FINGAL, AN ANCIENT EPIC POEM. In SIX BOOKS.

COMÁLA: A DRAMATIC POEM^*.

• FINGAL.
• HIDALLAN.
• COMÁLA.
• daughters of Morni.
  • MELILCOMA,
  • DERSAGRENA,
• BARDS.

THE chace is over.—No noiſe on Ardven but the torrent's roar!—Daughter of Morni, come from Crona's banks. Lay down the bow and take the harp. Let the night come on with ſongs, and our joy be great on Ardven.

^* AND night comes on, thou blue-eyed maid, gray night grows dim along the plain. I ſaw a deer at Crona's ſtream; a moſſy bank he ſeemed through the gloom, but ſoon he bounded away. A me⯑teor played round his branchy horns; and the awful faces^† of other times looked from the clouds of Crona.

^‡

THESE are the ſigns of Fingal's death.—The king of ſhields is fallen!—and Caracul prevails. Riſe, Comala^‖, from thy rocks; daughter of Sarno, riſe in tears. The youth of thy love is low, and his ghoſt is already on our hills.

THERE Comala ſits forlorn! two gray dogs near ſhake their rough ears, and catch the flying breeze. Her red cheek reſts on her arm, and the mountain wind is in her hair. She turns her blue-rolling [89] eyes toward the fields of his promiſe.—Where art thou, O Fingal, for the night is gathering around?

O CARUN^* of the ſtreams! why do I behold thy waters rolling in blood? Has the noiſe of the battle been heard on thy banks; and ſleeps the king of Morven?—Riſe, moon, thou daughter of the ſky! look from between thy clouds, that I may behold the light of his ſteel, on the field of his promiſe.—Or rather let the meteor, that lights our departed fathers through the night, come, with its red light, to ſhew me the way to my fallen hero. Who will defend me from ſorrow? Who from the love of Hidallan? Long ſhall Comala look before ſhe can behold Fingal in the midſt of his hoſt; bright as the beam of the morning in the cloud of an early ſhower.

^† ROLL, thou miſt of gloomy Crona, roll on the path of the hun⯑ter. Hide his ſteps from mine eyes, and let me remember my friend no more. The bands of battle are ſcattered, and no crowding ſteps are round the noiſe of his ſteel. O Carun, roll thy ſtreams of blood, for the chief of the people fell.

WHO fell on Carun's graſſy banks, ſon of the cloudy night? Was he white as the ſnow of Ardven? Blooming as the bow of the ſhower? Was his hair like the miſt of the hill, ſoft and curling in the day of the ſun? Was he like the thunder of heaven in battle? Fleet as the roe of the deſart?

O THAT I might behold his love, fair-leaning from her rock! Her red eye dim in tears, and her bluſhing cheek half hid in her locks! Blow, thou gentle breeze, and lift the heavy locks of the maid, that I may behold her white arm, and lovely cheek of her ſorrow!

AND is the ſon of Comhal fallen, chief of the mournful tale? The thunder rolls on the hill!—The lightening flies on wings of fire! But they frighten not Comala; for her Fingal fell. Say, chief of the mournful tale, fell the breaker of the ſhields?

THE nations are ſcattered on their hills; for they ſhall hear the voice of the chief no more.

CONFUSION purſue thee over thy plains; and deſtruction overtake thee, thou king of the world. Few be thy ſteps to thy grave; and let one virgin mourn thee. Let her be, like Comala, tearful in the days of her youth.—Why haſt thou told me, Hidallan, that my hero fell? I might have hoped a little while his return, and have thought I ſaw him on the diſtant rock; a tree might have deceived me with his appearance; and the wind of the hill been the ſound [91] of his horn in mine ear. O that I were on the banks of Carun! that my tears might be warm on his cheek!

HE lies not on the banks of Carun: on Ardven heroes raiſe his tomb. Look on them, O moon, from thy clouds; be thy beam bright on his breaſt, that Comala may behold him in the light of his armour.

STOP, ye ſons of the grave, till I behold my love. He left me at the chace alone. I knew not that he went to war. He ſaid he would return with the night; and the king of Morven is returned. Why didſt thou not tell me that he would fall, O trembling ſon of the rock^*! Thou haſt ſeen him in the blood of his youth, but thou didſt not tell Comala!

WHAT ſound is that on Ardven? Who is that bright in the vale? Who comes like the ſtrength of rivers, when their crowded waters glitter to the moon?

WHO is it but the foe of Comala, the ſon of the king of the world! Ghoſt of Fingal! do thou, from thy cloud, direct Comala's bow. Let him fall like the hart of the deſart.—It is Fingal in the crowd of his ghoſts.—Why doſt thou come, my love, to frighten and pleaſe my ſoul?

RAISE, ye bards of the ſong, the wars of the ſtreamy Carun. Caracul has fled from my arms along the fields of his pride. He ſets far diſtant like a meteor that incloſes a ſpirit of night, when the winds drive it over the heath, and the dark woods are gleam⯑ing around.

I HEARD a voice like the breeze of my hills. Is it the huntreſs of Galmal, the white-handed daughter of Sarno? Look from thy rocks^*, my love; and let me hear the voice of Comala.

TAKE me to the cave of thy reſt, O lovely ſon of death!—

COME to the cave of my reſt.—The ſtorm is over^†, and the ſun is on our fields. Come to the cave of my reſt, huntreſs of ec⯑choing Cona.

HE is returned with his fame; I feel the right hand of his battles.—But I muſt reſt beſide the rock till my ſoul ſettle from fear.—Let the harp be near; and raiſe the ſong, ye daughters of Morni.

COMALA has ſlain three deer on Ardven, and the fire aſcends on the rock; go to the feaſt of Comala, king of the woody Morven!

RAISE, ye ſons of the ſong, the wars of the ſtreamy Carun; that my white-handed maid may rejoice: while I behold the feaſt of my love.

ROLL, ſtreamy Carun, roll in joy, the ſons of battle fled. The ſteed is not ſeen on our fields; and the wings^* of their pride ſpread in other lands. The ſun will now riſe in peace, and the ſhadows deſcend in joy. The voice of the chace will be heard; and the ſhields hang in the hall. Our delight will be in the war of the ocean, and our hands be red in the blood of Lochlin. Roll, ſtreamy Carun, roll in joy, the ſons of battle fled.

DESCEND, ye light miſts from high; ye moon-beams, lift her ſoul.—Pale lies the maid at the rock! Comala is no more!

Is the daughter of Sarno dead; the white-boſomed maid of my love? Meet me, Comala, on my heaths, when I ſit alone at the ſtreams of my hills.

CEASED the voice of the huntreſs of Galmal? Why did I trouble the ſoul of the maid? When ſhall I ſee thee, with joy, in the chace of the dark-brown hinds?

YOUTH of the gloomy brow! no more ſhalt thou feaſt in my halls. Thou ſhalt not purſue my chace, and my foes ſhall not fall [94] by thy ſword^*.—Lead me to the place of her reſt that I may be⯑hold her beauty.—Pale ſhe lies at the rock, and the cold winds lift her hair. Her bow-ſtring ſounds in the blaſt, and her arrow was broken in her fall. Raiſe the praiſe of the daughter of Sarno, and give her name to the wind of the hills.

SEE! meteors roll around the maid; and moon-beams lift her ſoul! Around her, from their clouds, bend the awful faces of her fathers; Sarno^† of the gloomy brow; and the red-rolling eyes of Fidallan. When ſhall thy white hand ariſe, and thy voice be heard on our rocks? The maids ſhall ſeek thee on the heath, but they will not find thee. Thou ſhalt come, at times, to their dreams, and ſettle peace in their ſoul. Thy voice ſhall remain in their ears^‡, and they ſhall think with joy on the dreams of their reſt. Meteors roll around the maid, and moon-beams lift her ſoul!

THE WAR of CAROS^*: A POEM.

BRING, daughter of Toſcar, bring the harp; the light of the ſong riſes in Oſſian's ſoul. It is like the field, when darkneſs covers the hills around, and the ſhadow grows ſlowly on the plain of the ſun.

I BEHOLD my ſon, O Malvina, near the moſſy rock of Crona^†; but it is the miſt^‡ of the deſart tinged with the beam of the weſt: Lovely is the miſt that aſſumes the form of Oſcar! turn from it, ye winds, when ye roar on the ſide of Ardven.

WHO comes towards my ſon, with the murmur of a ſong? His ſtaff is in his hand, his gray hair looſe on the wind. Surly joy [96] lightens his face; and he often looks back to Caros. It is Ryno^* of the ſong, he that went to view the foe.

WHAT does Caros king of ſhips, ſaid the ſon of the now mourn⯑ful Oſſian? ſpreads he the wings^† of his pride, bard of the times of old?

HE ſpreads them, Oſcar, replied the bard, but it is behind his gathered heap^‡. He looks over his ſtones with fear, and beholds thee terrible, as the ghoſt of night that rolls the wave to his ſhips.

GO, thou firſt of my bards, ſays Oſcar, and take the ſpear of Fin⯑gal. Fix a flame on its point, and ſhake it to the winds of heaven. Bid him, in ſongs, to advance, and leave the rolling of his wave. Tell to Caros that I long for battle; and that my bow is weary of the chace of Cona. Tell him the mighty are not here; and that my arm is young.

HE went with the murmur of his ſong. Oſcar reared his voice on high. It reached his heroes on Ardven, like the noiſe of a cave^‖; when the ſea of Togorma rolls before it; and its trees meet the roaring winds.—They gather round my ſon like the ſtreams of the hill; when, after rain, they roll in the pride of their courſe.

RYNO came to the mighty Caros, and ſtruck his flaming ſpear. Come to the battle of Oſcar, O thou that ſitteſt on the rolling of waters. Fingal is diſtant far; he hears the ſongs of his bards in [97] Morven: and the wind of his hall is in his hair. His terrible ſpear is at his ſide; and his ſhield that is like that darkened moon. Come to the battle of Oſcar; the hero is alone.

HE came not over the ſtreamy Carun^*; the bard returned with his ſong. Gray night grows dim on Crona. The feaſt of ſhells is ſpread. A hundred oaks burn to the wind, and faint light gleams over the heath. The ghoſts of Ardven paſs through the beam, and ſhew their dim and diſtant forms. Comala^† is half-unſeen on her meteor; and Hidallan is ſullen and dim, like the darkened moon behind the miſt of night.

WHY art thou ſad? ſaid Ryno; for he alone beheld the chief. Why art thou ſad, Hidallan, haſt thou not received thy fame? The ſongs of Oſſian have been heard, and thy ghoſt has brightened in the wind, when thou didſt bend from thy cloud to hear the ſong of Morven's bard.

AND do thine eyes behold the hero, ſaid Oſcar, like the dim meteor of night? Say, Ryno, ſay, how fell the chief that was ſo re⯑nowned in the days of our fathers?—His name remains on the rocks of Cona; and I have often ſeen the ſtreams of his hills.

FINGAL, replied the bard, had driven Hidallan from his wars. The king's ſoul was ſad for Comala, and his eyes could not behold Hidallan.

[98] LONELY, ſad along the heath he ſlowly moved with ſilent ſteps. His arms hang diſordered on his ſide. His hair flies looſe from his helmet. The tear is in his down-caſt eyes; and the ſigh half-ſilent in his breaſt.

THREE days he ſtrayed unſeen, alone, before he came to La⯑mor's halls: the moſſy halls of his fathers, at the ſtream of Balva^*.—There Lamor ſat alone beneath a tree; for he had ſent his people with Hidallan to war. The ſtream ran at his feet, and his gray head reſted on his ſtaff. Sightleſs are his aged eyes. He hums the ſong of other times.—The noiſe of Hidallan's feet came to his ear: he knew the tread of his ſon.

IS the ſon of Lamor returned; or is it the ſound of his ghoſt? Haſt thou fallen on the banks of Carun, ſon of the aged Lamor? Or, if I hear the ſound of Hidallan's feet; where are the mighty in the war? where are my people, Hidallan, that were wont to return with their echoing ſhields?—Have they fallen on the banks of Carun?

NO: replied the ſighing youth, the people of Lamor live. They are renowned in battle, my father; but Hidallan is renowned no more. I muſt ſit alone on the banks of Balva, when the roar of the battle grows.

BUT thy fathers never ſat alone, replied the riſing pride of La⯑mor; they never ſat alone on the banks of Balva, when the roar of battle roſe.—Doſt thou not behold that tomb? My eyes diſcern [99] it not; there reſts the noble Garmállon who never fled from war.—Come, thou renowned in battle, he ſays, come to thy father's tomb.—How am I renowned, Garmállon, for my ſon has fled from war?

KING of the ſtreamy Balva! ſaid Hidallan with a ſigh, why doſt thou torment my ſoul? Lamor, I never feared.—Fingal was ſad for Comala, and denied his wars to Hidallan; go to the gray ſtreams of thy land, he ſaid, and moulder like a leafleſs oak, which the winds have bent over Balva, never more to grow.

AND muſt I hear, Lamor replied, the lonely tread of Hidallan's feet? When thouſands are renowned in battle, ſhall he bend over my gray ſtreams? Spirit of the noble Garmállon! carry Lamor to his place; his eyes are dark; his ſoul is ſad; and his ſon has loſt his fame.

WHERE, ſaid the youth, ſhall I ſearch for ſame to gladden the ſoul of Lamor? From whence ſhall I return with renown, that the ſound of my arms may be pleaſant in his ear?—If I go to the chace of hinds, my name will not be heard.—Lamor will not feel my dogs, with his hands, glad at my arrival from the hill. He will not enquire of his mountains, or of the dark-brown deer of his deſarts.

I MUST fall, ſaid Lamor, like a leafleſs oak: it grew on a rock, but the winds have overturned it.—My ghoſt will be ſeen on my hills, mournful for my young Hidallan. Will not ye, ye miſts, as ye riſe, hide him from my ſight?—My ſon!—go to Lamor's hall: there the arms of our fathers hang.—Bring the ſword of Gar⯑mállon;—he took it from a foe.

[100] HE went and brought the ſword with all its ſtudded thongs.—He gave it to his father. The gray-haired hero felt the point with his hand.—

MY ſon!—lead me to Garmállon's tomb: it riſes beſide that ruſt⯑ling tree. The long graſs is withered;—I heard the breeze whiſt⯑ling there.—A little fountain murmurs near, and ſends its water to Balva. There let me reſt; it is noon: and the ſun is on our fields.

HE led him to Garmállon's tomb. Lamor pierced the ſide of his ſon.—They ſleep together: and their ancient halls moulder on Balva's banks.—Ghoſts are ſeen there at noon: the valley is ſilent, and the people ſhun the place of Lamor.

