Night came down on the sea; Roma's bay received the ship. A
rock bends along the coast with all its echoing wood. On the
top is the circle of Loda, the mossy stone of power! A
narrow plain spreads beneath, covered with grass and aged
trees, which the midnight winds, in their wrath, had torn
from the shaggy rock. The blue course of a stream is there!
the lonely blast of ocean pursues the thistle's beard. The
flame of three oaks arose: the feast is spread around: but
the soul of the king is sad, for Carric-thura's chief
distressed.
The wan, cold moon, rose in the east; sleep descended on the
youths! Their blue helmets glitter to the beam; the fading
fire decays. But sleep did not rest on the king: he rose in
the midst of his arms, and slowly ascended the hill, to
behold the flame of Sarno's tower.
The flame was dim and distant, the moon hid her red face in
the east. A blast came from the mountain, on its wings was
the spirit of Loda. He came to his place in his terrors, and
shook his dusky spear. His eyes appear like flames in his
dark face; his voice is like distant thunder. Fingal
advanced his spear in night, and raised his voice on high.
Son of night, retire: call thy winds, and fly! Why dost thou
come to my presence, with thy shadowy arms? Do I fear thy
gloomy form, spirit 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
nostrils 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 storm 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 his sword; the
blade of dark-brown Luno. The 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!