eam
of the morning; return to the echoing hills of Gormal.'
'Blest be thy soul, thou king of shells,' said Swaran of the
dark-brown shield. 'In peace thou art the gale of spring.
In war, the mountain-storm. Take now my hand in
friendship, king of echoing Selma! Let thy bards mourn
those who fell. Let Erin give the sons of Lochlin to
earth. Raise high the mossy stones of their fame: that
the children of the north hereafter may behold the place
where their fathers fought. The hunter may say, when he
leans on a mossy tomb, here Fingal and Swaran fought,
the heroes of other years. Thus hereafter shall he say,
and our fame shall last for ever!'

'Swaran,' said the king of hills, 'to-day our fame is
greatest. We shall pass away like a dream. No sound
will remain in our fields of war. Our tombs will be lost
in the heath. The hunter shall not know the place of our
rest. Our names may be heard in song. What avails it
when our strength hath ceased? O Ossian, Carril, and
Ullin! you know of heroes that are no more. Give us the
song of other years. Let the night pass away on the sound,
and morning return with joy.'

We gave the song to the kings. A hundred harps mixed
their sound with our voice. The face of Swaran brightened,
like the full moon of heaven: when the clouds
vanish away, and leave her calm and broad in the midst
of the sky.

FROM THE SONGS OF SELMA

[COLMA'S LAMENT]

It is night; I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms.
The wind is heard in the mountain. The torrent pours
down the rock. No hut receives me from the rain, forlorn
on the hill of winds.

Rise, moon! from behind thy clouds. Stars of the night,
arise! Lead me, some light, to the place where my love
rests from the chase alone! his bow near him, unstrung;
his dogs panting around him. But here I must sit alone,
by the rock of the mossy stream. The stream and the
wind roar aloud. I hear not the voice of my love! Why
delays my Salgar, why the chief of the hill, his promise?
Here is the rock, and here the tree! here is the roaring
stream! Thou didst promise with night to be here. Ah!
whither is my Salgar gone? With thee I would fly, from
my father; with thee, from my brother of pride. Our race
have long been foes; we are not foes, O Salgar!

Cease a little while, O wind! stream, be thou silent a
while! let my voice be heard around. Let my wanderer