poems.
133
Fingal and I, in friendship, ere have met.
The bands are scatter'd; and no crowding tread
Tells where the king fights still. Ah! is he dead?
Oh, Carun, let thy gloomy waters flow
Deep dyed in blood; the chief, the chief is low.
The bands are scatter'd; and no crowding tread
Tells where the king fights still. Ah! is he dead?
Oh, Carun, let thy gloomy waters flow
Deep dyed in blood; the chief, the chief is low.
Now gloomy rage made black his visage bold;
And scarce the darkness let the maid behold
Hidallan's form: and, as she deeply sigh'd,
She ask'd who far on Carun's waters died.
'Son of the cloudy night! tell me who fell!
White, was he not, as snows that always dwell
On Ardven?—Blooming as the summer bow
In early showers?—Soft as the mists that glow,
Waving in sunlight, was his own fair hair?
Son of the cloudy night, oh, was he there?
Was he not like the thunder peal on high
Amid the battle? swift as the roes that fly
O'er the broad desert?—Son of night, reply.
And scarce the darkness let the maid behold
Hidallan's form: and, as she deeply sigh'd,
She ask'd who far on Carun's waters died.
'Son of the cloudy night! tell me who fell!
White, was he not, as snows that always dwell
On Ardven?—Blooming as the summer bow
In early showers?—Soft as the mists that glow,
Waving in sunlight, was his own fair hair?
Son of the cloudy night, oh, was he there?
Was he not like the thunder peal on high
Amid the battle? swift as the roes that fly
O'er the broad desert?—Son of night, reply.
His brow is dark; Comala asks in vain;
And, deeply groaning, thus he speaks again:
'Oh, that his love I might again behold;—
Her fair form bending on the rock so cold,
Her bright eye dim in tears, her golden hair
O'er her young cheek now paling in despair.
Blow, gentle breeze, and lift that golden veil,
That I behold that face and arm so pale.'
And, deeply groaning, thus he speaks again:
'Oh, that his love I might again behold;—
Her fair form bending on the rock so cold,
Her bright eye dim in tears, her golden hair
O'er her young cheek now paling in despair.
Blow, gentle breeze, and lift that golden veil,
That I behold that face and arm so pale.'
