Such was the noife of battle, maid of the arms of fnow. Why, daughter of the hill, that tear? the maids of Lochlin have caufe to weep. The people of their country fell, for bloody was the blue fteel of the face of my heroes. But I am fad, forlorn, and blind; and no more the companion of heroes. Give, lovely maid, to me thy tears, for I have feen the tombs of all my friends. It was then by Fingal's hand a hero fell, to his grief Gray-haired he rolled in the duft, and lifted his faint eyes to the king. And is it by me thou haft fallen, faid the fon of Comhal, thou friend of Agandecca! I faw 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 haft thou fallen by my hand? Raife, Ullin, raise the grave of the fon of Mathon; and give his name to the fong of Agandecca; for dear to my foul haft thou been, thou darkly dwelling maid of Ardven. Cuchullin, from the cave of Cromla, heard the noife of the troubled war. He called to Connal chief of fwords, and Carril of other A times. The gray-haired heroes heard his voice, and took their aspen fpears. They came, and faw the tide of battle, like the crowded waves of the ocean; when the dark wind blows from the deep, and rolls the billows through the fandy vale. Cuchullin kindled at the fight, and darknefs gathered on his brow. His hand is on the fword of his fathers: his red-rolling eyes on "the foe. He thrice attempted to ruth to battle, and thrice did Connal ftop him. Chief of the ifle of mift, he faid, Fingal fubdues the foe. Seek not a part of the fame of the king; himself is like a storm. Then, Carril, go, replied the chief, and greet the king of Morven. When Lochlin falls away like a ftream after rain, and the noise of the battle is over, then be thy voice fweet in his ear, to praise the king of fwords. Give him the fword of Caithbat; for Cuchullin is worthy no more to lift the arms of his fathers. But, o ye ghofts of the lonely Cromla! fouls of chiefs that are no more! be ye the companions of Cuchullin, and talk to him ye in the cave of his forrow. For never more fhall I be renowned among the mighty in the land. I am like a beam that has fhone; like a mift that fled away, when the blast of the morning came, and brightened the fhaggy fide of the hill. Connal, talk of arms no more: departed is my fame. My fighs fhall be, on Cromla's wind, till my footsteps ceafe to be feen. And thou, white - bosam'd Bragela, mourn over the fall of my fame; for, vanquished, I will never return to thee, thou fun-beam of Dunscaich. |