MOURNFUL is thy tale, ſaid Oſcar, ſon of the times of old!—My ſoul ſighs for Hidallan; he fell in the days of his youth. He flies on the blaſt of the deſart, and his wandering is in a foreign land.—

SONS of the ecchoing Morven! draw near to the foes of Fingal. Send the night away in ſongs; and watch the ſtrength of Caros. Oſcar goes to the people of other times; to the ſhades of ſilent Ard⯑ven; where his fathers ſit dim in their clouds, and behold the future war.—And art thou there, Hidallan, like a half-extinguiſhed meteor? Come to my ſight, in thy ſorrow, chief of the roaring Balva!

THE heroes move with their ſongs.—Oſcar ſlowly aſcends the hill.—The meteors of night ſet on the heath before him. A diſtant torrent faintly roars.—Unfrequent blaſts ruſh through aged oaks. The half-enlightened moon ſinks dim and red behind her hill.—Feeble voices are heard on the heath.—Oſcar drew his ſword.

[101] COME, ſaid the hero, O ye ghoſts of my fathers! ye that fought againſt the kings of the world!—Tell me the deeds of future times; and your converſe in your caves; when you talk together and behold your ſons in the fields of the valiant.

TRENMOR came, from his hill, at the voice of his mighty ſon.—A cloud, like the ſteed of the ſtranger, ſupported his airy limbs. His robe is of the miſt of Lano, that brings death to the people. His ſword is a green meteor half-extinguiſhed. His face is with⯑out form, and dark. He ſighed thrice over the hero: and thrice the winds of the night roared around. Many were his words to Oſcar: but they only came by halves to our ears: they were dark as the tales of other times, before the light of the ſong aroſe. He ſlowly vaniſhed, like a miſt that melts on the ſunny hill.

IT was then, O daughter of Toſcar, my ſon begun firſt to be ſad. He foreſaw the fall of his race; and, at times, he was thoughtful and dark; like the ſun^* when he carries a cloud on his face; but he looks afterwards on the hills of Cona.

OSCAR paſſed the night among his fathers, gray morning met him on the banks of Carun.

A GREEN vale ſurrounded a tomb which aroſe in the times of old. Little hills lift their head at a diſtance; and ſtretch their old trees to the wind. The warriors of Caros ſat there, for they had paſſed the ſtream by night. They appeared, like the trunks of aged pines, to the pale light of the morning.

OSCAR ſtood at the tomb, and raiſed thrice his terrible voice. The rocking hills ecchoed around: the ſtarting roes bounded away. [102] And the trembling ghoſts of the dead fled, ſhrieking on their clouds. So terrible was the voice of my ſon, when he called his friends.

A THOUSAND ſpears roſe around; the people of Caros roſe.—Why, daughter of Toſcar, why that tear? My ſon, though alone, is brave. Oſcar is like a beam of the ſky; he turns around and the people fall. His hand is like the arm of a ghoſt, when he ſtretches it from a cloud: the reſt of his thin form is unſeen: but the people die in the vale.

MY ſon beheld the approach of the foe; and he ſtood in the ſi⯑lent darkneſs of his ſtrength.—‘"Am I alone, ſaid Oſcar, in the midſt of a thouſand foes?—Many a ſpear is there!—many a darkly-rolling eye!—Shall I fly to Ardven?—But did my fathers ever fly!—The mark of their arm is in a thouſand battles.—Oſcar too will be renowned.—Come, ye dim ghoſts of my fathers, and behold my deeds in war!—I may fall; but I will be renowned like the race of the ecchoing Morven^*".’

HE ſtood, growing in his place, like the flood of the narrow vale. The battle came, but they fell: bloody was the ſword of Oſcar.

THE noiſe reached his people at Crona; they came like a hundred ſtreams. The warriors of Caros fled, and Oſcar remained like a rock left by the ebbing ſea.

[103] NOW dark and deep, with all his ſteeds, Caros rolled his might along: the little ſtreams are loſt in his courſe; and the earth is rock⯑ing round.—Battle ſpreads from wing to wing: ten thouſand ſwords gleam at once in the ſky.—But why ſhould Oſſian ſing of battles?—For never more ſhall my ſteel ſhine in war. I remember the days of my youth with ſorrow; when I feel the weakneſs of my arm. Happy are they who fell in their youth, in the midſt of their renown!—They have not beheld the tombs of their friend: or fail⯑ed to bend the bow of their ſtrength.—Happy art thou, O Oſ⯑car, in the midſt of thy ruſhing blaſt. Thou often goeſt to the fields of thy fame, where Caros fled from thy lifted ſword.

DARKNESS comes on my ſoul, O fair daughter of Toſcar, I be⯑hold not the form of my ſon at Carun; nor the figure of Oſcar on Crona. The ruſtling winds have carried him far away; and the heart of his father is ſad.

BUT lead me, O Malvina, to the found of my woods, and the roar of my mountain ſtreams. Let the chace be heard on Cona; that I may think on the days of other years.—And bring me the harp, O maid, that I may touch it when the light of my ſoul ſhall ariſe.—Be thou near, to learn the ſong; and future times ſhall hear of Oſſian.

THE ſons of the feeble hereafter will lift the voice on Cona; and, looking up to the rocks, ſay, ‘"Here Oſſian dwelt."’ They ſhall admire the chiefs of old, and the race that are no more: while we ride on our clouds, Malvina, on the wings of the roaring winds. Our voices ſhall be heard, at times, in the deſart; and we ſhall ſing on the winds of the rock.

THE WAR of INIS-THONA^*: A POEM.

OUR youth is like the dream of the hunter on the hill of heath. He ſleeps in the mild beams of the ſun; but he awakes amidſt a ſtorm; the red lightning flies around: and the trees ſhake their heads to the wind. He looks back with joy, on the day of the ſun; and the pleaſant dreams of his reſt!

WHEN ſhall Oſſian's youth return, or his ear delight in the ſound of arms? When ſhall I, like Oſcar, travel^† in the light of my ſteel?—Come, with your ſtreams, ye hills of Cona, and liſten to the voice of Oſſian! The ſong riſes, like the ſun, in my ſoul; and my heart feels the joys of other times.

I BEHOLD thy towers, O Selma! and the oaks of thy ſhaded wall:—thy ſtreams ſound in my ear; thy heroes gather round. Fingal ſits in the midſt; and leans on the ſhield of Trenmor:—his [105] ſpear ſtands againſt the wall; he liſtens to the ſong of his bards.—The deeds of his arm are heard; and the actions of the king in his youth.

OSCAR had returned from the chace, and heard the hero's praiſe.—He took the ſhield of Branno^* from the wall; his eyes were filled with tears. Red was the cheek of youth. His voice was trembling, low. My ſpear ſhook its bright head in his hand: he ſpoke to Morven's king.

FINGAL! thou king of heroes! Oſſian, next to him in war! ye have fought the battle in your youth; your names are renowned in the ſong.—Oſcar is like the miſt of Cona; I appear and vaniſh.—The bard will not know my name.—The hunter will not ſearch in the heath for my tomb. Let me fight, O heroes, in the battles of Inis-thona. Diſtant is the land of my war!—ye ſhall not hear of Oſcar's fall.—Some bard may find me there, and give my name to the ſong.—The daughter of the ſtranger ſhall ſee my tomb, and weep over the youth that came from afar. The bard ſhall ſay, at the feaſt, hear the ſong of Oſcar from the diſtant land!

OSCAR, replied the king of Morven; thou ſhalt fight, ſon of my fame!—Prepare my dark-boſomed ſhip to carry my hero to Inis-thona. Son of my ſon, regard our fame;—for thou art of the race of renown. Let not the children of ſtrangers ſay, feeble are the ſons of Morven!—Be thou, in battle, like the roaring ſtorm: mild as the evening ſun in peace.—Tell, Oſcar, to Inis-thona's king, that Fingal remembers his youth; when we ſtrove in the combat together in the days of Agandecca.

[106] THEY lifted up the ſounding ſail; the wind whiſtled through the thongs^* of their maſts. Waves laſhthe oozy rocks: the ſtrength of ocean roars.—My ſon beheld, from the wave, the land of groves. He ruſhed into the ecchoing bay of Runa; and ſent his ſword to Annir king of ſpears.

THE gray-haired hero roſe, when he ſaw the ſword of Fingal. His eyes were full of tears, and he remembered the battles of their youth. Twice they lifted the ſpear before the lovely Agandecca: heroes ſtood far diſtant, as if two ghoſts contended.

BUT now, begun the king, I am old; the ſword lies uſeleſs in my hall. Thou who art of Morven's race! Annir has been in the ſtrife of ſpears; but he is pale and withered now, like the oak of Lano. I have no ſon to meet thee with joy, or to carry thee to the halls of his fathers. Argon is pale in the tomb, and Ruro is no more.—My daughter is in the hall of ſtrangers, and longs to behold my tomb.—Her ſpouſe ſhakes ten thouſand ſpears; and comes^† like cloud of death from Lano.—Come, to ſhare the feaſt of Annir, ſon of ecchoing Morven.

THREE days they feaſted together; on the fourth Annir heard the name of Oſcar.—They rejoiced in the ſhell^‡; and purſued the boars of Runa.

[107] BESIDE the fount of moſſy ſtones, the weary heroes reſt. The tear ſteals in ſecret from Annir: and he broke the riſing ſigh.—Here darkly reſt, the hero ſaid, the children of my youth.—This ſtone is the tomb of Ruro: that tree ſounds over the grave of Argon. Do ye hear my voice, O my ſons, within your narrow houſe? Or do ye ſpeak in theſe ruſtling leaves, when the winds of the deſart riſe?

KING of Inis-thona, ſaid Oſcar, how fell the children of youth? The wild boar often ruſhes over their tombs, but he does not di⯑ſturb the hunters. They purſue deer^* formed of clouds, and bend their airy bow.—They ſtill love the ſport of their youth; and mount the wind with joy.

[108] CORMALO, replied the king, is chief of ten thouſand ſpears; he dwells at the dark-rolling waters of Lano^*; which ſent forth the cloud of death. He came to Runa's ecchoing halls, and ſought the honour of the ſpear^†. The youth was lovely as the firſt beam of the ſun; and few were they who could meet him in fight!—My heroes yielded to Cormalo: and my daughter loved the ſon of Lano.

ARGON and Ruro returned from the chace; the tears of their pride deſcend:—They rolled their ſilent eyes on Runa's heroes, be⯑cauſe they yielded to a ſtranger: three days they feaſted with Cor⯑malo: on the fourth my Argon fought.—But who could fight with Argon!—Lano's chief is overcome. His heart ſwelled with the grief of pride, and he reſolved, in ſecret, to behold the death of my ſons.

THEY went to the hills of Runa, and purſued the dark-brown hinds. The arrow of Cormalo flew in ſecret; and my children fell. He came to the maid of his love; to Inis-thona's dark-haired maid.—They fled over the deſart—and Annir remained alone.

NIGHT came on and day appeared; nor Argon's voice, nor Ru⯑ro's came. At length their much-loved dog is ſeen; the fleet and bounding Runar. He came into the hall and howled; and ſeemed to look towards the place of their fall.—We followed him: we found them here: and laid them by this moſſy ſtream. This is the haunt of Annir, when the chace of the hinds is over. I bend like the trunk of an aged oak above them: and my tears for ever flow.

[109] O RONNAN! ſaid the riſing Oſcar, Ogar king of ſpears! call my heroes to my ſide, the ſons of ſtreamy Morven. To-day we go to Lano's water, that ſends forth the cloud of death. Cormalo will not long rejoice: death is often at the point of our ſwords.

THEY came over the deſart like ſtormy clouds, when the winds roll them over the heath: their edges are tinged with lightning: and the ecchoing groves foreſee the ſtorm. The horn of Oſcar's battle is heard; and Lano ſhook over all its waves. The children of the lake convened around the ſounding ſhield of Cormalo.

OSCAR fought, as he was wont in battle. Cormalo fell beneath his ſword: and the ſons of the diſmal Lano fled to their ſecret vales.—Oſcar brought the daughter of Inis-thona to Annir's ecchoing halls. The face of age is bright with joy; he bleſt the king of ſwords.

HOW great was the joy of Oſſian, when he beheld the diſtant ſail of his ſon! it was like a cloud of light that riſes in the eaſt, when the traveller is ſad in a land unknown; and diſmal night, with her ghoſts, is ſitting around him.

WE brought him, with ſongs, to Selma's halls. Fingal ordered the feaſt of ſhells to be ſpread. A thouſand bards raiſed the name of Oſcar: and Morven anſwered to the noiſe. The daughter of Toſcar was there, and her voice was like the harp; when the diſtant ſound comes, in the evening, on the ſoft-ruſtling breeze of the vale.

O LAY me, ye that ſee the light, near ſome rock of my hills: let the thick hazels be around, let the ruſtling oak be near. Green be the place of my reſt; and let the ſound of the diſtant torrent be heard. Daughter of Toſcar, take the harp, and raiſe the lovely [110] ſong of Selma; that ſleep may overtake my ſoul in the midſt of joy; that the dreams of my youth may return, and the days of the mighty Fingal.

SELMA! I behold thy towers, thy trees, and ſhaded wall. I ſee the heroes of Morven; and hear the ſong of bards. Oſcar lifts the ſword of Cormalo; and a thouſand youths admire its ſtudded thongs. They look with wonder on my ſon; and admire the ſtrength of his arm. They mark the joy of his father's eyes; they long for an equal fame.

AND ye ſhall have your fame, O ſons of ſtreamy Morven.—My ſoul is often brightened with the ſong; and I remember the com⯑panions of my youth.—But ſleep deſcends with the ſound of the harp; and pleaſant dreams begin to riſe. Ye ſons of the chace ſtand far diſtant, nor diſturb my reſt^*. The bard of other times con⯑verſes now with his fathers, the chiefs of the days of old.—Sons of the chace, ſtand far diſtant; diſturb not the dreams of Oſſian.

THE BATTLE of LORA: A POEM^*.

SON of the diſtant land, who dwelleſt in the ſecret cell! do I hear the ſounds of thy grove? or is it thy voice of ſongs?—The torrent was loud in my ear, but I heard a tuneful voice; doſt thou praiſe the chiefs of thy land; or the ſpirits^† of the wind?—But, lonely dweller of the rock! look over that heathy plain: thou ſeeſt green tombs, with their rank, whiſtling graſs; with their ſtones [112] of moſſy heads: thou ſeeſt them, ſon of the rock, but Oſſian's eyes have failed.

A MOUNTAIN-STREAM comes roaring down and ſends its wa⯑ters round a green hill: four moſſy ſtones, in the midſt of withered graſs, rear their heads on the top: two trees, which the ſtorms have bent, ſpread their whiſtling branches around.—This is thy dwelling, Erragon^*; this thy narrow houſe: the ſound of thy ſhells have been long forgot in Sora: and thy ſhield is become dark in thy hall.—Erragon, king of ſhips! chief of diſtant Sora! how haſt thou fallen on our mountains^†! How is the mighty low!

