Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian

TEMORA. 409
in his earth. My hatred flies, on eagle wings, from
the foe that is low. He shall hear the song of bards.
Cairbar shall rejoice on his winds."
Cathmor's swelling soul arose. He took the dag-
ger from his side, and placed it gleaming in my
hand. He placed it in my hand, with sighs, and
, silent strode away. Mine eyes followed his de-
parture. He dimly gleamed, like the form of :i
ghost, which meets a traveller by night, on the dark-
skirted heath. His words are dark, like songs of
old: with morning strides the unfinished shade
away !
AVho comes from Lubar's vale? from the skirts of
the morning mist? The drops of heaven are on his
head. His steps are in the paths of the sad. It is
Carril of other times. He comes from Tura's silent
cave. I behold it dark in the rock, through the
thin folds of mist. There, perhaps, CuthuUin sits,
on the blast which bends its trees. Pleasant is the
song of the morning from the bard of Erin.
" The waves crowd away," said Carril. " They
crowd away for fear. Thej' hear the sound of thy
coming forth, O sun! Terrible is thy beauty, son
of heaven, when death is descending on thy locks :
when thou roUest thy vapours before thee, over the
blasted host. But pleasant is thy beam to the
hunter, sitting by the rock in a storm, when thou
shewest thyself from the parted cloud, and bright-
enest his dewy locks : he looks down on the streamy
vale, and beholds the descent of roes ! How long
shalt thou rise on war, and roll, a bloody shield,
through heaven ? I see the death of heroes, dark
wandering over thy face !"
"Why wander the words of Carril?" I said.
" Does the son of heaven mourn? He is unstained
in his course, ever rejoicing in his fire. Roll on,
thou careless light. Thou too, perhaps, must fall.
Thy darkening hour may seize thee, struggling as
thou roUest through thy sky. But pleasant is the
voice of the bard : pleasant to Ossian's soul ! It
like the shower of the morning, when it comes
thiough the rustling vale, on which the sun looks
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