No More Learning

Fingal saw Clessammor low; he moved in the sound of his steel. The
host stood silent in his presence; they turned their eyes to the king.
He came, like the sullen noise of a storm before the winds arise.
Carthon stood in his place; the blood is rushing down his side; he saw
the coming down of the king. Pale was his cheek; his hair flew loose,
his helmet shook on high. The force of Carthon failed, but his soul was
strong.

"King of Morven," Carthon said, "I fall in the midst of my course.
But raise my remembrance on the banks of Lora, where my father dwelt.
Perhaps the husband of Moina will mourn over his fallen Carthon. "

His words reached Clessammor. He fell, in silence, on his son. The host
stood darkened around; no voice is on the plain. Night came; the moon
from the east looked on the mournful field; but still they stood, like
a silent grove that lifts its head on Gormal, when the loud winds are
laid, and dark autumn is on the plain; and then they died.

Fingal was sad for Carthon; he commanded his bards to sing the hero's
praise. Ossian joined them, and this was his song: "My soul has been
mournful for Carthon; he fell in the days of his youth.
And thou, O
Clessammor, where is thy dwelling in the wind? Has the youth forgot
his wound? Flies he, on clouds, with thee? Perhaps they may come to my
dreams. I think I hear a feeble voice! The beam of heaven delights to
shine on the grave of Carthon. I feel it warm around.

"O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers! Whence
are thy beams, O sun, thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth in thy
awful beauty; the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and
pale, sinks in the western wave. But thou thyself movest alone. Who
can be a companion of thy course? The oaks of the mountains fall; the
mountains themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks and grows
again; the moon herself is lost in heaven; but thou art for ever the
same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy course.

"When the world is dark with tempests; when thunder rolls, and
lightning flies, thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and
laughest at the storm. But to Ossian thou lookest in vain, for he
beholds thy beams no more; whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern
clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art
perhaps, like me, for a season; thy years will have an end.