Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian

322 OSSIAN
spirits in a nightly cloud, when they strive for the
wintry wings of winds, and the rolling of the foam-
covered waves.
I rushed along. The grey mist rose. Tall, gleaming,
they stood at Lubar. Cathmor leaned against a rock.
His half-fallen shield received the stream, that leapt from
the moss above. Towards him is the stride of Fingal:
he saw the hero's blood. His sword fell slowly to his
side. He spoke, midst his darkening joy.
"Yields the race of Borbar-duthul ? Or still does
he lift the spear? Not unheard is thy name, at Atha, in
the green dwelling of strangers. It has come like the
breeze of his desert, to the ear of Fingal. Come to my
hill of feasts : the mighty fail, at times. No fire am I
to low-laid foes : I rejoice not over the fall of the brave.
To close the wound is mine : I have known the herbs *
of the hills. I seized their fair heads, on high, as they
waved by their secret streams. Thou art dark and
silent, king of Atha of strangers ! "
"By Atha of the stream," he said, "there rises a
mossy rock. On its head is the wandering of boughs,
within the course of winds. Dark, in its face, is a cave,
VTÌth its own loud rill. There have I heard the tread of
strangers, when they passed to my hall of shells. Joy
rose, like a flame, on my soul: I blessed the echoing
rock. Here be my dwelling, in darkness; in my grassy
vale. From this I shall mount the breeze, that pursues
my thistle's beard; or look down, on blue-winding Atha,
from its wandering mist.t
* Fingal is very much celebrated in tradition for his know-
ledge in the virtues of herbs.
t Cathmor reflects with pleasure, even in his last moments,
on the relief he had afforded to strangers. The very tread of
their feet was pleasant in his ear. His hospitality was not passed
unnoticed by the bards; for with them it became a proverb
when they described the hospitable disposition of a hero that he
was like Cathmor of Atha, the friend of strangers.