may hereafter bound, on the dark-rolling waves of Inistore!"
They flew sudden across the heath. He slowly moved, like a cloud of thunder, when the sultry plain of summer is silent and dark! His sword is before him as a sunbeam; terrible as the streaming meteor of night. He came toward a chief of Lochlin. He spoke to the son of the wave. "Who is that so dark and sad, at the rock of the roaring stream? He cannot bound over its course: How stately is the chief! His bossy shield is on his side; his spear, like the tree of the desert! Youth of the dark-red hair, art thou of the foes of Fingal?"
"I am a son of Lochlin," he cries, "strong is my arm in war. My spouse is weeping at home. Orla shall never return!" "Or fights or yields the hero?" said Fingal of the noble deeds; "foes do not conquer in my presence: my friends are renowned in the hall. Son of the wave, follow me, partake the feast of my shells: pursue the deer of my desert: be thou the friend of Fingal." "No:" said the hero, "I assist the feeble. My strength is with the weak in arms. My sword has been always unmatched, O warrior! let the king of Morven yield!" "I never yielded, Orla! Fingal never yielded to man. Draw thy sword and choose thy foe. Many are my heroes!"
"Does then the king refuse the fight?" said Orla of the dark-brown shield. "Fingal is a match for Orla: and he alone of all his race!" "But king of Morven, if I shall fall; as one time the warrior must die; raise my tomb in the midst; let it be the greatest on Lena. Send,
