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238 THE POEMS Of OSSIAN.
With morning I loosed the king. I gave the long-
haired maid. Mal-orchol heard my words in the midsJ
of his echoing halls. " King of Fulirfed wild, why
should Ton-thormod mourn ? He is of the race of he-
roes, and a flame in war. Your fathers have been foes,
but now their dim ghosts rejoice in death. They
stretch their hands of mist to the same shell in Loda.
Forget their rage, ye warriors ! It was the cloud ot
other years."
Such were the deeds of Ossian, while yet his locks
were young ; though loveliness, with a robe of beams,
clothed the daughter of many isles. We call back,
maid of Lutha, the years that have rolled away '

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