Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian

444 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
back, with bending eye, on the field of dreadful;
forms ! Sudden, from the rock of Moi-lena, are Sul-
malla's trembling steps. An oak takes the spear
from her hand. Half-bent she looses the lance. But
then are her eyes on the king, from amid her wan-
dering locks ! No friendly strife is before thee ! No
light contending of bows, as when the youth of
Inis-huna come forth beneath the eye of Conmor!
As the rock of Runo, which takes the passing
clouds as they fly, seems growing, in gathered dark-
ness, over the streamy heath ; so seems the chief of
Atha taller, as gather his people around. As differ-
ent blasts fly over the sea, each behind its dark-blue
wave; so Cathmor's words, on every side, pour his
warriors forth. Nor silent on his hill is Fillan. He
mixes his words with his echoing shield. An eagle
he seemed, with sounding wings, calling the wind
to his rock, when he sees the coming forth of the
roes, on Lutha's rushy field !
Now they bend forward in battle. Death's hun-
dred voices arise. The kings, on either side, were
like fires on the souls of the host, Ossian bounded
along. High rocks and trees rush tall between the
war and me. But I hearthenoise of steel, between
ray clanging arms. Rising, gleaming, on the hill,
I behold tlie backward steps of hosts: their back-
ward steps on either side, and wildly-looking eyes.
The chiefs were met in dreadful fight ! The two blue-
shielded kings! Tall and dark, through gleams of
steel, are seen the striving heroes I I rush. My
fears for Fillan fly, burning across my soul.
I come. Nor Cathmor flies; nor yet comes on;
he sidelong stalks along. An icy rock, cold, tall, he
seems, 1 call forth all my steel. Silent awhile we
stride, on either side of a rushing stream : then,
sudden turning, all at once, we raise our pointed
spears. We raise our spears, butnightcomes down.
It is dark and silent round ; but where the distant
steps of hosts are sounding over the heath!
1 come to the place where Fillan fought. Nor voice
nor sound is there. A broken helmet lies on earth,
a buckler cleft in twain. Where, Fillan, where art i
thou, young chief of echoing Morven ? He hears me,