SON of the ſecret cell! doſt thou delight in ſongs? Hear the battle of Lora; the ſound of its ſteel is long ſince paſt. So thun⯑der on the darkened hill roars and is no more. The ſun returns with his ſilent beams: the glittering rocks, and green heads of the mountains ſmile.

THE bay of Cona received our ſhips^‡, from Ullin's rolling waves: our white ſheets hung looſe to the maſts: and the boiſterous winds roared behind the groves of Morven.—The horn of the king is ſounded, and the deer ſtart from their rocks. Our arrows flew in the woods; the feaſt of the hill is ſpread. Our joy was great on our rocks, for the fall of the terrible Swaran.

[113] TWO heroes were forgot at our feaſt; and the rage of their bo⯑ſoms burned. They rolled their red eyes in ſecret: the ſigh burſts from their breaſts. They were ſeen to talk together, and to throw their ſpears on earth. They were two dark clouds, in the midſt of our joy; like pillars of miſt on the ſettled ſea: it glitters to the ſun, but the mariners fear a ſtorm.

RAISE my white ſails, ſaid Ma-ronnan, raiſe them to the winds of the weſt; let us ruſh, O Aldo, through the foam of the northern wave. We are forgot at the feaſt: but our arms have been red in blood. Let us leave the hills of Fingal, and ſerve the king of Sora.—His countenance is fierce, and the war darkens round his ſpear. Let us be renowned, O Aldo, in the battles of ecchoing Sora.

THEY took their ſwords and ſhields of thongs; and ruſhed to Lumar's ſounding bay. They came to Sora's haughty king, the chief of bounding ſteeds.—Erragon had returned from the chace: his ſpear was red in blood. He bent his dark face to the ground: and whiſtled as he went.—He took the ſtrangers to his feaſts: they fought and conquered in his wars.

ALDO returned with his fame towards Sora's lofty walls.—From her tower looked the ſpouſe of Erragon, the humid, rolling eyes of Lorma.—Her dark-brown hair flies on the wind of ocean: her white breaſt heaves, like ſnow on heath; when the gentle winds ariſe, and ſlowly move it in the light. She ſaw young Aldo, like the beam of Sora's ſetting ſun. Her ſoft heart ſighed: tears filled her eyes; and her white arm ſupported her head.

THREE days ſhe ſat within the hall, and covered grief with joy.—On the fourth ſhe fled with the hero, along the rolling ſea.—They came to Cona's moſſy towers, to Fingal king of ſpears.

[114] ALDO of the heart of pride! ſaid the riſing king of Morven, ſhall I defend thee from the wrath of Sora's injured king? who will now receive my people into their halls, or give the feaſt of ſtrangers, ſince Aldo, of the little ſoul, has carried away the fair of Sora? Go to thy hills, thou feeble hand, and hide thee in thy caves; mourn⯑ful is the battle we muſt fight, with Sora's gloomy king.—Spirit of the noble Trenmor! When will Fingal ceaſe to fight? I was born in the midſt of battles^*, and my ſteps muſt move in blood to my tomb. But my hand did not injure the weak, my ſteel did not touch the feeble in arms.—I behold thy tempeſts, O Morven, which will overtrun my halls; when my children are dead in battle, and none remains to dwell in Selma. Then will the feeble come, but they will not know my tomb: my renown is in the ſong: and my actions ſhall be as a dream to future times.

HIS people gathered around Erragon, as the ſtorms round the ghoſt of night; when he calls them from the top of Morven, and prepares to pour them on the land of the ſtranger.—He came to the ſhore of Cona, and ſent his bard to the king; to demand the combat of thouſands; or the land of many hills.

FINGAL ſat in his hall with the companions of his youth around him. The young heroes were at the chace, and far diſtant in the deſart. The gray-haired chiefs talked of other times, and of the actions of their youth; when the aged Narthmor^† came, the king of ſtreamy Lora.

THIS is no time, begun the chief, to hear the ſongs of other years: Erragon frowns on the coaſt, and lifts ten thouſand ſwords. Gloomy [115] is the king among his chiefs! he is like the darkened moon, amidſt the meteors of night.

COME, ſaid Fingal, from thy hall, thou daughter of my love; come from thy hall, Boſmina^*, maid of ſtreamy Morven! Narthmor, take the ſteeds^† of the ſtrangers, and attend the daughter of Fingal: let her bid the king of Sora to our feaſt, to Selma's ſhaded wall.—Offer him, O Boſmina, the peace of heroes, and the wealth of generous Aldo: our youths are far diſtant, and age is on our trembling hands.

SHE came to the hoſt of Erragon, like a beam of light to a cloud.—In her right hand ſhone an arrow of gold: and in her left a ſparkling ſhell, the ſign of Morven's peace.

ERRAGON brightened in her preſence as a rock, before the ſud⯑den beams of the ſun; when they iſſue from a broken cloud, divid⯑ed by the roaring wind.

SON of the diſtant Sora, begun the mildly bluſhing maid, come to the feaſt of Morven's king, to Selma's ſhaded walls. Take the peace of heroes, O warrior, and let the dark ſword reſt by thy ſide.—And if thou chuſeſt the wealth of kings, hear the words of the generous Aldo.—He gives to Erragon an hundred ſteeds, the children of the rein; an hundred maids from diſtant lands; an hundred hawks with fluttering wing, that fly acroſs the ſky. An hundred girdles^‡ ſhall alſo be thine, to bind high-boſomed women; the friends of [116] the births of heroes, and the cure of the ſons of toil.—Ten ſhells ſtudded with gems ſhall ſhine in Sora's towers: the blue water trembles on their ſtars, and ſeems to be ſparkling wine.—They gladdened once the kings of the world^*, in the midſt of their ec⯑choing halls. Theſe, O hero, ſhall be thine; or thy white-boſom⯑ed ſpouſe.—Lorma ſhall roll her bright eyes in thy halls; though Fingal loves the generous Aldo:—Fingal!—who never injured a hero, though his arm is ſtrong.

SOFT voice of Cona! replied the king, tell him, that he ſpreads his feaſt in vain.—Let Fingal pour his ſpoils around me; and bend beneath my power. Let him give me the ſwords of his fa⯑thers, and the ſhields of other times; that my children may be⯑hold them in my halls, and ſay, ‘"Theſe are the arms of Fingal."’

NEVER ſhall they behold them in thy halls, ſaid the riſing pride of the maid; they are in the mighty hands of heroes who never yielded in war.—King of the ecchoing Sora! the ſtorm is gathering on our hills. Doſt thou not foreſee the fall of thy people, ſon of the diſtant land?

SHE came to Selma's ſilent halls; the king beheld her down-caſt eyes. He roſe from his place, in his ſtrength, and ſhook his aged locks.—He took the ſounding mail of Trenmor, and the dark-brown ſhield of his fathers. Darkneſs filled Selma's hall, when he ſtretch⯑ed his hand to his ſpear:—the ghoſts of thouſands were near, and [117] foreſaw the death of the people. Terrible joy roſe in the face of the aged heroes: they ruſhed to meet the foe; their thoughts are on the actions of other years: and on the fame of the tomb.

NOW the dogs of the chace appeared at Trathal's tomb: Fingal know that his young heroes followed them, and he ſtopt in the midſt of his courſe.—Oſcar appeared the firſt;—then Morni's ſon, and Nemi's race:—Fercuth^* ſhewed his gloomy form: Dermid ſpread his dark hair on the wind. Oſſian came the laſt, O ſon of the rock^†, I hummed the ſong of other times: my ſpear ſupported my ſteps over the little ſtreams, and my thoughts were of mighty men. Fingal ſtruck his boſſy ſhield; and gave the diſmal ſign of war; a thouſand ſwords^‡, at once unſheathed, gleam on the wav⯑ing heath. Three gray-haired ſons of the ſong raiſe the tuneſul, mournful voice.—Deep and dark with ſounding ſteps, we ruſh, a gloomy ridge, along: like the ſhower of a ſtorm when it pours on the narrow vale.

THE king of Morven ſat on his hill: the ſun-beam^‖ of battle flew on the wind: the companions of his youth are near, with all their waving locks of age.—Joy roſe in the hero's eyes when he beheld his ſons in war; when he ſaw them amidſt the lightning of ſwords, and mindful of the deeds of their fathers.—Erragon came on, in his ſtrength, like the roar of a winter ſtream: the battle falls in his courſe, and death is at his ſide.

[118] WHO comes, ſaid Fingal, like the bounding roe, like the hart of ecchoing Cona? His ſhield glitters on his ſide; and the clang of his armour is mournful.—He meets with Erragon in the ſtrife!—Behold the battle of the chiefs!—it is like the contending of ghoſts in a gloomy ſtorm.—But falleſt thou, ſon of the hill, and is thy white boſom ſtained with blood? Weep, unhappy Lorma, Aldo is no more.

THE king took the ſpear of his ſtrength; for he was ſad for the fall of Aldo: he bent his deathful eyes on the foe; but Gaul met the king of Sora.—Who can relate the fight of the chiefs?—The mighty ſtranger fell.

SONS of Cona! Fingal cried aloud, ſtop the hand of death.—Mighty was he that is now ſo low! and much is he mourned in Sora! The ſtranger will come towards his hall, and wonder why it is ſilent. The king is fallen, O ſtranger, and the joy of his houſe is ceaſed.—Liſten to the ſound of his woods: perhaps his ghoſt is there; but he is far diſtant, on Morven, beneath the ſword of a foreign foe.

SUCH were the words of Fingal, when the bard raiſed the ſong of peace; we ſtopped our uplifted ſwords, and ſpared the feeble foe. We laid Erragon in that tomb; and I raiſed the voice of grief: the clouds of night came rolling down, and the ghoſt of Erragon appeared to ſome.—His face was cloudy and dark; and an half⯑ſormed ſigh is in his breaſt.—Bleſt be thy ſoul, O king of Sora! thine arm was terrible in war!

Lorma ſat, in Aldo's hall, at the light of a flaming oak: the night came, but he did not return; and the ſoul of Lorma is ſad.—What detains thee, hunter of Cona? for thou didſt promiſe to [119] return.—Has the deer been diſtant far; and do the dark winds ſigh, round thee, on the heath? I am in the land of ſtrangers, where is my friend, but Aldo? Come from thy ecchoing hills, O my beſt beloved!

HER eyes are turned toward the gate, and ſhe liſtens to the ruſt⯑ling blaſt. She thinks it is Aldo's tread, and joy riſes in her ſace:—but ſorrow returns again, like a thin cloud on the moon.—And thou wilt not return, my love? Let me behold the face of the hill. The moon is in the eaſt. Calm and bright is the breaſt of the lake! When ſhall I behold his dogs returning from the chace? When ſhall I hear his voice, loud and diſtant on the wind? Come from thy ecchoing hills, hunter of woody Cona!

HIS thin ghoſt appeared, on a rock, like the watry beam of the moon, when it ruſhes from between two clouds, and the mid⯑night ſhower is on the field.—She followed the empty ſorm over the heath, for ſhe knew that her hero fell.—I heard her approaching cries on the wind, like the mournſul voice of the breeze, when it ſighs on the graſs of the cave.

SHE came, ſhe found her hero: her voice was heard no more: ſilent ſhe rolled her ſad eyes; ſhe was pale as a watry cloud, that riſes from the lake, to the beam of the moon.

FEW were her days on Cona: ſhe ſunk into the tomb: Fingal commanded his bards; and they ſung over the death of Lorma. The daughters^* of Morven mourned her ſor one day in the year, when the dark winds of autumn returned.

[120] SON of the diſtant land^*, thou dwelleſt in the field of fame: O let thy ſong riſe, at times, in the praiſe of thoſe that fell: that their thin ghoſts may rejoice around thee; and the ſoul of Lorma come on a moon-beam^†, when thou lieſt down to reſt, and the moon looks into thy cave. Then ſhalt thou ſee her lovely; but the tear is ſtill on her cheek.

CONLATH and CUTHÓNA: A POEM^*.

DID not Oſſian hear a voice? or is it the ſound of days that are no more? Often does the memory of former times come, like the evening ſun, on my ſoul. The noiſe of the chace is renewed; and, in thought, I lift the ſpear.—But Oſſian did hear a voice: Who art thou, ſon of the night? The ſons of little men are aſleep, and the midnight wind is in my hall. Perhaps it is the ſhield of Fingal that echoes to the blaſt, it hangs in Oſſian's hall, and he feels [122] it ſometimes with his hands.—Yes!—I hear thee, my friend; long has thy voice been abſent from mine ear! What brings thee, on thy cloud, to Oſſian, ſon of the generous Morni? Are the friends of the aged near thee? Where is Oſcar, ſon of fame?—He was of⯑ten near thee, O Conlath, when the din of battle roſe.

SLEEPS the ſweet voice of Cona, in the midſt of his ruſtling hall? Sleeps Oſſian in his hall, and his friends without their fame? The ſea rolls round the dark I-thona^*, and our tombs are not ſeen by the ſtranger. How long ſhall our fame be unheard, ſon of the eccho⯑ing Morven?

O THAT mine eyes could behold thee, as thou ſitteſt, dim, on thy cloud! Art thou like the miſt of Lano; or an half extinguiſhed meteor? Of what are the ſkirts of thy robe? Of what is thine airy bow?—But he is gone on his blaſt like the ſhadow of miſt.—Come from thy wall, my harp, and let me hear thy ſound. Let the light of memory riſe on I-thona; that I may behold my friends. And Oſſian does behold his friends, on the dark-blue iſle.—The cave of Thona appears, with its moſſy rocks and bending trees. A ſtream roars at its mouth, and Toſcar bends over its courſe. Fercuth is ſad by his ſide: and the maid^† of his love ſits at a diſtance, and weeps. Does the wind of the waves deceive me? Or do I hear them ſpeak?

THE night was ſtormy. From their hills the groaning oaks came down. The ſea darkly-tumbled beneath the blaſt, and the roaring waves were climbing againſt our rocks.—The lightning came often [123] and ſhewed the blaſted ſern.—Fercuth! I ſaw the ghoſt of night^*. Silent he ſtood, on that bank; his robe of miſt flew on the wind.—I could behold his tears: an aged man he ſeemed, and full of thought.

IT was thy father, O Toſcar; and he foreſees ſome death among his race. Such was his appearance on Cromla, before the great Ma-ronnan^† fell.—Ullin^‡! with thy hills of graſs, how plea⯑ſant are thy vales! Silence is near thy blue ſtreams, and the ſun is on thy fields. Soft is the ſound of the harp in Seláma^‖, and lovely the cry of the hunter on Crómla. But we are in the dark I-thona, ſurrounded by the ſtorm. The billows lift their white heads above our rocks: and we tremble amidſt the night.

WHITHER is the ſoul of battle fled, Fercuth with the locks of age? I have ſeen thee undaunted in danger, and thine eyes burning with joy in the fight. Whither is the ſoul of battle fled? Our fa⯑thers never feared.—Go: view the ſettling ſea: the ſtormy wind is laid. The billows ſtill tremble^{{inverted †}} on the deep, and ſeem to fear the blaſt. But view the ſettling ſea: morning is gray on our rocks. The ſun will look ſoon from his eaſt; in all his pride of light.

