Ossian Collection > Poems of Ossian

342 The DEATH of CUTHULLIN:
morning is grey on Lego, Torlath will fight
on the plain. Wilt thou meet him, in thine
arms, king of the ifle of mift? Terrible is the
fpear of Torlath ! it is a meteor of night.
He lifts it, and the people fall ! death fits in
the lightning of his fword !" " Do I fear,"
replied Cuthullin, " the fpear of car-borne
Torlath ? He is brave as a thoufand heroes :
but my foul delights in war ! The fword refts
not by the fide of Cuthullin, bard of the times
of old ! Morning fhall meet me on the plain,
and gleam on the blue arms of Semo's fon.
But fit thou on the heath, O bard ! and let us
hear thy voice. Partake of the joyful fhell :
and hear the fongs of Temora !"
" This is no time," replied the bard, " to
hear the fong of joy : when the mighty
are to meet in battle, like the ftrength of the
waves of Lego. Why art thou fo dark,
Slimora* ! with all thy filent woods ? No ftar
tretpbles on thy top. No moon-beam on thy
fide. But the meteors of death are there :
the grey watry forms of ghofts. Why art
thou dark, Slimora ! with thy filent woods?"
He retired, in the found of his fong.
Carril joined his voice. The mufic was like
the memory of joys that are pair, pleafant
and mournful to the foul. The ghofls of
departed bards heard on Slimora's fide.
Soft founds fpread along the wood. The
filent valleys of night rejoice. So, when
* Slia'mor, great hill,
he