J. F. Campbell Collection > Temora, an ancient epic poem, in eight books

A N
EPIC P O E i\r.
Is thy fpirlt on the eddying winds, blue-eyed king of fliields?
Joy purfue my hero, thro' his folded clouds. Tlie forms of thy
fathers, O Fillan, bend to receive their fon. I behold the fpread-
ing of their fire on Mora; the blue-rolling of their niifly wreath?.
— Joy meet thee my brother. But we are dark and fad. I be-
hold the foe round the aged, and the wafting away of his
fame. Thou art left alone in the field, grey-haired king of
Selma.
I LAID him in the hollow rock, at the roar of the nightly ftream.
One red ftar looked in on the hero : winds lift, at times, his locks.
I liftened : no found is heard : for the warrior flept. As light-
ning on a cloud, a thought came rufliing over my foul. — My eyes
rolled in fire : my ftride was in the clang of fteel,
I WILL find thee, chief of Atha, in the gathering of thy thou-
fands. Why fliould that cloud efcape, that quenched our early
beam ? Kindle your meteors on your hills, my fathers, to light
thro' the fky. — Who is it, but the father
of Eos-mina? Shall he return till danger
is pad !
fillan, thou art a beam by his fide;
beautiful, but terrible, is thy light. Thy
fword is before thee, a blue fire of night.
When fhalt thou return to thy roes; to
the flreams of thy rufliy fields ? When
ihall I behold thee from Mora, while
winds ftrew my long locks on mofs ! —
But (hall a young eagle return from the
field where the heroes f<ill !
Clatho.
Soft, as the fong of Loda, is the voice of
Selma's maid. Pleafant to the ear of Cla-
tho is the name of the breaker of fhiclds.
— Behold, the king comes from ocean; the
fhield of Morven is borne by bards. The
foe has fled before him, like the departure
of mift. — I hear not the founding wings of
my eagle ; the rufliing forth of the fjn of
Clatho. — Thou art dark, O Fingal ; fha!!
he not return ?******
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