Skip to main content

‹‹‹ prev (166)

(168) next ›››

(167)
An epic poem. 155
td forth their hands to death. Look to thy fathers, my fon ;
they are awful beams. — With morning lead Ferad-artho forth to
the echoing halls of Temora. Remind him of the kings of Erin ;
the ftately farms of old. — Let not the fallen be forgot, they were
mighty In the field. Let Carril pour his fong, that the kings may
rejoice in their mift. — To-morrow I fpread my fails to Selma's
fhaded walls ; where flreamy Duthula winds through the feats of
roes.—
FINIS.
Xz CATHLIN

Images and transcriptions on this page, including medium image downloads, may be used under the Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International Licence unless otherwise stated. Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International Licence