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TEMORA. 445
leaning on a rock, which bends its grey head over
the stream. He hears ; but sullen, dark he stands.
At leugth I saw the hero !
" Why standest thou, robed in darkness, son of
woody Selma ! Bright is thy^ path, my brother, in
this dark-browu field ! Long has been thy strife in
battle ? Now the horn of Fingal is heard. Ascend
to the cloud of thy father, to his hill of feasts. In
the evening mist he sits, and hears the sound of
Carril's harp. Carry joy to the aged, young breaker
of the shields!"
" Can the vanquished carry joy ? Ossian, no shield
is mine! It lies broken on the field. The eagle-
wing of m>- helmet is torn. It is when foes fly before
them, that fathers delight in their sons. But their
sighs burst forth, in secret, when their young war-
riors yield. Xo : Fillan shall not behold the king !
Why should the heio mourn?"
"Son of blue-eyed Clatho ! O Fillan, awake not
my soul ! Wert thou not a burning fire before him ?
Shall he not rejoice ? Such fame belongs notto Os-
sian ; yet is the king still a sun to me. He looks on
my steps with joy. Shadows never rise on his face.
Ascend, O Fillan, to Mora! His feast is spread in
the folds of mist."
"TOssian ! give me that broken shield : these fea-
thers that are rolled in the wind. Place them near
to Fillan, that less of his fame may fall. Ossian, I
begin to fail. Lay me in that hollow rock. Kaise
no stone above, lest one should ask about my fame.
I am fallen in the first of my fields, fallen without
renown. Let thj- voice alone send joy to my flying
^j soul. 'Why should the bard know where dwells the
li lost beam of Clatho ?"
t| "Is thy spirit on the eddying winds, O Fillan,
i\ young breaker of shields. Joy pursue my hero,
1^ through his folded clouds. The forrris of thy fathers,
1 1 O Fillan, bend to receive their son. I behold the
I spreading of their fire on Mora : the blue-rolling
( of their wreaths. Joy meet thee, my brother I But
we are dark and sad ! I behold the foe round
i the aged. I behold the wasting away of his fame.

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