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bard of high Temora. Duthcaron received his fame, and brightened as he rose on the wind.”
“ Pleasant to the ear,” said Fingal, “is the praise of the kings of men ; when their bows are strong in battle; when they soften at the sight of the sad. Thus let my name be renowned, when bards shall lighten my rising soul. Carril, son of Kinfena! take the bards and raise a tomb. Tonight let Connal dwell within his narrow house. Let not the soul of the valiant wander on the winds. Faint glimmers the moon on Moi-lena, through the broad-headed groves of the hill ! Raise stones, beneath its beam, to all the fallen in war. Though no chiefs were they, yet their hands were strong in fight. They were my rock in danger. The mountain from which I spread
It was the light tread of a ghost, the fair dweller of eddying winds. Why deceivest thou me with thy voice? Here let mo rest in shades. Shouldst thou stretch thy white arm from thy grove, thou sun-beam of Cormac of Erin!
ROS-CRANA. He is gone! and my blue eyes are dim ; faint-rolling, in all
But there 1 behold him, alone; king of Selma, my soul is thine. Ah me! what clanging of armour! Colc-ulla of Atha is near! MACPHERSON.
my eagle-wings. Thence am I renowned. Carril, forget not the low !"
Loud, at once, from the hundred bards, rose the song of the tomb. Carril strode before them, they are the murmur of streams behind his steps. Silence dwells in the vales of Moi-lena, where each, with its own dark rill, is winding between the hills. I heard the voice of the bards, lessening, as they moved along. I leaned forward from my shield ; and felt the kindling of my soul. Half-formed, the words of my song burst forth upon the wind. So hears a tree, on the vale, the voice of spring around. It pours
its green leaves to the sun.
It shakes its lonely head *9. The hum of the mountain-bee is near it; the hunter sees it, with joy, from the blasted heath. Young Fillan at a distance stood. His helmet
29 It pours its green leaves to the sun. It shakes its lonely head.] The former simile inverted : “ As the sun rejoices over the tree his beams have raised, as it shakes its lonely head on the heath.” Supra, 23. But Ossian hearing the voice of the bards, as a tree hears the voice of spring around; the half-formed words of his song bursting forth, like the green leaves which it pours to the sun, are sounding similes without the least resemblance. That, however, was the last circumstance which the poet consulted.
lay glittering on the ground. His dark hair is loose to the blast. A beam of light is Clatho's son! He heard the words of the king with joy. He leaned forward on his spear.
"My son,” said car-borne Fingal, “I saw thy deeds, and my soul was glad. The fame of our fathers, I said, burst from its gathering cloud. Thou art brave, son of Clatho; but headlong in the strife. So did not Fingal advance, though he never feared a foe. Let thy people be a ridge behind. They are thy strength in the field. Then shalt thou be long renowned, and behold the tombs of the old. The memory of the past returns, my deeds in other years; when first I descended from ocean on the green-vallied isle.”
We bend towards the voice of the king. The moon looks abroad from her cloud. The greyskirted mist is near; the dwelling of the ghosts!