of dismal Loda? Weak is thy shield of clouds: feeble is that meteor, thy sword! The blast rolls them together; and thou thyself art lost. Fly from my presence, son of night! call thy winds and fly. Dost thou force me from my place? replied the hollow voice. The people bend before me. I turn the battle in the field of the brave. I look on the nations, and they vanish: my nostrals pour the blast of death. I come abroad on the winds: the tempests are before my face. But my dwelling is calm, above the clouds; the fields of my rest are pleasant. Dwell in thy pleasant fields, said the king: Let Comhal's son be forgot. Do my steps ascend from my hills into thy peaceful plains? Do I meet thee with a spear on thy cloud, spirit of dismal Loda? Why then dost thou frown on me? why shake thine airy spear? Thou frownest in vain: I never fled from the mighty in war. And shall the sons of the wind frighten the king of Morven? No: he knows the weakness of their arms! Fly to thy land, replied the form: receive the wind, and fly! The blasts are in the hollow of my hand: the course of the storm is mine. The king of Sora is my son, he bends at the stone of my power. His battle is around Carric-thura; and he will prevail! Fly to thy land son of Comhal, or feel my flaming wrath! He lifted high his shadowy spear! He bent forward his dreadful height. Fingal, advancing, drew The his sword; the blade of dark-brown Luno.* gleaming path of the steel winds through the gloomy ghost. The form fell shapeless into air, like a column of smoke, which the staff of the boy disturbs as it rises from the half-extinguished furnace. The spirit of Loda shrieked, as, rolled into himself, he rose on the wind. Inistore shook at the sound. The waves heard it on the deep. They stopped in their course with fear: the friends of Fingal started at once, and took their heavy spears. They missed the king: they rose in rage; all their arms resound! The moon came forth in the east. Fingal returned in the gleam of his arms. The joy of his youth was great, their souls settled as a sea from a storm. Ullin raised the song of gladness. hills of Inistore rejoiced. The flame of the oak arose; and the tales of heroes are told. The But Frothal, Sora's wrathful king, sits in sadness beneath a tree. The host spreads around Carric-thura. He looks towards the walls with rage. He longs for the blood of Cathulla, who once overcame him in war. When Annir reigned+ in Sora, the father of sea-borne Frothal, a storm arose on the sea, and carried Frothal to Inistore. *The famous sword of Fingal, made by Lun, or Luno, a smith of Lochlin. † Annir was also the father of Erragon, who was king after the death of his brother Frothal. The death of Erragon is the subject of the battle of Lora, a poem in this collection. Three days he feasted in Sarno's halls, and saw the slow rolling eyes of Comála. He loved her in the flame of youth, and rushed to seize the whitearmed maid. Cathulla met the chief. The gloomy battle rose. Frothal was bound in the hall; three days he pined alone. On the fourth Sarno sent him to his ship, and he returned to his land. But wrath darkened in his soul against the noble Cathulla. When Annir's stone* of fame arose, Frothal came in his strength. The battle burned round Carricthura and Sarno's mossy walls. Morning rose on Inistore. Frothal struck his dark-brown shield. His chiefs started at the sound; they stood, but their eyes were turned to the sea. They saw Fingal coming in his strength; and first the noble Thubar spoke. "Who comes, like the "stag of the desert, with all his herd behind him; "Frothal, it is a foe! I see his forward spear. "Perhaps it is the king of Morven, Fingal the first " of men. His deeds are well known in Lochlin! "the blood of his foes is in Starno's halls. Shall "I ask the peacet of kings? His sword is the bolt "of heaven!" Son of the feeble hand, said Frothal, shall my days begin in a cloud? Shall I yield before I have conquered, chief of streamy Tora? The people would say in Sora, Frothal flew forth like a mete * That is, after the death of Annir. To erect the stone of one's fame, was, in other words, to say that the person was dead. + Honourable terms of peace. |