[124] I LIFTED up my ſails, with joy, before the halls of generous Conlath. My courſe was by the iſle of waves, where his love pur⯑ſued the deer. I ſaw her, like that beam of the ſun that iſſues from the cloud. Her hair was on her heaving breaſt; ſhe, bending for⯑ward, drew the bow: her white arm ſeemed, behind her, like the ſnow of Cromla:—Come to my ſoul, I ſaid, thou huntreſs of the iſle of waves! But ſhe ſpends her time in tears, and thinks of the ge⯑nerous Conlath. Where can I find thy peace, Cuthona, lovely maid!

^* A DISTANT ſteep bends over the ſea, with aged trees and moſſy rocks: the billows roll at its feet: on its ſide is the dwelling of roes. The people call it Ardven. There the towers of Mora riſe. There Conlath looks over the ſea for his only love. The daughters of the chace returned, and he beheld their downcaſt eyes. Where is the daughter of Rumar? But they anſwered not.—My peace dwells on Ardven, ſon of the diſtant land!

AND Cuthona ſhall return to her peace; to the halls of generous Conlath. He is the friend of Toſcar: I have feaſted in his halls.—Riſe, ye gentle breezes of Ullin, and ſtretch my ſails towards Ard⯑ven's ſhores. Cuthona ſhall reſt on Ardven: but the days of Toſ⯑car will be ſad.—I ſhall ſit in my cave in the field of the ſun. The blaſt will ruſtle in my trees, and I ſhall think it is Cuthona's voice. But ſhe is diſtant far, in the halls of the mighty Conlath.

OH! what cloud is that? It carries the ghoſts of my fathers. I ſee the ſkirts of their robes, like gray and watry miſt. When ſhall I fall, O Rumar?—Sad Cuthona ſees her death. Will not Conlath behold me, before I enter the narrow houſe^*?

AND he will behold thee, O maid: he comes along the rolling ſea. The death of Toſcar is dark on his ſpear; and a wound is in his ſide. He is pale at the cave of Thona, and ſhews his ghaſtly wound^†. Where art thou with thy tears, Cuthona? the chief of Mora dies.—The viſion grows dim on my mind:—I behold the chiefs no more. But, O ye bards of future times, remember the fall of Conlath with tears: he fell before his day^‡; and ſadneſs darkened in his hall. His mother looked to his ſhield on the wall, and it was bloody^†. She knew that her hero died, and her ſorrow was heard on Mora.

ART thou pale on thy rock, Cuthona, beſide the fallen chiefs? The night comes, and the day returns, but none appears to raiſe their tomb. Thou frightneſt the ſcreaming fowls^‖ away, and thy tears forever flow. Thou art pale as a watry cloud, that riſes from a lake.

[126] THE ſons of the deſart came, and they found her dead. They raiſe a tomb over the heroes; and ſhe reſts at the ſide of Conlath.—Come not to my dreams, O Conlath; for thou haſt received thy fame. Be thy voice far diſtant from my hall; that ſleep may deſcend at night. O that I could forget my friends: till my footſteps ceaſe to be ſeen! till I come among them with joy! and lay my aged limbs in the narrow houſe!

CARTHON^*: A POEM.

A TALE of the times of old! The deeds of days of other years!—The murmur of thy ſtreams, O Lora, brings back the memory of the paſt. The ſound of thy woods, Garmallar, is lovely in mine ear. Doſt thou not behold, Malvina, a rock with its head of heath? Three aged firs bend from its face; green is the narrow plain at its feet; there the flower of the mountain grows, [128] and ſhakes its white head in the breeze. The thiſtle is there alone, and ſhades its aged beard. Two ſtones, half ſunk in the ground, ſhew their heads of moſs. The deer of the mountain avoids the place, for he beholds the gray ghoſt that guards it^*: for the mighty lie, O Malvina, in the narrow plain of the rock. A tale of the times of old! the deeds of days of other years!

WHO comes from the land of ſtrangers, with his thouſands around him? the ſun-beam pours its bright ſtream before him; and his hair meets the wind of his hills. His face is ſettled from war. He is calm as the evening beam that looks, from the cloud of the weſt, on Cona's ſilent vale. Who is it but Comhal's ſon^†, the king of mighty deeds! He beholds his hills with joy, and bids a thouſand voices riſe.—Ye have fled over your fields, ye ſons of the diſtant land! The king of the world ſits in his hall, and hears of his people's flight. He lifts his red eye of pride, and takes his father's ſword. Ye have fled over your fields, ſons of the diſtant land!

[129] SUCH were the words of the bards, when they came to Selma's halls.—A thouſand lights^* from the ſtranger's land roſe, in the midſt of the people. The feaſt is ſpread around; and the night paſſed away in joy.—Where is the noble Cleſsámmor^†, ſaid the fair-haired Fingal? Where is the companion of my father, in the days of my joy? Sul⯑len and dark he paſſes his days in the vale of ecchoing Lora: but, be⯑hold, he comes from the hill, like a ſteed^‡ in his ſtrength, who finds his companions in the breeze; and toſſes his bright mane in the wind.—Bleſt be the ſoul of Cleſsámmor, why ſo long from Selma?

RETURNS the chief, ſaid Cleſsámmor, in the midſt of his fame? Such was the renown of Comhal in the battles of his youth. Often did we paſs over Carun to the land of the ſtrangers: our ſwords re⯑turned, not unſtained with blood: nor did the kings of the world rejoice.—Why do I remember the battles of my youth? My hair is mixed with gray. My hand forgets to bend the bow: and I lift [130] a lighter ſpear. O that my joy would return, as when I firſt be⯑held the maid; the white boſomed daughter of ſtrangers, Moina^* with the dark-blue eyes!

TELL, ſaid the mighty Fingal, the tale of thy youthful days. Sorrow, like a cloud on the ſun, ſhades the ſoul of Cleſsámmor. Mournful are thy thoughts, alone, on the banks of the roaring Lora. Let us hear the ſorrow of thy youth, and the darkneſs of thy days.

IT was in the days of peace, replied the great Cleſsámmor, I came, in my bounding ſhip, to Balclutha's^† walls of towers. The winds had roared behind my ſails, and Clutha's^‡ ſtreams received my dark-boſomed veſſel. Three days I remained in Reuthámir's halls, and ſaw that beam of light, his daughter. The joy of the ſhell went round, and the aged hero gave the fair. Her breaſts were like foam on the wave, and her eyes like ſtars of light: her hair was dark as the raven's wing: her ſoul was generous and mild. My love for Moina was great: and my heart poured forth in joy.

THE ſon of a ſtranger came; a chief who loved the white-boſomed Moina. His words were mighty in the hall, and he often half-unſheathed his ſword.—Where, he ſaid, is the mighty Comhal, the reſtleſs wanderer^‖ of the heath? Comes he, with his hoſt, to Bal⯑clutha, ſince Cleſsámmor is ſo bold?

[131] MY Soul, I replied, O warrior! burns in a light of its own. I ſtand without fear in the midſt of thouſands, though the valiant are diſtant far.—Stranger! thy words are mighty, for Cleſſammor is alone. But my ſword trembles by my ſide, and longs to glitter in my hand.—Speak no more of Comhal, ſon of the winding Clutha!

THE ſtrength of his pride aroſe. We fought; he fell beneath my ſword. The banks of Clutha heard his fall, and a thouſand ſpears glittered around. I fought: the ſtrangers prevailed: I plunged into the ſtream of Clutha. My white ſails roſe over the waves, and I bounded on the dark-blue ſea.—Moina came to the ſhore, and rolled the red eye of her tears: her dark hair flew on the wind; and I heard her cries.—Often did I turn my ſhip! but the winds of the Eaſt prevailed. Nor Clutha ever ſince have I ſeen: nor Moina of the dark brown hair.—She fell in Balclutha: for I have ſeen her ghoſt. I knew her as ſhe came through the duſky night, along the murmur of Lora: ſhe was like the new moon^* ſeen through the gathered miſt: when the ſky pours down its flaky ſnow, and the world is ſilent and dark.

RAISE^†, ye bards, ſaid the mighty Fingal, the praiſe of unhappy Moina. Call her ghoſt, with your ſongs, to our hills; that ſhe [132] may reſt with the fair of Morven, the ſun-beams of other days, and the delight of heroes of old.—I have ſeen the walls^* of Bal⯑clutha, but they were deſolate. The fire had reſounded in the halls: and the voice of the people is heard no more. The ſtream of Clutha was removed from its place, by the fall of the walls.—The thiſtle ſhook, there, its lonely head: the moſs whiſtled to the wind. The fox looked out, from the windows, the rank graſs of the wall waved round his head.—Deſolate is the dwelling of Moina, ſilence is in the houſe of her fathers.—Raiſe the ſong of mourn⯑ing, O bards, over the land of ſtrangers. They have but fallen before us: for, one day, we muſt fall.—Why doſt thou build the hall, ſon of the winged days? Thou lookeſt from thy towers to-day; yet a few years, and the blaſt of the deſart comes; it howls in thy empty court, and whiſtles round thy half-worn ſhield.—And let the blaſt of the deſart come! we ſhall be renowned in our day. The mark of my arm ſhall be in the battle, and my name in the ſong of bards.—Raiſe the ſong; ſend round the ſhell: and let joy be heard in my hall.—When thou, ſun of heaven, ſhalt fail! if thou ſhalt fail, thou mighty light! if thy brightneſs is for a ſeaſon, like Fingal; our fame ſhall ſurvive thy beams.

SUCH was the ſong of Fingal, in the day of his joy. His thou⯑ſand bards leaned forward from their ſeats, to hear the voice of the king. It was like the muſic of the harp on the gale of the ſpring.—Lovely were thy thoughts, O Fingal! why had not Oſſian the ſtrength of thy ſoul?—But thou ſtandeſt alone, my father; and who can equal the king of Morven?

[133] THE night paſſed away in the ſong, and morning returned in joy;—the mountains ſhewed their gray heads; and the blue face of ocean ſmiled.—The white wave is ſeen tumbling round the diſtant rock; the gray miſt riſes, ſlowly, from the lake. It came, in the figure of an aged man, along the ſilent plain. Its large limbs did not move in ſteps; for a ghoſt ſupported it in mid air. It came towards Selma's hall, and diſſolved in a ſhower of blood.

THE king alone beheld the terrible ſight, and he foreſaw the death of the people. He came, in ſilence, to his hall; and took his father's ſpear.—The mail rattled on his breaſt. The heroes roſe around. They looked, in ſilence, on each other, marking the eyes of Fingal.—They ſaw the battle in his face: the death of armies on his ſpear.—A thouſand ſhields, at once, are placed on their arms; and they drew a thouſand ſwords. The hall of Selma brightened around. The clang of arms aſcends.—The gray dogs howl in their place. No word is among the mighty chiefs.—Each marked the eyes of the King; and half aſſumed his ſpear.

SONS of Morven, begun the king, this is no time to fill the ſhell. The battle darkens near us; and death hovers over the land. Some ghoſt, the friend of Fingal, has forewarned us of the foe.—The ſons of the ſtranger come from the darkly-rolling ſea. For, from the water, came the ſign of Morven's gloomy danger.—Let each^* aſſume his heavy ſpear, and gird on his father's ſword.—Let [134] the dark helmet riſe on every head; and the mail pour its lighten⯑ing from every ſide.—The battle gathers like a tempeſt, and ſoon ſhall ye hear the roar of death.

THE hero moved on before his hoſt, like a cloud before a ridge of green fire; when it pours on the ſky of night, and mariners forſee a ſtorm. On Cona's riſing heath they ſtood: the white-boſomed maids beheld them above like a grove; they foreſaw the death of their youths, and looked towards the ſea with fear.—The white wave deceived them for diſtant ſails, and the tear is on their cheek.

THE ſun roſe on the ſea, and we beheld a diſtant fleet.—Like the miſt of ocean they came: and poured their youth upon the coaſt.—The chief was among them, like the ſtag in the midſt of the herd.—His ſhield is ſtudded with gold, and ſtately ſtrode the king of ſpears.—He moved towards Selma; his thouſands moved behind.

GO, with thy ſong of peace, ſaid Fingal; go, Ullin, to the king of ſwords. Tell him that we are mighty in battle; and that the ghoſts of our foes are many.—But renowned are they who have feaſted in my halls! they ſhew the arms^‡ of my fathers in a foreign land: the ſons of the ſtrangers wonder, and bleſs the friends of Morven's race; for our names have been heard afar; the kings of the world ſhook in the midſt of their people.

ULLIN went with his ſong. Fingal reſted on his ſpear: he ſaw the mighty foe in his armour: and he bleſt the ſtranger's ſon.

[135] HOW ſtately art thou, ſon of the ſea! ſaid the king of woody Morven. Thy ſword is a beam of might by thy ſide: thy ſpear is a fir that defies the ſtorm. The varied face of the moon is not broader than thy ſhield.—Ruddy is thy face of youth! ſoft the ringlets of thy hair!—But this tree may fall; and his memory be forgot!—The daughter of the ſtranger will be ſad, and look to the rolling ſea:—the children will ſay, ‘"We ſee a ſhip; perhaps it is the king of Balclutha."’ The tear ſtarts from their mother's eye. Her thoughts are of him that ſleeps in Morven.

SUCH were the words of the king, when Ullin came to the mighty Carthon: he threw down the ſpear before him; and raiſed the ſong of peace.

COME to the feaſt of Fingal, Carthon, from the rolling ſea! par⯑take the feaſt of the king, or lift the ſpear of war. The ghoſts of our foes are many: but renowned are the friends of Morven!

BEHOLD that field, O Carthon; many a green hill riſes there, with moſſy ſtones and ruſtling graſs: theſe are the tombs of Fingal's foes, the ſons of the rolling ſea.

DOST thou ſpeak to the feeble in arms, ſaid Carthon, bard of the woody Morven? Is my face pale for fear, ſon of the peaceful ſong? Why, then, doſt thou think to darken my ſoul with the tales of thoſe who fell?—My arm has fought in the battle; my re⯑nown is known afar. Go to the feeble in arms, and bid them yield to Fingal.—Have not I ſeen the fallen Balclutha? And ſhall I feaſt with Comhal's ſon? Comhal! who threw his fire in the midſt of my fa⯑ther's hall! I was young, and knew not the cauſe why the virgins wept. The columns of ſmoke pleaſed mine eye, when they roſe above my walls; I often looked back, with gladneſs, when my friends [136] fled along the hill.—But when the years of my youth came on, I beheld the moſs of my fallen walls: my ſigh aroſe with the morn⯑ing, and my tears deſcended with night.—Shall I not fight, I ſaid to my ſoul, againſt the children of my foes? And I will fight, O bard; I feel the ſtrength of my ſoul.

