweet is the voice I hear. It is the voice of Alpin, the son of
song, mourning for die dead. Bent is his head of age, and red
his tearful eye. Alpin, thou son of song, why alone on the silent
hill ? why complainest thou, as a blast in the wood ; as a wave
on the lonely shore ?
Jllpifi. My tears, O Ryno ! are for the dead ; my voice, for the
inhabitants of the grave. Tall thou art on the hill ; fair among
the sons of the plain. But thou shalt fall like Morar;* and the
mourner shall sit on thy tomb. The hills shall know thee no more;
thy bow shall lie in the hall, unstrung.
Thou wert swift, O Morar i as a roe on the hill ; terrible as a
meteor of fire. Thy wrath was as the storm. Thy sword in bat-
tle, as lightning in the field. Thy voice was like a stream after
rain ; like thunder on distant hills. Many fell by tliy arm ; they
were consumed in the flames of thy wrath. But when thou didst
return from war, how peaceful was thy brow ! .? Thy face was
like the sun after rain; like the moon in the silence of night;
calm as the breast of the lake when the loud wind is laid.
Narrow is thy dwelling now ; dark the place of thine abode.
With three steps I compass thy grave, O thou who wast so great
before ! Four stones, with their heads of moss, are the only me-
morial of thee. A tree with scarce a leaf, long grass which
-f^'histles in the wind, mark to the hunter's eye the grave of the
mighty ISIorar. Morar ! thou art low indeed. Thou hast no mo-
ther to mourn thee ; no maid with her tears of love. Dead is she
that brought thee forth. Fallen is the daughter of Morglan.
Who on his staiF is this .'* who is this, whose head is white
with age, whose eyes are red with tears, who quakes at every step ?
It is tliy father, f O Morar ! the father of no son but thee. He
heard of thy fame in battle ; he heard of foes dispersed. He heard
of Moi-ar's fame ; why did he not hear of his wound .'' Weep,
thou father of Morar ; weep ; but thy son heareth thee not. Deep
is the sleep of the dead ; lov/ their pillow of dust. No more shall
lie hear thy voice ; no more shall he awake at thy call. Wlien shall
it
* M6r-er, a great man.
•*• Torma.!, the son of Carthul, loiJ of I-jnorc, one of the western isles.