Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian

426 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
turn, with his white-bosomed sails. The maid is
near thee, O Cathmor! leaning on her rock.
The tall forms of the chiefs stand around ; all
but dark-browed Eoldath. He leaned against a
distant tree, rolled into his haughty soul. His
bushy hair whistles in wind. At times, bursts
the hum of a song. He struck the tree, at length,
in wrath; and rushed before the king ! Calm and
stately, to the beam of the oak, arose the form of
young Hidalla. His hair falls round his blushing
cheek, in wreaths of waving liglit. Soft was his
voice in Clonra, in the valley of his fathers. Soft
was his voice when he touched the harp, in the hall
near his roaring streams !
" King of Erin," said Hidalla, " now is the time
to feast. Bid the voice of bards arise. Bid them
roll the night away. The soul returns, from song, '
more terrible to war. Darkness settles on Erin.
From hill to hill bend the skirted clouds. Far and
grey, on the heath, the dreadful strides of ghosts
are seen : the ghosts of those who fell bend forward
to their song. Bid, O Cathmor! the harps to rise,
to brighten the dead, on their wandering blasts."
"Be all the dead forgot," said Foldath's burstings
wrath. " Did not I fail in the field ? Shall I then «
hear the song ? Yet was not my course harmless in •
war. Blood was a stream around my steps. But ■
the feeble were behind me. The foe haS escaped
from my sword. In Clonra's vale touch thou the
harp. Let Dura answer to the voice of Hidalla.
Let some maid look, from the wood, on thy long,
yellow locks. Fly from Lubar's echoing plain.
This is the field of heroes !"
" King of Erin," Malthos said, "it is thine to "
lead in war. Thou art a fire to our eyes, on the *
dark-brown field. Like a blast thou hast past over t
hosts. Thou hast laid them low in blood. But who ■»
has heard thy words returning from the field ? The «
wrathful delight in death : their remembrance rests •
on the wounds of their spear. Strife is folded in
their thoughts : their words are ever heard. Thy
course, chief of Moma, was like a troubled stream. ,