HIS people gathered around the hero, and drew, at once, their ſhining ſwords. He ſtands, in the midſt, like a pillar of fire; the tear half-ſtarting from his eye; for he thought of the fallen Balclu⯑tha, and the crowded pride of his ſoul aroſe. Sidelong he looked up to the hill, where our heroes ſhone in arms; the ſpear trembled in his hand: and, bending foreward, he ſeemed to threaten the king.

SHALL I, ſaid Fingal to his ſoul, meet, at once, the king? Shall I ſtop him, in the midſt of his courſe, before his fame ſhall ariſe? But the bard, hereafter, may ſay, when he ſees the tomb of Car⯑thon; Fingal took his thouſands, along with him, to battle, before the noble Carthon fell.—No:—bard of the times to come! thou ſhalt not leſſen Fingal's fame. My heroes will fight the youth, and Fingal behold the battle. If he overcomes, I ruſh, in my ſtrength, like the roaring ſtream of Cona.

WHO, of my heroes, will meet the ſon of the rolling ſea? Many are his warriors on the coaſt: and ſtrong is his aſhen ſpear!

CATHUL^* roſe, in his ſtrength, the ſon of the mighty Lor⯑mar: three hundred youths attend the chief, the race^† of his native ſtreams. Feeble was his arm againſt Carthon, he fell; and his heroes fled.

[137] CONNAL^* reſumed the battle, but he broke his heavy ſpear: he lay bound on the field: and Carthon purſued his people.

CLESSAMMOR! ſaid the king^† of Morven, where is the ſpear of thy ſtrength? Wilt thou behold Connal bound; thy friend, at the ſtream of Lora? Riſe, in the light of thy ſteel, thou friend of Comhal. Let the youth of Balclutha feel the ſtrength of Mor⯑ven's race.

HE roſe in the ſtrength of his ſteel, ſhaking his grizly locks. He fitted the ſhield to his ſide; and ruſhed, in the pride of valour.

CARTHON ſtood, on that heathy rock, and ſaw the heroes ap⯑proach. He loved the terrible joy of his face: and his ſtrength, in the locks of age.—Shall I lift that ſpear, he ſaid, that never ſtrikes, but once, a foe? Or ſhall I, with the words of peace, pre⯑ſerve the warrior's life? Stately are his ſteps of age!—lovely the remnant of his years. Perhaps it is the love of Moina; the father of car-borne Carthon. Often have I heard, that he dwelt at the ecchoing ſtream of Lora.

SUCH were his words, when Cleſsámmor came, and lifted high his ſpear. The youth received it on his ſhield, and ſpoke the words of peace.—Warrior of the aged locks! Is there no youth to lift the ſpear? Haſt thou no ſon, to raiſe the ſhield before his father, and to meet the arm of youth? Is the ſpouſe of thy love no more? or weeps ſhe over the tombs of thy ſons? Art thou of the kings of men? What will be the fame of my ſword if thou ſhalt fall?

[138] IT will be great, thou ſon of pride! begun the tall Cleſsámmor. I have been renowned in battle; but I never told my name^* to a ſoe. Yield to me, ſon of the wave, and then thou ſhalt know, that the mark of my ſword is in many a field.

I NEVER yielded, king of ſpears! replied the noble pride of Car⯑thon: I have alſo fought in battles; and I behold my future fame. Deſpiſe me not, thou chief of men; my arm, my ſpear is ſtrong. Retire among thy friends, and let young heroes fight.

WHY doſt thou wound my ſoul, replied Cleſsámmor with a tear? Age does not tremble on my hand; I ſtill can lift the ſword. Shall I fly in Fingal's ſight; in the ſight of him I loved? Son of the ſea! I never fled: exalt thy pointed ſpear.

THEY fought, like two contending winds, that ſtrive to roll the wave. Carthon bade his ſpear to err; for he ſtill thought that the foe was the ſpouſe of Moina.—He broke Cleſsámmor's beamy ſpear in twain: and ſeized his ſhining ſword. But as Carthon was binding the chief; the chief drew the dagger of his fathers. He ſaw the foe's uncovered ſide; and opened, there, a wound.

FINGAL ſaw Cleſsámmor low: he moved in the ſound of his ſteel. The hoſt ſtood ſilent, in his preſence; they turned their eyes towards the hero.—He came, like the ſullen noiſe of a ſtorm, before the winds ariſe: the hunter hears it in the vale, and retires to the cave of the rock.

[139] CARTHON ſtood in his place: the blood is ruſhing down his ſide: he ſaw the coming down of the king; and his hopes of fame aroſe^*; but pale was his cheek: his hair flew looſe, his hel⯑met ſhook on high: the force of Carthon failed; but his ſoul was ſtrong.

FINGAL beheld the heroe's blood; he ſtopt the uplifted ſpear. Yield, king of ſwords! ſaid Comhal's ſon; I behold thy blood. Thou haſt been mighty in battle; and thy fame ſhall never fade.

ART thou the king ſo far renowned, replied the car-borne Car⯑thon? Art thou that light of death, that frightens the kings of the world?—But why ſhould Carthon aſk? for he is like the ſtream of his deſart; ſtrong as a river, in his courſe: ſwift as the eagle of the ſky.—O that I had ſought with the king; that my ſame might be great in the ſong! that the hunter, beholding my tomb, might ſay, he fought with the mighty Fingal. But Carthon dies unknown; he has poured out his force on the feeble.

BUT thou ſhalt not die unknown, replied the king of woody Mor⯑ven: my bards are many, O Carthon, and their ſongs deſcend to future times. The children of the years to come ſhall hear the fame of Carthon; when they ſit round the burning oak^†, and the night is ſpent in the ſongs of old. The hunter, ſitting in the heath, ſhall hear the ruſtling blaſt; and, raiſing his eyes, behold the rock where Carthon fell. He ſhall turn to his ſon, and ſhew the place [140] where the mighty fought; ‘"There the king of Balclutha fought, like the ſtrength of a thouſand ſtreams."’

JOY roſe in Carthon's face: he lifted his heavy eyes.—He gave his ſword to Fingal, to lie within his hall, that the memory of Balclutha's king might remain on Morven.—The battle ceaſed along the field, for the bard had ſung the ſong of peace. The chiefs ga⯑thered round the falling Carthon, and heard his words, with ſighs. Silent they leaned on their ſpears, while Balclutha's hero ſpoke. His hair ſighed in the wind, and his words were feeble.

KING of Morven, Carthon ſaid, I fall in the midſt of my courſe. A foreign tomb receives, in youth, the laſt of Reuthámir's race. Darkneſs dwells in Balclutha: and the ſhadows of grief in Crathmo.—But raiſe my remembrance on the banks of Lora: where my fa⯑thers dwelt. Perhaps the huſband of Moina will mourn over his fallen Carthon.

HIS words reached the heart of Cleſsámmor: he fell, in ſilence, on his ſon. The hoſt ſtood darkened around: no voice is on the plains of Lora. Night came, and the moon, from the eaſt, looked on the mournful field: but ſtill they ſtood, like a ſilent grove that lifts its head on Gormal, when the loud winds are laid, and dark au⯑tumn is on the plain.

THREE days they mourned above Carthon; on the fourth his fa⯑ther died. In the narrow plain of the rock they lie; and a dim ghoſt defends their tomb. There lovely Moina is often ſeen; when the ſun-beam darts on the rock, and all around is dark. There ſhe is ſeen, Malvina, but not like the daughters of the hill. Her robes are from the ſtranger's land; and ſhe is ſtill alone.

[141] FINGAL was ſad for Carthon; he deſired his bards to mark the day, when ſhadowy autumn returned. And often did they mark the day and ſing the hero's praiſe. Who comes ſo dark from ocean's roar, like autumn's ſhadowy cloud? Death is trembling in his hand! his eyes are flames of fire!—Who roars along dark Lora's heath? Who but Carthon, king of ſwords? The people fall! ſee! how he ſtrides, like the ſullen ghoſt of Morven!—But there he lies a goodly oak, which ſudden blaſts overturned! When ſhalt thou riſe, Balclutha's joy! lovely car-borne Carthon?—Who comes ſo dark from ocean's roar, like autumn's ſhadowy cloud?

SUCH were the words of the bards, in the day of their mourning: I have accompanied their voice; and added to their ſong. My ſoul has been mournful for Carthon; he fell in the days of his valour: and thou, O Cleſsámmor! where is thy dwelling in the air?—Has the youth forgot his wound? And flies he, on the clouds, with thee?—I feel the ſun, O Malvina, leave me to my reſt. Perhaps they may come to my dreams; I think I hear a feeble voice.—The beam of heaven delights to ſhine on the grave of Carthon: I feel it warm around.

O THOU that rolleſt above^*, round as the ſhield of my fathers! Whence are thy beams, O ſun! thy everlaſting light? Thou comeſt forth, in thy awful beauty, and the ſtars hide themſelves in the ſky; the moon, cold and pale, ſinks in the weſtern wave. But thou thy⯑ſelf moveſt alone: who can be a companion of thy courſe! The oaks of the mountains fall: the mountains themſelves decay with [142] years; the ocean ſhrinks and grows again: the moon herſelf is loſt in heaven; but thou art for ever the ſame; rejoicing in the bright⯑neſs of thy courſe. When the world is dark with tempeſts; when thunder rolls, and lightning flies; thou lookeſt in thy beauty, from the clouds, and laugheſt at the ſtorm. But to Oſſian, thou lookeſt in vain; for he beholds thy beams no more; whether thy yellow hair flows on the eaſtern clouds, or thou trembleſt at the gates of the weſt. But thou art perhaps, like me, for a ſeaſon, and thy years will have an end. Thou ſhalt ſleep in thy clouds, careleſs of the voice of the morning.—Exult then, O ſun, in the ſtrength of thy youth! Age is dark and unlovely; it is like the glimmering light of the moon^*, when it ſhines through broken clouds, and the miſt is on the hills; the blaſt of north is on the plain, the traveller ſhrinks in the midſt of his journey.

THE DEATH of CUCHULLIN: A POEM^*.

IS the wind on Fingal's ſhield? Or is the voice of paſt times in my hall? Sing on, ſweet voice, for thou art pleaſant, and car⯑rieſt away my night with joy. Sing on, O Bragela, daughter of Car-borne Songlan!

[144] IT is the white wave of the rock, and not Cuchullin's ſails. Often do the miſts deceive me for the ſhip of my love! when they riſe round ſome ghoſt, and ſpread their gray ſkirts on the wind. Why doſt thou delay thy coming, ſon of the generous Semo?—Four times has autumn returned with its winds, and raiſed the ſeas of Togorma^*, [145] ſince thou haſt been in the roar of battles, and Bragéla diſtant far.—Hills of the iſle of miſt! when will ye anſwer to his hounds?—But ye are dark in your clouds, and ſad Bragéla calls in vain. Night comes rolling down: the face of ocean fails. The heath-cock's head is beneath his wing: the hind ſleeps with the hart of the de⯑ſart. They ſhall riſe with the morning's light, and feed on the moſſy ſtream. But my tears return with the ſun, my ſighs come on with the night. When wilt thou come in thine arms, O chief of moſſy Tura?

PLEASANT is thy voice in Oſſian's ear, daughter of car-borne Sorglan! But retire to the hall of ſhells; to the beam of the burning oak.—Attend to the murmur of the ſea: it rolls at Dunſcaich's walls: let ſleep deſcend on thy blue eyes, and the hero come to thy dreams.

CUCHULLIN ſits at Lego's lake, at the dark rolling of wa⯑ters. Night is around the hero; and his thouſands ſpread on the heath: a hundred oaks burn in the midſt, the feaſt of ſhells is ſmok⯑ing wide.—Carril ſtrikes the harp, beneath a tree; his gray locks glitter in the beam; the ruſtling blaſt of night is near, and lifts his aged hair.—His ſong is of the blue Togorma, and of its chief, Cu⯑chullin's friend.

WHY art thou abſent, Connal, in the day of the gloomy ſtorm? The chiefs of the ſouth have convened againſt the car-borne Cor⯑mac: the winds detain thy ſails, and thy blue waters roll around thee. But Cormac is not alone: the ſon of Semo fights his battles. Semo's ſon his battles fights! the terror of the ſtranger! he that is [146] like the vapour of death^*, ſlowly borne by ſultry winds. The ſun reddens in its preſence, the people fall around.

SUCH was the ſong of Carril, when a ſon of the foe appeared; he threw down his pointleſs ſpear, and ſpoke the words of Torlath: Torlath the chief of heroes, from Lego's ſable ſurge: he that led his thouſands to battle, againſt car-borne Cormac. Cormac who was diſtant far, in Temora's^† ecchoing halls: he learned to bend the bow of his fathers; and to lift the ſpear. Nor long didſt thou lift the ſpear, mildly-ſhining beam of youth! death ſtands dim be⯑hind thee, like the darkened half of the moon behind its growing light.

CUCHULLIN roſe before the bard^‡, that came from generous Torlath; he offered him the ſhell of joy, and honoured the ſon of ſongs. Sweet voice of Lego! he ſaid, what are the words of Tor⯑lath? Comes he to our feaſt or battle, the car-borne ſon of Cantéla^‖?

HE comes to thy battle, replied the bard, to the ſounding ſtrife of ſpears.—When morning is gray on Lego, Torlath will fight [147] on the plain: and wilt thou meet him, in thine arms, king of the iſle of miſt? Terrible is the ſpear of Torlath! it is a meteor of night. He lifts it, and the people fall: death ſits in the lightning of his ſword.

Do I fear, replied Cuchullin, the ſpear of car-borne Torlath? He is brave as a thouſand heroes; but my ſoul delights in war. The ſword reſts not by the ſide of Cuchullin, bard of the times of old! Morning ſhall meet me on the plain, and gleam on the blue arms of Semo's ſon.—But ſit thou, on the heath, O bard! and let us hear thy voice: partake of the joyful ſhell; and hear the ſongs of Temora.

THIS is no time, replied the bard, to hear the ſong of joy; when the mighty are to meet in battle like the ſtrength of the waves of Lego. Why art thou ſo dark, Slimora^*! with all thy ſilent woods? No green ſtar trembles on thy top; no moon-beam on thy ſide. But the meteors of death are there, and the gray watry forms of ghoſts. Why art thou dark, Slimora! with thy ſilent woods?

HE retired, in the ſound of his ſong; Carril accompanied his voice. The muſic was like the memory of joys that are paſt, plea⯑ſant and mournful to the ſoul. The ghoſts of departed bards heard it from Slimora's ſide. Soft ſounds ſpread along the wood, and the ſilent valleys of night rejoice.—So, when he ſits in the ſilence of noon, in the valley of his breeze, the humming of the mountain bee comes to Oſſian's ear: the gale drowns it often in its courſe; but the pleaſant ſound returns again.

