Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian

TEitlOKA. 423
coming forth, O sun ! Terrible is thy beauty, son of
heaven, when death is descending on , thy locks : when
thou rollest thy vapors before thee, over the blasted
host. But pleasant is thy beam to the hunter, sitting
by the rock in a storm, when thou showest thyself from
the parted cloud, and brightenest his dewy locks • he
looks down on the streamy vale, and beholds the de-
' scent of roes ! How long shalt thou rise on war, and
roll, a bloody shield, through heaven ? I see the death
of heroes, dark wandering over thy face !"
" Why wander the words of Carril ?" I said. " Does
the son of heaven mourn ? He is unstained in his
course, ever rejoicing in his fire. Roll on, thou care-
less light. Thou too, perhaps, must fall. Thy dark-
ening hour may seize thee, struggling as thou rollest
through thy sky. But pleasant is the voice of the bard :
pleasant to Ossian's soul ! It is like the shower of the
morning, when it comes through the rustling vale, on
which the sun looks through mist, just rising from his
rocks. But this is no time, O bard ! to sit down, at the
strife of song. Fingal is in arms on the vale. Thou
seest the flaming shield of the king. His face darkens
between his locks. He beholds the wide rolling of
Erin. Does not Carril behold that tomb, beside the
roaring stream ? Three stones lift their gray heads,
beneath a bending oak. A king is lowly laid ! Give
thou his soul to the wind. He is the brother of Cath-
mor ! Open his airy hall ! Let thy song be a stream
of joy to Cairbar's darkened ghost !"