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468 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
in the green dwelling of strangers. It has come, like
the breeze of his desert, to the ear of Fingal. Come
to my hill of feasts : the mighty fail, at times. No
fire am I to low-laid foes ; I rejoice not over the
fall of the brave. To close the wound is mine: I
have known the herbs of the hills. I seized their
fair heads, on high, as they waved by their secret
streams. Thou art dark and silent, king of Atha of
strangers!"
" By Atha of the stream," he said, " there rises a
mossy rock. On its head is the wandering of boughs,
within the course of winds. Dark, in its face, is a
cave, with its own loud rill. There have I heard
the tread of strangers, when they passed to my hall
of shells. Joy rose, like a flame, on my soul : I
blest the echoing rock. Here be my dwelling, in
darkness; in my grassy vale. From this I shall
mount the breeze, that pursues my thistle's beard;
or look down, on blue-winding Atha, from its wan-
dering mist."
" Why speaks the king of the tomb? Ossian! the
warrior has failed ! Joy meet thy soul, like a stream,
Cathmor, friend of strangers! My son, I hear the
call of years; they take my spear as they pass along.
Why does not Fingal, they seem to say, rest within
his hall ? Dost thou always delight in blood ? In
the tears of the sad ? No : ye dark-rolling years,
Fingal delights not in blood. Tears are wintry
streams that waste away my soul. But, when I lie
down to rest, then comes the mighty voice of war.
It awakes me in my hall, and calls forth all my steei.
It shall call it forth no more ; Ossian, take thou thy
father's spear. Lift it, in battle, when the proud
arise.
" My fathers, Ossian, trace my steps; my deeds
are pleasant to their eyes. Wherever I come forth
to battle, on my field, are their columns of mist.
But mine arm rescued the feeble; the haughty
found my rage was fire. Never over the fallen did
mine eye rejoice. For this, my fathers shall meet
me, at the gates of their airy halls, tall, with robes
of light, with mildly-kindled eyes. But, to the

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