RAISE, ſaid Cuchullin, to his hundred bards, the ſong of the noble Fingal: that ſong which he hears at night, when the dreams [148] of his reſt deſcend: when the bards ſtrike the diſtant harp, and the faint light gleams on Selma's walls. Or let the grief of Lara riſe, and the ſighs of the mother of Calmar^*, when he was ſought, in vain, on his hills; and ſhe beheld his bow in the hall.—Carril, place the ſhield of Caithbat on that branch; and let the ſpear of Cuchullin be near; that the ſound of my battle may riſe with the gray beam of the eaſt.

THE hero leaned on his father's ſhield: the ſong of Lara roſe. The hundred bards were diſtant far: Carril alone is near the chief. The words of the ſong were his; and the ſound of his harp was mournful.

ALCLETHA^† with the aged locks! mother of car-borne Calmar! why doſt thou look towards the deſart, to behold the return of thy ſon? Theſe are not his heroes, dark on the heath: nor is that the voice of Calmar: it is but the diſtant grove, Alcletha! but the roar of the mountain wind!

WHO^‡ bounds over Lara's ſtream, ſiſter of the noble Calmar? Does not Alclétha behold his ſpear? But her eyes are dim! Is it not the ſon of Matha, daughter of my love?

[149] IT is but an aged oak, Alcletha! replied the lovely weeping Alona^*; it is but an oak, Alclétha, bent over Lara's ſtream. But who comes along the plain? ſorrow is in his ſpeed. He lifts high the ſpear of Calmar. Alclétha, it is covered with blood!

BUT it is covered with the blood of foes^†, ſiſter of car-borne Cal⯑mar! his ſpear never returned unſtained with blood^‡, nor his bow from the ſtrife of the mighty. The battle is conſumed in his pre⯑ſence: he is a flame of death, Alona!—Youth^‖ of the mournful ſpeed! where is the ſon of Alcletha? Does he return with his fame? in the midſt of his echoing ſhields?—Thou art dark and ſilent!—Calmar is then no more. Tell me not, warrior, how he fell, for I cannot hear of his wound.—

WHY doſt thou look towards the deſart, mother of car-borne Calmar?—

SUCH was the ſong of Carril, when Cuchullin lay on his ſhield: the bards reſted on their harps, and ſleep fell ſoftly around.—The ſon of Semo was awake alone; his ſoul was fixed on the war.—The burning oaks began to decay; faint red light is ſpread around.—A feeble voice is heard: the ghoſt of Calmar came. He ſtalked in the beam. Dark is the wound in his ſide. His hair is diſordered and looſe. Joy ſits darkly on his face; and he ſeems to invite Cuchullin to his cave.

[150] SON of the cloudy night! ſaid the riſing chief of Erin; Why doſt thou bend thy dark eyes on me, ghoſt of the car-borne Calmar? Wouldeſt thou frighten me, O Matha's ſon! from the battles of Cormac? Thy hand was not feeble in war; neither was thy voice^* for peace. How art thou changed, chief of Lara! if thou now doſt adviſe to fly!—But, Calmar, I never fled. I never feared^† the ghoſts of the deſart. Small is their knowledge, and weak their hands; their dwelling is in the wind.—But my ſoul grows in danger, and rejoices in the noiſe of ſteel. Retire thou to thy cave; thou art not Calmar's ghoſt; he delighted in battle, and his arm was like the thunder of heaven.

HE retired in his blaſt with joy, for he had heard the voice of his praiſe. The faint beam of the morning roſe, and the ſound of Caithbat's buckler ſpread. Green Ullin's warriors convened, like the roar of many ſtreams.—The horn of war is heard over Lego; the mighty Torlath came.

Why doſt thou come with thy thouſands, Cuchullin, ſaid the chief of Lego. I know the ſtrength of thy arm, and thy ſoul is an un⯑extinguiſhed fire.—Why fight we not on the plain, and let our hoſts behold our deeds? Let them behold us like roaring waves, that tumble round a rock: the mariners haſten away, and look on their ſtrife with fear.

THOU riſeſt, like the ſun, on my ſoul, replied the ſon of Semo. Thine arm is mighty, O Torlath! and worthy of my wrath. Re⯑tire, ye men of Ullin, to Slimora's ſhady ſide; behold the chief of [151] Erin, in the day of his fame.—Carril! tell to mighty Connal, if Cuchullin muſt fall, tell him I accuſed the winds which roar on Togorma's waves.—Never was he abſent in battle, when the ſtrife of my fame aroſe.—Let this ſword be before Cormac, like the beam of heaven: let his counſel ſound in Temora in the day of danger.—

HE ruſhed, in the ſound of his arms, like the terrible ſpirit of Loda^*, when he comes in the roar of a thouſand ſtorms, and ſcatters battles from his eyes.—He ſits on a cloud over Lochlin's ſeas: his mighty hand is on his ſword, and the winds lift his flaming locks.—So terrible was Cuchullin in the day of his fame.—Torlath fell by his hand, and Lego's heroes mourned.—They gather around the chief like the clouds of the deſart.—A thouſand ſwords roſe at once; a thouſand arrows flew; but he ſtood like a rock in the midſt of a roaring ſea.—They fell around; he ſtrode in blood: dark Slimora ecchoed wide.—The ſons of Ullin came, and the battle ſpread over Lego.—The chief of Erin overcame; he returned over the field with his fame.—

But pale he returned! The joy of his face was dark. He rolled his eyes in ſilence.—The ſword hung, unſheathed, in his hand, and his ſpear bent at every ſtep.

[152] CARRIL, ſaid the king in ſecret, the ſtrength of Cuchullin fails. My days are with the years that are paſt: and no morning of mine ſhall ariſe.—They ſhall ſeek me at Temora, but I ſhall not be found. Cormac will weep in his hall, and fay, ‘"Where is Tura's chief?"’—But my name is renowned! my fame in the ſong of bards.—The youth will ſay in ſecret, O let me die as Cuchullin died; renown cloathed him like a robe; and the light of his fame is great. Draw the arrow from my ſide; and lay Cuchullin beneath that oak. Place the ſhield of Caithbat near, that they may behold me amidſt the arms of my fathers.—

AND is the ſon of Semo fallen^*, ſaid Carril with a ſigh?—Mournful are Tura's walls; and ſorrow dwells at Dunſcaich.—Thy ſpouſe is left alone in her youth, the ſon^† of thy love is alone.—He ſhall come to Bragela, and aſk her why ſhe weeps.—He ſhall lift his eyes to the wall, and ſee his father's ſword.—Whoſe ſword is that? he will ſay: and the ſoul of his mother is ſad. Who is that, like the hart of the deſart, in the murmur of his courſe?—His eyes look wildly round in ſearch of his friend.—Connal, ſon of Colgar, where haſt thou been, when the mighty fell? Did the ſeas of Togorma roll round thee? Was the wind of the ſouth in thy ſails? [153] The mighty have fallen in battle, and thou waſt not there.—Let none tell it in Selma, nor in Morven's woody land; Fingal will be ſad, and the ſons of the deſart mourn.

By the dark rolling waves of Lego they raiſed the hero's tomb.—Luäth^‡, at a diſtance, lies, the companion of Cuchullin, at the chace.—Bleſt^‖ be thy ſoul, ſon of Semo; thou wert mighty in battle.—Thy ſtrength was like the ſtrength of a ſtream: thy ſpeed like the eagle's^* wing.—Thy path in the battle was terrible: the ſteps of death were behind thy ſword.—Bleſt be thy ſoul, ſon of Semo; car-borne chief of Dunſcaich!

THOU haſt not fallen by the ſword of the mighty, neither was thy blood on the ſpear of the valiant.—The arrow came, like the ſting of death in a blaſt: nor did the feeble hand, which drew the bow, perceive it. Peace to thy ſoul, in thy cave, chief of the iſle of Miſt!

THE mighty are diſperſed at Temora: there is none in Cor⯑mac's hall. The king mourns in his youth, for he does not behold thy coming. The ſound of thy ſhield is ceaſed: his [154] foes are gathering round. Soft be thy reſt in thy cave, chief of Erin's wars!

Bragéla will not hope thy return, or ſee thy ſails in ocean's foam.—Her ſteps are not on the ſhore: nor her ear open to the voice of thy rowers.—She ſits in the hall of ſhells, and ſees the arms of him that is no more.—Thine eyes are full of tears, daughter of car-borne Sorglan!—Bleſt be thy ſoul in death, O chief of ſhady Cromla!

DAR-THULA: A POEM^*.

DAUGHTER of heaven^†, fair art thou! the ſilence of thy face is pleaſant. Thou comeſt forth in lovelineſs: the ſtars attend thy blue ſteps in the eaſt. The clouds rejoice in thy preſence, O moon, and brighten their dark-brown ſides. Who is like thee in [156] heaven, daughter of the night? The ſtars are aſhamed in thy pre⯑ſence, and turn aſide their green, ſparkling eyes.—Whither doſt thou retire from thy courſe, when the darkneſs^* of thy countenance grows? Haſt thou thy hall like Oſſian? Dwelleſt thou in the ſha⯑dow of grief? Have thy ſiſters fallen from heaven? Are they who rejoiced with thee, at night, no more?—Yes!—they have fallen, fair light! and thou doſt often retire to mourn.—But thou thyſelf ſhalt fail, one night; and leave thy blue path in heaven. The ſtars will then lift their green heads: they who were aſhamed in thy preſence, will rejoice.

THOU art now clothed with thy brightneſs: look from thy gates in the ſky. Burſt the cloud, O wind, that the daughter of night may look forth, that the ſhaggy mountains may brighten, and the ocean roll its blue waves, in light.

NATHOS^† is on the deep, and Althos that beam of youth, Ar⯑dan is near his brothers; they move in the gloom of their courſe. The ſons of Uſnoth move in darkneſs, from the wrath of car-borne Cairbar^‡.

WHO is that dim, by their ſide? the night has covered her beauty. Her hair ſighs on ocean's wind; her robe ſtreams in duſky wreaths. She is like the fair ghoſt of heaven, in the midſt of his ſhadowy [157] miſt. Who is it but Dar-thula^*, the firſt of Erin's maids? She has fled from the love of Cairbar, with the car-borne Nathos. But the winds deceive thee, O Dar-thula; and deny the woody Etha, to thy ſails. Theſe are not thy mountains, Nathos, nor is that the roar of thy climbing waves. The halls of Cairbar are near; and the towers of the foe lift their heads. Ullin ſtretches its green head into the ſea; and Tura's bay receives the ſhip. Where have ye been, ye ſouthern winds! when the ſons of my love were deceived? But ye have been ſporting on plains, and purſuing the thiſtle's beard. O that ye had been ruſtling in the ſails of Nathos, till the hills of Etha roſe! till they roſe in their clouds, and ſaw their coming chief! Long haſt thou been abſent, Nathos! and the day of thy return is paſt^†.

BUT the land of ſtrangers ſaw thee, lovely: thou waſt lovely in the eyes of Dar-thula. Thy face was like the light of the morning, thy hair like the raven's wing. Thy ſoul was generous and mild, like the hour of the ſetting ſun. Thy words were the gale of the reeds, or the gliding ſtream of Lora.

BUT when the rage of battle roſe, thou waſt like a ſea in a ſtorm; the clang of thy arms was terrible: the hoſt vaniſhed at the ſound of thy courſe.—It was then Dar-thula beheld thee, from the top of her moſſy tower: from the tower of Seláma^‡, where her fa⯑thers dwelt.

[158] LOVEly art thou, O ſtranger! ſhe ſaid, for her trembling ſoul aroſe. Fair art thou in thy battles, friend of the fallen Cormac^*! Why doſt thou ruſh on, in thy valour, youth of the ruddy look? Few are thy hands, in battle, againſt the car-borne Cairbar!—O that I might be freed of his love^†! that I might rejoice in the preſence of Nathos!—Bleſt are the rocks of Etha; they will behold his ſteps at the chace! they will ſee his white boſom, when the winds lift his raven hair!

SUCH were thy words, Dar-thula, in Seláma's moſſy towers. But, now, the night is round thee: and the winds have deceived thy ſails. The winds have deceived thy ſails, Dar-thula: their bluſter⯑ing ſound is high. Ceaſe a little while, O north wind, and let me hear the voice of the lovely. Thy voice is lovely, Dar-thula, be⯑tween the ruſtling blaſts.

ARE theſe the rocks of Nathos, and the roar of his mountain-ſtreams? Comes that beam of light from Uſnoth's nightly hall? The miſt rolls around, and the beam is feeble: but the light of Dar-thula's ſoul is the car-borne chief of Etha! Son of the generous Uſ⯑noth, why that broken ſigh? Are we not in the land of ſtrangers, chief of echoing Etha?

THESE are not the rocks of Nathos, he replied, nor the roar of his ſtreams. No light comes from Etha's halls, for they are [159] diſtant ſar. We are in the land of ſtrangers, in the land of car-borne Cairbar. The winds have deceived us, Dar-thula. Ullin lifts here her green hills.—Go towards the north, Althos; be thy ſteps, Ardan, along the coaſt; that the foe may not come in darkneſs, and our hopes of Etha fail.—

I WILL go towards that moſſy tower, and ſee who dwells about the beam.—Reſt, Dar-thula, on the ſhore! reſt in peace, thou beam of light! the ſword of Nathos is around thee, like the lightning of heaven.

HE went. She ſat alone, and heard the rolling of the wave. The big tear is in her eye; and ſhe looked for the car-borne Nathos.—Her ſoul trembles at the blaſt. And ſhe turns her ear towards the tread of his feet.—The tread of his feet is not heard. Where art thou, ſon of my love! The roar of the blaſt is around me. Dark is the cloudy night.—But Nathos does not return. What detains thee, chief of Etha?—Have the foes met the hero in the ſtrife of the night?—

HE returned, but his face was dark: he had ſeen his departed friend.—It was the wall of Tura, and the ghoſt of Cuchullin ſtalked there. The ſighing of his breaſt was frequent; and the decayed flame of his eyes terrible. His ſpear was a column of miſt: the ſtars looked dim through his form. His voice was like hollow wind in a cave: and he told the tale of grief. The ſoul of Nathos was ſad, like the ſun^* in the day of miſt, when his face is watry and dim.

[160] WHY art thou ſad, O Nathos, ſaid the lovely daughter of Colla? Thou art a pillar of light to Dar-thula: the joy of her eyes is in Etha's chief. Where is my friend^†, but Nathos? My father reſts in the tomb. Silence dwells on Seláma: ſadneſs ſpreads on the blue ſtreams of my land. My friends have fallen, with Cormac. The mighty were ſlain in the battle of Ullin.

EVENING darkened on the plain. The blue ſtreams failed before mine eyes. The unfrequent blaſt came ruſtling in the tops of Seláma's groves. My feat was beneath a tree on the walls of my fathers. Truthil paſt before my ſoul; the brother of my love; he that was abſent^‡ in battle againſt the car-borne Cairbar.

