Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian

t 89 ]
OINA-MORULi
A
POEM.
As flies the unconftant fun, over Larmon's
graffy hill ; fo pafs the tales of old, along
my foul, by night ! when bards are removed
to their place ; when harps are hung in Sel-
ma's hall ; then comes a voice to Offian, and
awakes his foul ! It is the voice of years that
are gone ! they roll before me, with all their
deeds ! I feize the tales, as they pafs, and
pour them forth in fong. Nor a troubled
ftream is the fong of the king, it is like the
rifing of mufic from Lutha of the firings.
Lutha of many firings, not filent are thy
flreamy rocks, when the white hands of Mal-
vina move upon the harp ! Light of the fha-
dowy thoughts, that fly acrofs my foul, daugh-
ter of Toicar of helmets, wilt thou not hear
the fong ! We call back, maid of Lutha, the
years that have rolled away !
It was in the days of the king, while yet
my locks were young, that I marked Con-
cathlin *, on high, from ocean's nightly wave.
My
* Con-cathlin, mild beam of the wave. What ftar was
fo called of old is not eafily afcertained. Some now dif-
tinguifli