Ossian Collection > Temora, an ancient epic poem, in eight books

6o T E M O R A:
ther, till he fliould receive his fame ? — He bent the bow againft
the roes^f Duth-uk; he fpread the lonely feaft. — Seven nights he
laid his head on the tomb, and faw his father in his dreams. He
faw him rolled, dark, in a blaft, like the vapor of reedy Lego. —
At length the fteps of Colgan * camej the bard of high Temora.
Duth-
* Colgan, the fon of Cathmul, was the
principal bard of Cormac -Vlac-Conar, king
of Ireland. Part of an old poem, on the
loves of Fingal and Ros-crana, is ftill pre-
ferved, and goes under the name of this
Colgan ; but whether it Is of hi. compo-
fition, or the produflion of a latter age,
I fliall not pretend to determine. Be that
as it will, it appears, from the obfolete
plirafes which it contains, to be very an-
cient ; and its poetical merit may perhaps
excufe me, for laying a tranflation of it be-
fore the reader. What remains of the
poem is a dialogue, in a lyric meafure, be-
tween Fingal and Ros-crana, the daughter
of Cormac. She begins with a folilcxjuy,
which is overheard by Fingal.
Ros-crana.
By night, came a dream to Ros-crana !
I feel my beating foul. No vifion of the
forms of the dead, came to the blue eyes
of Erin. But, rifing from the wave of
the north, I beheld him bright in his locks.
I beheld the fon of the king. My beating
foul is high. I laid my head down in
night; again afcended the form. Why
delayeft thou thy coming, young rider of
ftreamy waves !
But, there, far-diftant, he comes; where
feas roll their green ridges in mid ! Young
dweller of my foul ; why doft thou de-
lay
Fingal.
It was the foft voice of Moi-lena I the
pleafant breeze of the valley of roes I But
why doft thou hide thee in (hades? Young
love of heroes rife, — Are not thy fteps co-
vered with light ? In thy groves thou ap-
peareft, Ros-crana, like the fun in the ga-
thering of clouds. Why doft thou hide
thee in fhades .■' Young love of heroes
rife.
ROS CRANA.
My fluttering foul is high T — Let me
turn from the fteps of the king. He has
heard my fecret voice, and Chail my blue
eyes roll, in his prefence? — Roe of the
hill of mofs, toward thy dwelling I move.
Meet me, ye breezes of Mora, as I move
thro' the valley of winds. — But why ftiould
he afcend his ocean ?— Son of heroes, my
f 111 is thine ! — My fteps ftiall not move to
the defart: the light of Ros crana ie here.
Fingal.
It was the light tread of a ghoft, the
fair dweller of eddying winds. Why de-
ceivelt