He strewed the field with dead. Young Hidalla came. Malthos beheld him low, and darkened as he rushed along. On either side of a stream, we bend in the echoing strife. Hills are clothed, at times, in fire.
Thunder rolls in wreaths of mist.
Still I bent over the stream, amidst my whistling locks. Then rose the voice of Fingal, and the sound of the flying foe. I saw the king, at times, in lightning, darkly-striding in his might. The sun looked forth from his cloud. The hundred streams of Moi-lena shone.