poems.
131
Her solemn sister to the low'ring sky
Rais'd her fair arm, and thus she made reply:
'This is the sign of Fingal's death: the king
Of shields is fallen! the dead the message bring.
The foe prevails. Rise, Comala, rise,
From the dark rock, and lift thy weeping eyes;
Raise them in tears, thy loved one's life is low;
On the far hills his spirit passes slow.'
Rais'd her fair arm, and thus she made reply:
'This is the sign of Fingal's death: the king
Of shields is fallen! the dead the message bring.
The foe prevails. Rise, Comala, rise,
From the dark rock, and lift thy weeping eyes;
Raise them in tears, thy loved one's life is low;
On the far hills his spirit passes slow.'
Sweet pity springs in Melilcoma's breast;
The gentle one beholds the maid distress'd;
She turns her pure blue eyes from heaven's own signs.
And in her heartfelt sorrow thus she joins:
'There sits Comala; ah, poor lonely maid,
How forlorn is she in the gloomy shade!
Her faithful gray dogs crouch beneath the trees,
Shake their rough ears, and catch the flying breeze;
Her red cheek rests upon her arm, the air
From the dark mountain lifts her drooping hair;
She turns her sad eyes to the field; his vow
Made the sweet spot of promise. Where art thou,
Oh, Fingal?—dark night gathers round:—
Alas, poor maiden! heareth she a sound?
The gentle one beholds the maid distress'd;
She turns her pure blue eyes from heaven's own signs.
And in her heartfelt sorrow thus she joins:
'There sits Comala; ah, poor lonely maid,
How forlorn is she in the gloomy shade!
Her faithful gray dogs crouch beneath the trees,
Shake their rough ears, and catch the flying breeze;
Her red cheek rests upon her arm, the air
From the dark mountain lifts her drooping hair;
She turns her sad eyes to the field; his vow
Made the sweet spot of promise. Where art thou,
Oh, Fingal?—dark night gathers round:—
Alas, poor maiden! heareth she a sound?
Comala rises: every low-ton'd word,
Deep in their anguish, in the night is heard:
Deep in their anguish, in the night is heard:
