Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian

TEMORA. 417
rushed forward on Foldath. The feeble pass by
his side : his rage is turned on Moma's chief. Now
they had raised their deathful spears : unseen an
arrow came. It pierced the hand of Gaul. His
steel fell sounding to earth. Young Fillan came,
with Cormul's shield ! He stretched it large before
the chief. Foldath sent his shouts abroad, and
kindled all the field : as a blast that lifts the wide-
winged flame over Lumon's echoing groves.
" Son of blue-eyed Clatho," said Gaul, " O Fillan!
thou art a beam from heaven ; that, coming on the
troubled deep, binds up the tempest's wing. Cormul
is fallen before thee. Early art thou in the fame of
thy fathers. Rush not too far, my hero. I cannot
lift the spear to aid. I stand harmless in battle :
but my voice shall be poured abroad. The sons of
Selma shall hear, and remember my former deeds."
His terrible voice rose on the wind. The host
b€nds forward in fight. Often had they heard him,
at Strumon, when he called them to the chase of the
hinds. He stands tall, amid the war, as an oak in the
skirts of a storm, which now is clothed on high, in
mist : then shews its broad, waving head. The mus-
ing hunter lifts his eye, from his own rushy field !
My soul pursues thee, O Fillan! through the path
of thy fame. Thou roUest the foe before thee. Now
Foldath, perhaps, may fly : but night comes down
with its clouds. Cathmor's horn is heard on high.
The sons of Selma hear the voice of Fingal, from
Mora's gathered mist. The bards pour tlieir song,
like dew, on the returning war.
" Who comes from Strumon," they said, " amid
■her wandering locks ? She is mournful in her steps,
and lifts her blue eyes towards Erin. Why art thou
sad, Evir-choma? Who is like thy chief in renown ?
He descended dreadful to battle; he returns, like a
light from a cloud. lie raised the sword in wrath:
they shrunk before blue-shielded Gaul!
" Joy, like the rustling gale, comes on the soul of
the king. He remembers the battles of old ; the days
wherein his fathers fought. The day s of old return on
Fingal's mind, as he beholds the renown of his son.
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