He strewed the field with dead. Young Hidallan came. Malthos beheld him low, and darkened as he rushed along. On either side of a stream, we bent in the echoing strife. Hills are clothed, at times, in fire.
Thunder rolls in wreaths of mist.
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. Slow rose the blue columns of mist, against the glittering hill.