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TEMORA. 467
grey over his bossy shield, Clonar is pierced by
Cathmor : nor yet lay the chief on earth. An oak
seized his hair in his fall. His helmet rolled on the
ground. By its thong, hung his broad shield; over
it wandered his streaming blood. Tla-min shall
weep, in the hall, and strike her heaving breast.
Nor did Ossian forget the spear, in the wing of
his war. He strewed the field with dead. Young
Hidallacame. " Soft voice of streamy Clonra! why
dost thou lift the steel ? O that we met in the strife
of song, in thine own rushy vale !" Malthos beheld
him low, and darkened as he rushed along. On
either side of a stream, we bend in the echoing
strife. Heaven comes rolling down; around burst
the voices of squally winds. Hills are clothed, at
times, in fire. Thunder rolls in wreaths of mist. In
darkness shrunk the foe : Morven's warriors stood
aghast. Still I bent over the stream, amidst my
whistling locks.
Then rose the voice of Fingal, and the sound of the
flying foe. I saw the king, at times, in lightning,
darkly-striding in his might. I struck my echoing
shield, and hung forward on the steps of Aluecma;
the foe is rolled before me, like a wreath of smoke.
The sun looked forth from his cloud. The hun-
dred streams of Moi-lena shone. Slow rose the blue
columns of mist, against the glittering hill. Where
are the mighty kings ? Nor by that stream, nor
wood are they I I hear the clang of arms ! Their
strife is in the bosom of that mist. Such is the con-
tending of spirits in a nightly cloud, when they
strive for the wintry wings of winds, and the rolling
of the foam-covered waves.
I rushed along. The grey mist rose. Tall, gleam-
ing, they stood at Lubar. Cathmor leaned against a
rock. His half-fallen shield received the stream,
that leapt from the moss above. Towards him is
the stride of Fingal: he saw the hero's blood. His
sword fell slowly to his side. He spoke, amidst his
darkening joy.
" Yields the race of Borbar-duthul.' Or still does
he lift the spear? Not unheard is thy name, atAtha,

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