« VorigeDoorgaan »
Fingal at once arose in arms. Thrice he reared his dreadful voice. Cromla answered around. The sons of the desert stood still. They bent their blushing faces to earth, ashamed at the presence of the king. He came like a cloud of rain in the day of the sun, when slow it rolls on the hill, and fields expect the shower. Silence attends its slow progress aloft; but the tempest is soon to arise. Swaran beheld the terrible king of Morven. He stopped in the midst of his course. Dark he leaned on his spear, rolling his red eyes around. Silent and tall he seemed as an oak on the banks of Lubar, which had its branches blasted of old by the lightning of heaven. It bends over the stream: the grey moss wbistles in the wind: so stood the king. Then slowly he retired to the rising heath of Lena. His thousands pour around the hero. Darkness gathers on the hill. Fingal, like a beam from heaven, shone in the
a midst of his people. His heroes gather around him. He sends forth the voice of his power. “ Raise my standards on high; spread them on “ Lena's wind, like the fiames of an hundred « hills! Let them sound on the winds of Erin, " and remind us of the fight. Ye sons of the
roaring streams, that pour from a thousand “ hills, be near the king of Morven! attend to “ the words of his power! Gaul, strongest arm of « death! O Oscar, of the future fights! Connal,
son of the blue shields of Sora! Dermid, of the
a dark brown hair! Ossian, king of many songs, * be near your father's arm!” We reared the sun-beam* of battle; the standard of the king! Each hero exulted with joy, as, waving, it flew ou the wind. It was studded with gold above, as the blue wide shell of the nightly sky. Each hero had his standard too, and each his gloomy men!
“ Behold," said the king of generous shells, “how Lochlin divides on Lena! They stand like “ broken clouds on a hill, or an half consumed
grove of oaks, when we see the sky through its “ branches, and the meteor passing behind! Let
every chief among the friends of Fingal take a “ dark troop of those that frowu so high : nor let
a son of the echoing groves bound on the waves « of Inistore !"
“ Mine," said Gaul, “ be the seven chiefs that came from Lano's lake.” “ Let Inistore's dark
king,” said Oscar, come to the sword of Os« sian's son." “ To mine the king of Iniscon," said Connal, “ heart of steel !" " Or Mudan's • chief or I," said brown-haired Dermid, « shall
sleep on clay-cold earth.” My choice, though now so weak and dark, was Terman's battling king; I promised with my hand to win the hero's dark-brown shield. “ Blest and victorious be
my chiefs,” said Fingal of the mildest look. * Fingal's standard was distinguished by the name of sun-beam; probably on account of its bright colour, and its being studded with gold. To begin a battle is exprossed, in old composition, by lifting of the sun-beam.
“ Swaran, king of roaring waves, thou art the “ choice of Fingal !"
Now, like an hundred different winds that pour through many vales, divided, dark the sons of Selma advanced. Cromla echoed around! “How
can I relate the deaths when we closed in the * strife of arms! O daughter of Toscar, bloody “were our hands! The gloomy ranks of Lochlin · fell like the banks of the roaring Cona! Our
arms were victorious on Lena : each chief ful“ filled his promise! Beside the murmur of Branno " thou didst often sit, О maid! thy white bosom “ rose frequent, like the down of the swan when "slow she swims on the lake, and sidelong winds « blow on her ruffled wing. Thou hast seen the " sun retire, red and slow behind his cloud ; night u gathering round on the mountain, while the "unfrequent blast roared in the narrow vales. "At length the rain beats hard : thunder rolls in peals. Lightning glances on the rocks! Spi“ rits ride on beams of fire. The strength of the " mountain-streams comes roaring down the hills. « Such was the noise of battle, maid of the arms of
snow! Why, daughter of Toscar, why that “ tear ? The maids of Lochlin have cause to "weep! The people of their country fell. "Bloody were the blue swords of the race of
my heroes ! But I am sad, forlorn, and blind: no more the companion of beroes ! Give, “ lovely maid, to me thy tears. I have scen the • tombs of all
It was then, by Fingal's hand, a hero fell, to his grief! Grey-haired he rolled in the dust. He lifted his faiut eyes to the king: "And is it by me " thou hast fallen," said the son of Comhal, « thou friend of Agandecca! I have seen thy tears “ for the maid of my love in the halls of the bloody « Starno! Thou hast been the foe of the foes of
my love, and hast thou fallen by my hand ? " Raise, Ullin, raise the grave of Mathon, and
give his name to Agandecca's song. Dear to "my soul hast thou been, thou darkly-dwelling « maid of Ardven!"
Cuthullin, from the cave of Cromla, heard the noise of the troubled war. He called to Connal chief of swords ; to Carril of other times. The grey-haired heroes heard his voice. They took their pointed spears. They came, and saw the tide of battle like ocean's crowded waves, when the dark wind blows from the deep, and rolls the billows through the sandy vale! Cuthullin kindled at the sight. Darkness gathered on his brow. His hand is on the sword of his fathers : his red rolling eyes on the foe. He thrice attempted to rush to battle. He thrice was stopt by Connal. “ Chief of the isle of mist," he said, “ Fingal sub" dues the foe. Seek not a part of the fame of “the king; himself is like the storm !"
“Then, Carril, go," replied the chief, “ go greet the king of Morven. When Lochlin falls away like a stream after rain: when the noise of
s' the battle is past. Then be thy voice sweet in “ his ear to praise the king of Selma! Give him
the sword of Caithbat. Cuthullin is not worthy * to lift the arnis of his fathers ! Come, O ye “ ghosts of the lonely Cromla, ye souls of chiefs “ that are no more! be near the steps of Cuthul“ lin; talk to him in the cave of his grief. Never « more shall I be renowned among the mighty in “ the land. I am a beam that has shone; a mist “ that has fled away; when the blast of the morn“ing came, and brightened the shaggy side of the “ hill : Connal, talk of arms no more : departed “ is my fanie. My sighs shall be on Cromla's “ wind, till ny footsteps cease to be seen. And “thou, white-bosomed Bragela, mourn over the “ fall of my fame: vanquished, I will never re* turn to thee, thou sun-beam of my