Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian

278 THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.
sons! we shall break the echoing shields. Ossianj
stand thou near my arm. Gaul, lift thy terrible sword*
Fergus, bend thy crooked yew. Throw, Fillan, thy ■
lance through Leaven. Lift your shields, like the
darkened moon. Be your spears the meteors of death.
Follow me in the path of my fame. Equal my deeds
in battle.'
As a hundred winds on Morven; as the stre£ims of
a hundred hills; as clouds fly successive over heaven;
as the dark ocean assails the shore of the desert: so
roaring, so vast, so terrible, the armies mixed on Lena's ,
echoing heath. The groan of the people spread over
the hills : it was hke tlie thunder of night, when the
doud bursts on Cona; and a thousand ghosts shriek
at once on the hollow wind. Fingal rushed on in his '
strength, terrible as the spirit of Trenmor; when in a
whirlwind he comes to Morven, to see the children ;
of his pride. The oaks resound on their moxmtains, ,
and the rocks fall down before him. Dimly seen as ;
lightens tlie night, he strides largely from hiU to hiU.
Bloody was the hand of my father, when he whirled
the gleam of his sword. He remembers the battles of '
his youth. The field is wasted in its course!
Ryno went on like a pillar of fire. Dark is the brow
of Gaul. Fergus rushed forward with feet of wind. Fil-
lan like the mist of the hill. Ossian, like a rock, came
down. I exulted in the strength of the king. Many
were the deaths of my arm ! dismal the gleam of my .
sword! My locks were not then so gray; nor trembled
my hands with age. My eyes were not closed in
darkness; my feet failed not in the race!
Who can relate the deaths of the people ? who the
deeds of mighty heroes 1 when Fingal, burning in his
wrath, consumed the sons of Lochlin? Groans swelled
on groans from hill to hill, till night had covered all.
Pale, staring like a herd of deer, the sons of Lochlin
convene on Lena. We sat and heard the sprightly
harp, at Lubar's gentle stream. Fingal himself was
next to the foe. He listened to the tales of his bards.
His godlike race were in the song, the chiefs of other
times. Attentive, leaning on his shield, the king of
Morven sat. The wind whistled through his locks ; his _