BENDING on his ſpear, the gray-haired Colla came: his down-caſt face is dark, and ſorrow dwells in his ſoul. His ſword is on the ſide of the hero: the helmet of his fathers on his head.—The battle grows in his breaſt. He ſtrives to hide the tear.

DAR-THULA, he ſighing ſaid, thou art the laſt of Colla's race. Truthil is fallen in battle. The king^* of Seláma is no more.—Cairbar comes, with his thouſands, towards Seláma's walls.—Colla will meet his pride, and revenge his ſon. But where ſhall I find thy ſafety, Dar-thula with the dark-brown hair! thou art lovely as the ſun-beam of heaven, and thy friends are low!

[161] AND is the ſon of battle fallen, I ſaid with a burſting ſigh? Ceaſed the generous ſoul of Truthil to lighten through the field?—My ſafety, Colla, is in that bow; I have learned to pierce the deer. Is not Cairbar like the hart of the deſart, father of fallen Truthil?

THE face of age brightened with joy: and the crouded tears of his eyes poured down. The lips of Colla trembled. His gray beard whiſtled in the blaſt. Thou art the ſiſter of Truthil, he ſaid, and thou burneſt in the fire of his ſoul. Take, Dar-thula, take that ſpear, that brazen ſhield, that burniſhed helmet: they are the ſpoils of a warrior: a ſon^* of early youth.—When the light riſes on Seláma, we go to meet the car-borne Cairbar.—But keep thou near the arm of Colla; beneath the ſhadow of my ſhield. Thy father, Darthula, could once defend thee; but age is trembling on his hand.—The ſtrength of his arm has failed, and his ſoul is darkened with grief.

We paſſed the night in ſorrow. The light of morning roſe. I ſhone in the arms of battle. The gray-haired hero moved be⯑fore. The ſons of Seláma convened around the ſounding ſhield of Colla. But few were they in the plain, and their locks were gray. The youths had fallen with Truthil, in the battle of car-borne Cormac.

COMPANIONS of my youth! ſaid Colla, it was not thus you have ſeen me in arms. It was not thus I ſtrode to battle, when the great Confadan fell. But ye are laden with grief. The darkneſs [162] of age comes like the miſt of the deſart. My ſhield is worn with years; my ſword is fixed^* in its place. I ſaid to my ſoul, thy evening ſhall be calm, and thy departure like a fading light. But the ſtorm has returned; I bend like an aged oak. My boughs are fallen on Seláma, and I tremble in my place.—Where art thou, with thy fallen heroes, O my car-borne Truthil! Thou anſwereſt not from thy ruſhing blaſt; and the ſoul of thy father is ſad. But I will be ſad no more, Cairbar or Colla muſt fall. I feel the re⯑turning ſtrength of my arm. My heart leaps at the ſound of battle.

THE hero drew his ſword. The gleaming blades of his people roſe. They moved along the plain. Their gray hair ſtreamed in the wind.—Cairbar ſat, at the feaſt, in the ſilent plain of Lona^†. He ſaw the coming of the heroes, and he called his chiefs to battle.

WHY^‡ ſhould I tell to Nathos, how the ſtrife of battle grew! I have ſeen thee, in the midſt of thouſands, like the beam of hea⯑ven's fire; it is beautiful, but terrible; the people fall in its red courſe.—The ſpear of Colla ſlew, for he remembered the battles of his youth. An arrow came with its ſound, and pierced the he⯑ro's ſide. He fell on his ecchoing ſhield. My ſoul ſtarted with [163] fear; I ſtretched my buckler over him; but my heaving breaſt was ſeen. Cairbar came, with his ſpear, and he beheld Seláma's maid: joy roſe on his dark-brown face; he ſtayed the lifted ſteel. He raiſ⯑ed the tomb of Colla; and brought me weeping to Seláma. He ſpoke the words of love, but my ſoul was ſad. I ſaw the ſhields of my fathers, and the ſword of car-borne Truthil. I ſaw the arms of the dead, and the tear was on my cheek.

THEN thou didſt come, O Nathos: and gloomy Cairbar fled. He fled like the ghoſt of the deſart before the morning's beam. His hoſts were not near: and feeble was his arm againſt thy ſteel.

WHY^* art thou ſad, O Nathos! ſaid the lovely maid of Colla?

I HAVE met, replied the hero, the battle in my youth. My arm could not lift the ſpear, when firſt the danger roſe; but my ſoul brightened before the war, as the green narrow vale, when the ſun pours his ſtreamy beams, before he hides his head in a ſtorm. My ſoul brightened in danger before I ſaw Seláma's fair; before I ſaw thee, like a ſtar, that ſhines on the hill, at night; the cloud ſlowly comes, and threatens the lovely light.

WE are in the land of the foe, and the winds have deceived us, Dar-thula! the ſtrength of our friends is not near, nor the moun⯑tains of Etha. Where ſhall I find thy peace, daughter of mighty Colla! The brothers of Nathos are brave: and his own ſword has ſhone in war. But what are the ſons of Uſnoth to the hoſt of car-borne Cairbar! O that the winds had brought thy ſails, Oſcar^† king [164] of men! thou didſt promiſe to come to the battles of fallen Cormac. Then would my hand be ſtrong as the flaming arm of death. Cair⯑bar would tremble in his halls, and peace dwell round the lovely Dar-thula. But why doſt thou fall, my ſoul? The ſons of Uſnoth may prevail.

AND they will prevail, O Nathos, ſaid the riſing ſoul of the maid: never ſhall Dar-thula behold the halls of gloomy Cairbar. Give me thoſe arms of braſs, that glitter to that paſſing meteor; I ſee them in the dark-boſomed ſhip. Dar-thula will enter the battle of ſteel.—Ghoſt of the noble Colla! do I behold thee on that cloud? Who is that dim beſide thee? It is the car-borne Truthil. Shall I behold the halls of him that ſlew Seláma's chief! No: I will not behold them, ſpirits of my love!

JOY roſe in the face of Nathos, when he heard the white boſomed maid. Daughter of Seláma! thou ſhineſt on my ſoul. Come, with thy thouſands, Cairbar! the ſtrength of Nathos is returned. And thou, O aged Uſnoth, ſhalt not hear that thy ſon has fled. I remember thy words on Etha; when my ſails begun to riſe: when I ſpread them towards Ullin, towards the moſſy walls of Tura. Thou goeſt, he ſaid, O Nathos, to the king of ſhields; to Cuchullin chief of men who never fled from danger. Let not thine arm be feeble: neither be thy thoughts of flight; leſt the ſon of Semo ſay that Etha's race are weak. His words may come to Uſnoth, and ſadden his ſoul in the hall.—The tear is on his cheek. He gave this ſhin⯑ing ſword.

I came to Tura's bay: but the halls of Tura were ſilent; I looked around, and there was none to tell of the chief of Dunſcaich. I [165] went to the hall of his ſhells, where the arms of his fathers hung. But the arms were gone, and aged Lamhor^* ſat in tears.

WHENCE are the arms of ſteel, ſaid the riſing Lamhor? The light of the ſpear has long been abſent from Tura's duſky walls.—Come ye from the rolling ſea? Or from Temora's^† mournful halls?

WE come from the ſea, I ſaid, from Uſnoth's riſing towers. We are the ſons of Slis-sáma^‡, the daughter of car-borne Semo. Where is Tura's chief, ſon of the ſilent hall? But why ſhould Nathos aſk? for I behold thy tears. How did the mighty fall, ſon of the lonely Tura?

HE fell not, Lamhor replied, like the ſilent ſtar of night, when it ſhoots through darkneſs and is no more. But he was like a me⯑teor that ſalls in a diſtant land; death attends its green courſe, and itſelf is the ſign of wars.—Mournful are the banks of Lego, and the roar of ſtreamy Lara! There the hero fell, ſon of the noble Uſnoth.

AND the hero fell in the midſt of ſlaughter, I ſaid with a burſting ſigh. His hand was ſtrong in battle; and death was behind his ſword.—We came to Lego's mournful banks. We found his riſing tomb. His conpanions in battle are there; his bards of many ſongs. Three days we mourned over the hero: on the fourth, I ſtruck the ſhield of Caithbat. The heroes gathered around with joy, and ſhook their beamy ſpears.

[166] CORLATH was near with his hoſt, the friend of car-borne Cair⯑bar. We came like a ſtream by night, and his heroes fell. When the people of the valley roſe^*, they ſaw their blood with morning's light. But we rolled away, like wreaths of miſt, to Cormac's ec⯑choing hall. Our ſwords roſe to defend the king. But Temora's halls were empty. Cormac had fallen in his youth. The king of Erin was no more.

SADNESS ſeized the ſons of Ullin, they ſlowly, gloomily retired: like clouds that, long having threatened rain, retire behind the hills. The ſons of Uſnoth moved, in their grief, towards Tura's ſounding bay. We paſſed by Seláma, and Cairbar retired like Lano's miſt, when it is driven by the winds of the deſart.

IT was then I beheld thee, O maid, like the light of Etha's ſun. Lovely is that beam, I ſaid, and the crowded ſigh of my boſom roſe. Thou cameſt in thy beauty, Dar-thula, to Etha's mournful chief.—But the winds have deceived us, daughter of Colla, and the foe is near.

YES!—the foe is near, ſaid the ruſtling ſtrength of Althos^†. I heard their clanging arms on the coaſt, and ſaw the dark wreaths of Erin's ſtandard. Diſtinct is the voice of Cairbar^‡, and loud as [167] Cromla's falling ſtream. He had ſeen the dark ſhip on the ſea, be⯑fore the duſky night came down. His people watch on Lena's^* plain, and lift ten thouſand ſwords.

AND let them lift ten thouſand ſwords, ſaid Nathos with a ſmile. The ſons of car-borne Uſnoth will never tremble in danger. Why doſt thou roll with all thy foam, thou roaring ſea of Ullin? Why do ye ruſtle, on your dark wings, ye whiſtling tempeſts of the ſky?—Do ye think, ye ſtorms, that ye keep Nathos on the coaſt? No: his ſould detains him, children of the night!—Althos! bring my father's arms: thou ſeeſt them beaming to the ſtars. Bring the ſpear of Semo^†, it ſtands in the dark-boſomed ſhip.

HE brought the arms. Nathos clothed his limbs in all their ſhining ſteel. The ſtride of the chief is lovely: the joy of his eyes terrible. He looks towards the coming of Cairbar. The wind is ruſtling in his hair. Dar-thula is ſilent at his ſide: her look is fixed on the chief. She ſtrives to hide the riſing ſigh, and two tears ſwell in her eyes.

ALTHOS! ſaid the chief of Etha, I ſee a cave in that rock. Place Dar-thula there: and let thy arm be ſtrong. Ardan! we meet the foe, and call to battle gloomy Cairbar. O that he came in his ſounding ſteel, to meet the ſon of Uſnoth!—Darthula! if thou ſhalt eſcape, look not on the fallen Nathos. Lift thy ſails, O Al⯑thos, towards the ecchoing groves of Etha.

[168] TELL to the chief^*, that his ſon fell with fame; that my ſword did not ſhun the battle. Tell him I fell in the midſt of thouſands, and let the joy of his grief be great. Daughter of Colla! call the maids to Etha's echoing hall. Let their ſongs ariſe for Nathos, when ſhadowy autumn returns.—O that the voice of Cona^† might be heard in my praiſe! then would my ſpirit rejoice in the midſt of my mountain winds.

AND my voice ſhall praiſe thee, Nathos chief of the woody Etha! The voice of Oſſian ſhall riſe in thy praiſe, ſon of the generous Uſ⯑noth! Why was I not on Lena, when the battle roſe? Then would the ſword of Oſſian defend thee; or himſelf fall low.

WE ſat, that night, in Selma round the ſtrength of the ſhell. The wind was abroad, in the oaks; the ſpirit of the mountain^‡ ſhrieked. The blaſt came ruſtling through the hall, and gently touched my harp. The ſound was mournful and low, like the ſong of the tomb. Fingal heard it firſt, and the crouded ſighs of his boſom roſe.—Some of my heroes are low, ſaid the gray-haired king of Morven. I hear the ſound of death on the harp of my ſon. Oſſian, touch the ſounding ſtring; bid the ſorrow riſe; that their ſpirits may fly with joy to Morven's woody hills.

I TOUCHED the harp before the king, the ſound was mournful and low. Bend forward from your clouds, I ſaid, ghoſts of my fa⯑thers! bend; lay by the red terror of your courſe, and receive the falling chief; whether he comes from a diſtant land, or riſes from the rolling ſea. Let his robe of miſt be near; his ſpear that is [169] formed of a cloud. Place an half-extinguiſhed meteor by his ſide, in the form of the hero's ſword. And, oh! let his countenance be lovely, that his friends may delight in his preſence. Bend from your clouds, I ſaid, ghoſts of my fathers! bend.

SUCH was my ſong, in Selma, to the lightly-trembling harp. But Nathos was on Ullin's ſhore, ſurrounded by the night; he heard the voice of the foe amidſt the roar of tumbling waves. Silent he heard their voice, and reſted on his ſpear.

MORNING roſe, with its beams; the ſons of Erin appear; like gray rocks, with all their trees, they ſpread along the coaſt. Cair⯑bar ſtood, in the midſt, and grimly ſmiled when he ſaw the foe.

NATHOS ruſhed forward, in his ſtrength; nor could Dar-thula ſtay behind. She came with the hero, lifting her ſhining ſpear. And who are theſe, in their armour, in the pride of youth? Who but the ſons of Uſnoth, Althos and dark-haired Ardan?

COME, ſaid Nathos, come! chief of the high Temora! Let our battle be on the coaſt for the white-boſomed maid. His people are not with Nathos; they are behind that rolling ſea. Why doſt thou bring thy thouſands againſt the chief of Etha? Thou didſt fly^* from him, in battle, when his friends were around him.

YOUTH of the heart of pride, ſhall Erin's king fight with thee? Thy fathers were not among the renowned, nor of the kings of men. Are the arms of ſoes in their halls? Or the ſhields of other times? Cairbar is renowned in Temora, nor does he fight with little men.

[170] THE tear ſtarts from car-borne Nathos; he turned his eyes to his brothers. Their ſpears flew, at once, and three heroes lay on earth. Then the light of their ſwords gleamed on high; the ranks of Erin yield; as a ridge of dark clouds before a blaſt of wind.

THEN Cairbar ordered his people, and they drew a thouſand bows. A thouſand arrows flew; the ſons of Uſnoth fell. They fell like three young oaks which ſtood alone on the hill; the tra⯑veller ſaw the lovely trees and wondered how they grew ſo lonely; the blaſt of the deſart came, by night, and laid their green heads low; next day he returned but they were withered, and the heath was bare.

DAR-THULA ſtood in ſilent grief, and beheld their fall; no tear is in her eye: but her look is wildly ſad. Pale was her cheek; her trembling lips broke ſhort an half-formed word. Her dark hair flew on the wind.—But gloomy Cairbar came. Where is thy lover now? the car-borne chief of Etha? Haſt thou beheld the halls of Uſnoth? Or the dark-brown hills of Fingal? My battle had roared on Morven, did not the winds meet Dar-thula. Fingal himſelf would have been low and ſorrow dwelling in Selma.

