Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian

ON THE POEMS OF OSSIAN. 115
self so in battle, that ' the days of old reUim on Fingal's
mind, as he beholds the renown of Ids son. As the sun
rejoices from the cloud, over the tree his beams have
raised, whilst it shakes its lonely head on the heath,
so joyful is the king over Fillan.' Sedate, however,
and wise, he mixes the praise which he bestows on
him with some reprehension of his rashness. ' My son,
I saw thy deeds, and my soul was glad. Thou art brave,
son of Clatho, but headlong in the strife. So did not
Fingal advance, though he never feared a foe. Let
thy people be a ridge behind thee ; they are thy strength
in the field. Then shalt thou be long renowned, and
behold the tombs of thy fathers.'
On the next day, the greatest and the last of Fillan's
life, the charge is committed to him of leading on the
host to battle. Fingal's speech to his troops on this
occasion is hill of noble sentiment; and, where he re-
commends his son to their care, extremely touching.
' A young beam is before you ; few are his steps to
war. They are few, but he is valiant; defend my
dark-haired son. Bring him back with joy : hereafter
he may stand alone. His form is like his fathers;
his soul is a flame of their fire.' When the battle be-
gins, the poet puts forth his strength to describe the
exploits of the young hero ; who, at last encountering
and kilUng with his own hand Foldath, the opposite
general, attains the pinnacle of glory. In what follows,
when the fate of Fillan is drawing near, Ossian, if
any where, excels himself. Foldath being slain, and
a general rout begun, there was no resource left to the
enemy but in the great Cathmor himself, who in this
extremity descends from the hill, where, according to
the custom of those princes, he surveyed the battle.
Observe how this critical event is wrought up by the
poet. ' Wide-spreading over echoing Lubar, the flight
of Bolga is rolled along. Fillan hung forward on their
steps, and strewed the heath with dead. Fingal re-
joiced over his son. — Blue-shielded Cathmor rose. —
Son of Alpin, bring the hai-p ! Give Fillan's praise to
the wind : raise high his praise in my hall, whUe yet
he shines in war. Leave, blue-eyed Clatho ! leave thy
hall; behold that early beam of thine! The host is