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.
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