Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian

CARRIC-THURA 159
like distant thunder. Fingal advanced his spear in
night, and raised his voice on high.
Son of night, retire : call thy winds, and fly ! Why
dost thou come to my presence, with thy shadowy arms ?
Do I fear thy gloomy form, spirit of dismal Loda?
Weak is thy shield of clouds : feeble is that meteor,
thy sword ! The blast rolls them together ; and thou
thyself art lost. Fly from my presence, son of night !
call thy winds and fly !
Dost thou force me from my place ? replied the hollow
voice. The people bend before me. I turn the battle
in the field of the brave. I look on the nations, and
they vanish ; my nostrils pour the blast of death. I
come abroad on the winds : the tempests are before my
face. But my dwelling is calm above the clouds ; the
fields of my rest are pleasant.
Dwell in thy pleasant fields, said the king : Let
Comhal's son be forgot. Do my steps ascend, from my
hills, into thy peaceful plains? Do I meet thee with a
spear, on thy cloud, spirit of dismal Loda? Why then
dost thou frown on me ? Why shake thine airy spear ?
Thou frownest in vain : I never fled from the mighty in
war. And shall the sons of the wind frighten the king
of Morven ? No : he knows the weakness of their
arms !
Fly to thy land, replied the form : receive the wind,
and fly ! The blasts are in the hollow of my hand : the
course of the storm is mine. The Icing of Sora is
my son, he bends at the stone of my power. His battle
is around Carric-thura ; and he will prevail ! Fly to thy
land, son of Comhal, or feel my flaming wrath !
He lifted high his shadowy spear ! He bent forward
his dreadful height. Fingal, advancing, drew his
sword ; the blade of dark-brown Luno.* The gleaming
* The famous sword of Fingal, made by Lun, or Luno, a
smith of Lochlin. (I wonder if Lèn is meant, the smith of the
Celtic gods. PV. S. )