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460 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
eddying blasts; when the moon, a dun shield, fron
the east, is rolled along the sky.
Ullin, Carril, and Ryno, voices of the days ot
old! Let me hear you, while yet it is dark, to
please and awake my soul. I hear you not, ye
sons of song; in what hall of the clouds is your
rest ? Do you touch the shadowy harp, robed with
morning mist, where the rustling sun comes forth
from his green-headed waves ?

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