HER ſhield fell from Dar-thula's arm, her breaſt of ſnow appear⯑ed. It appeared, but it was ſtained with blood for an arrow was fixed in her ſide. She fell on the fallen Nathos, like a wreath of ſnow. Her dark hair ſpreads on his face, and their blood is mixing round.

DAUGHTER of Colla! thou art low! ſaid Cairbar's hundred bards; ſilence is at the blue ſtreams of Seláma, for Truthil's^* race have failed. When wilt thou riſe in thy beauty, firſt of Erin's [171] maids? Thy ſleep is long in the tomb, and the morning diſtant far. The ſun ſhall not come to thy bed and ſay, Awake^* Dar-thula! awake, thou firſt of women! the wind of ſpring is abroad. The flowers ſhake their heads on the green hills, the woods wave their growing leaves. Retire, O ſun, the daughter of Colla is aſleep. She will not come forth in her beauty: ſhe will not move, in the ſteps of her lovelineſs.

SUCH was the ſong of the bards, when they raiſed the tomb. I ſung, afterwards, over the grave, when the king of Morven came; when he came to green Ullin to fight with car-borne Cairbar.

TEMORA: AN EPIC POEM^*.

THE blue waves of Ullin roll in light. The green hills are covered with day. Trees ſhake their duſky heads in the breeze; and gray torrents pour their noiſy ſtreams.—Two green hills, with their aged oaks, ſurround a narrow plain. The blue [173] courſe of the mountain-ſtream is there; Cairbar ſtands on its banks.—His ſpear ſupports the king: the red eyes of his fear are ſad. Cormac riſes in his ſoul, with all his ghaſtly wounds. The gray form of the youth appears in the midſt of darkneſs, and the blood pours from his airy ſides.—Cairbar thrice threw his ſpear on earth; and thrice he ſtroked his beard. His ſteps are ſhort; he often ſtopt: and toſſed his ſinewy arms. He is like a cloud in the deſart; that varies its form to every blaſt: the valleys are ſad around, and fear, by turns, the ſhower.

THE king, at length, reſumed his ſoul, and took his pointed ſpear. He turned his eyes towards Lena^*. The ſcouts of ocean appear. They appeared with ſteps of fear, and often looked behind. [174] Cairbar knew that the mighty were near, and called his gloomy chiefs. The ſounding ſteps of his heroes came. They drew, at once, their ſwords. There Morlath^* ſtood with darkened face. Hidalla's buſhy hair ſighs in the wind. Red-haired Cormar bends on his ſpear, and rolls his ſide-long-looking eyes. Wild is the look of Malthos from beneath two ſhaggy brows.—Foldath ſtands like an oozy rock, that covers its dark ſides with foam; his ſpear is like Slimora's fir, that meets the wind of heaven. His ſhield is marked with the ſtrokes of battle; and his red eye deſpiſes danger. Theſe and a thouſand other chiefs ſurrounded car-borne Cairbar, when the ſcout of ocean came, Mor-annal^†, from ſtreamy Lena.—His eyes hang forward from his face, his lips are trembling, pale.

Do the chiefs of Erin ſtand, he ſaid, ſilent as the grove of even⯑ing? Stand they, like a ſilent wood, and Fingal on the coaſt? Fingal, who is terrible in battle, the king of ſtreamy Morven.

AND haſt thou ſeen the warrior, ſaid Cairbar with a ſigh? Are his heroes many on the coaſt? Lifts he the ſpear of battle? Or comes the king in peace?

HE comes not in peace, O Cairbar: for I have ſeen his forward ſpear^‡ It is a meteor of death: the blood of thouſands is on its [175] ſteel.—He came firſt to the ſhore, ſtrong in the gray hair of age. Full roſe his ſinewy limbs, as he ſtrode in his might. That ſword is by his ſide which gives no ſecond^† wound. His ſhield is terrible, like the bloody moon, when it riſes in a ſtorm.—Then came Oſſian king of ſongs; and Morni's ſon, the firſt of men. Connal leaps forward on his ſpear: Dermid ſpreads his dark-brown locks.—Fillan bends his bow: Fergus ſtrides in the pride of youth. Who is that with aged locks? A dark ſhield is on his ſide. His ſpear trembles at every ſtep; and age is on his limbs. He bends his dark face to the ground; the king of ſpears is ſad!—It is Uſnoth, O Cairbar, coming to revenge his ſons. He ſees green Ullin with tears, and he remembers the tombs of his children. But far before the reſt, the ſon of Oſſian comes, bright in the ſmiles of youth, fair as the firſt beams of the ſun. His long hair falls on his back.—His dark brows are half hid beneath his helmet of ſteel. His ſword hangs looſe on the heroe's ſide. His ſpear glitters as he moves. I fled from his terrible eyes, king of high Temora!

THEN fly, thou feeble man, ſaid the gloomy wrath of Foldath: fly to the gray ſtreams of thy land, ſon of the little ſoul! Have not I ſeen that Oſcar? I beheld the chief in battle. He is of the mighty in danger: but there are others who lift the ſpear.—Erin has many ſons as brave: yes—more brave, O car-borne Cairbar!—Let Foldath meet him in the ſtrength of his courſe, and ſtop this mighty ſtream.—My ſpear is covered with the blood of the valiant; my ſhield is like Tura's wall.

[176] SHALL Foldath alone meet the foe, replied the dark-browed Malthos? Are not they numerous on our coaſt, like the waters of a thouſand ſtreams? Are not theſe the chiefs who vanquiſhed Swaran, when the ſons of Erin fled? And ſhall Foldath meet their braveſt hero? Foldath of the heart of pride! take the ſtrength of the people by thy ſide; and let Malthos come. My ſword is red with ſlaughter, but who has heard my words^*?

SONS of green Erin, begun the mild Hidalla, let not Fingal hear your words: leſt the foe rejoice, and his arm be ſtrong in the land.—Ye are brave, O warriors, and like the tempeſts of the deſart; they meet the rocks without fear, and overturn the woods in their courſe.—But let us move in our ſtrength, and ſlow as a gathered cloud, when the winds drive it from behind.—Then ſhall the mighty tremble, and the ſpear drop from the hand of the valiant.—We ſee the cloud of death, they will ſay; and their faces will turn pale. Fingal will mourn in his age; and ſay that his fame is ceaſed.—Morven will behold his chiefs no more: the moſs of years ſhall grow in Selma.

CAIRBAR heard their words, in ſilence, like the cloud of a ſhower: it ſtands dark on Cromla, till the lightning burſts its ſide: the valley gleams with red light; the ſpirits of the ſtorm rejoice.—So ſtood the ſilent king of Temora; at length his words are heard.

SPREAD the feaſt on Lena: and let my hundred bards attend. And thou, red-hair'd Olla, take the harp of the king. Go to Oſcar king of ſwords, and bid him to our feaſt. To-day we feaſt and [177] hear the ſong; to-morrow break the ſpears. Tell him that I have raiſed the tomb of Cathol^*; and that my bards have ſung to his ghoſt.—Tell him that Cairbar has heard his fame at the ſtream of diſtant Carun^†.

CATHMOR^‡ is not here; the generous brother of Cairbar; he is not here with his thouſands, and our arms are weak. Cathmor is a foe to ſtrife at the feaſt: his ſoul is bright as the ſun. But Cairbar ſhall fight with Oſcar, chiefs of the high Temora! His words for Cathol were many; and the wrath of Cairbar burns. He ſhall fall on Lena: and my fame ſhall riſe in blood.

THE faces of the heroes brightened. They ſpread over Lena's heath. The feaſt of ſhells is prepared. The ſongs of the bards aroſe.

WE heard^‖ the voice of joy on the coaſt, and we thought that the mighty Cathmor came. Cathmor the friend of ſtrangers! the [178] brother of red-haired Cairbar. But their ſouls were not the ſame: for the light of heaven was in the boſom of Cathmor. His towers roſe on the banks of Atha: ſeven paths led to his halls. Seven chiefs ſtood on thoſe paths, and called the ſtranger to the feaſt! But Cath⯑mor dwelt in the wood to avoid the voice of praiſe.

OLLA came with his ſongs. Oſcar went to Cairbar's feaſt. Three hundred heroes attended the chief, and the clang of their arms is terrible. The gray dogs bounded on the heath, and their howling is frequent. Fingal ſaw the departure of the hero: the ſoul of the king was ſad. He dreads the gloomy Cairbar: but who of the race of Trenmor ſeared the foe?

MY ſon lifted high the ſpear of Cormac: an hundred bards met him with ſongs. Cairbar concealed with ſmiles the death that was dark in his ſoul. The feaſt is ſpread, the ſhells reſound: joy bright⯑ens the face of the hoſt. But it was like the parting beam of the ſun, when he is to hide his red head, in a ſtorm.

[179] CAIRBAR roſe in his arms; darkneſs gathers on his brow. The hundred harps ceaſed at once. The clang^* of ſhields is heard. Far diſtant on the heath Olla raiſed his ſong of woe. My ſon knew the ſign of death; and riſing ſeized his ſpear.

OSCAR! ſaid the dark-red Cairbar, I behold the ſpear^† of Erin's kings. The ſpear of Temora^‡ glitters in thy hand, ſon of the woody Morven! It was the pride of an hundred kings, the death of heroes of old. Yield it, ſon of Oſſian, yield it to car-borne Cairbar.

SHALL I yield, Oſcar replied, the gift of Erin's injured king: the gift of fair-haired Cormac, when Oſcar ſcattered his foes? I came to his halls of joy, when Swaran ſled from Fingal. Gladneſs roſe in the face of youth: he gave the ſpear of Temora. Nor did he give it to the feeble, O Cairbar, neither to the weak in ſoul. The darkneſs of thy face is not a ſtorm to me; nor are thine eyes the flames of death. Do I fear thy clanging ſhield? Does my ſoul tremble at Olla's ſong? No: Cairbar, frighten thou the feeble; Oſ⯑car is like a rock.

AND wilt thou not yield the ſpear, replied the riſing pride of Cairbar? Are thy words mighty becauſe Fingal is near, the gray-haired [180] warrior of Morven. He has fought with little men. But he muſt vaniſh before Cairbar, like a thin pillar of miſt before the winds of Atha^*.

WERE he who fought with little men near the chief of Atha: Atha's chief would yield green Erin to avoid his rage. Speak not of the mighty, O Cairbar! but turn thy ſword on me. Our ſtrength is equal: but Fingal is renowned! the firſt of mortal men!

THEIR people ſaw the darkening chiefs. Their crowding ſteps are heard around. Their eyes roll in fire. A thouſand ſwords are half unſheathed. Red-haired Olla raiſed the ſong of battle: the trem⯑bling joy of Oſcar's ſoul aroſe: the wonted joy of his ſoul when Fin⯑gal's horn was heard.

DARK as the ſwelling wave of ocean before the riſing winds, when it bends its head near the coaſt, came on the hoſt of Cairbar.—Daughter of Toſcar^†! why that tear? He is not fallen yet. Many were the deaths of his arm before my hero fell!—Behold they fall before my ſon like the groves in the deſart, when an angry ghoſt ruſhes through night, and takes their green heads in his hand! Morlath falls: Maronnan dies: Conachar trembles in his blood. Cairbar ſhrinks before Oſcar's ſword; and creeps in darkneſs be⯑hind his ſtone. He lifted the ſpear in ſecret, and pierced my Oſ⯑car's ſide. He falls forward on his ſhield: his knee ſuſtains the chief: but his ſpear is in his hand. See gloomy Cairbar^‡ falls. The ſteel pierced his forehead, and divided his red hair behind. He [181] lay, like a ſhattered rock, which Cromla ſhakes from its ſide. But never more ſhall Oſcar riſe! he leans on his boſſy ſhield. His ſpear is in his terrible hand: Erin's ſons ſtood diſtant and dark. Their ſhouts aroſe, like the crowded noiſe of ſtreams, and Lena echoed around.

FINGAL heard the ſound; and took his father's ſpear. His ſteps are before us on the heath. He ſpoke the words of woe. I hear the noiſe of battle: and Oſcar is alone. Riſe, ye ſons of Morven, and join the hero's ſword.

OSSIAN ruſhed along the heath. Fillan bounded over Lena. Fer⯑gus flew with feet of wind. Fingal ſtrode in his ſtrength, and the light of his ſhield is terrible. The ſons of Erin ſaw it far diſtant; they trembled in their ſouls. They knew that the wrath of the king aroſe: and they foreſaw their death. We firſt arrived; we fought; and Erin's chiefs withſtood our rage. But when the king came, in the ſound of his courſe, what heart of ſteel could ſtand! Erin fled over Lena. Death purſued their flight.

WE ſaw Oſcar leaning on his ſhield. We ſaw his blood around. Silence darkened on every hero's face. Each turned his back and wept. The king ſtrove to hide his tears. His gray beard whiſtled in the wind. He bends his head over his ſon: and his words are mixed with ſighs.

AND art thou fallen, Oſcar, in the midſt of thy courſe? the heart of the aged beats over thee! He ſees thy coming battles. He be⯑holds [182] the battles which ought to come, but they are cut off from thy fame. When ſhall joy dwell at Selma? When ſhall the ſong of grief ceaſe on Morven. My ſons fall by degrees: Fingal ſhall be the laſt of his race. The fame which I have received ſhall paſs away: my age will be without friends. I ſhall ſit like a gray cloud in my hall: nor ſhall I expect the return of a ſon, in the midſt of his ſounding arms. Weep, ye heroes of Morven! never more ſhall Oſcar riſe!

AND they did weep, O Fingal; dear was the hero to their ſouls. He went out to battle, and the foes vaniſhed; he returned, in peace, amidſt their joy. No father mourned his ſon ſlain in youth; no brother his brother of love. They fell, without tears, for the chief of the people was low! Bran^* is howling at his feet: gloomy Luäth is ſad, for he had often led them to the chace; to the bounding roes of the deſart.

WHEN Oſcar beheld his friends around, his white breaſt roſe with a ſigh.—The groans, he ſaid, of my aged heroes, the howling of my dogs, the ſudden burſts of the ſong of grief, have melted Oſ⯑car's ſoul. My ſoul, that never melted before; it was like the ſteel of my ſword.—Oſſian, carry me to my hills! Raiſe the ſtones of my fame. Place the horn of the deer, and my ſword within my narrow dwelling.—The torrent hereafter may raiſe the earth of my tomb: the hunter may find the ſteel and ſay, ‘"This has been Oſcar's ſword."’

[183] AND falleſt thou, ſon of my fame! And ſhall I never ſee thee, Oſcar! When others hear of their ſons, I ſhall not hear of thee. The moſs is on the ſtones of his tomb, and the mournful wind is there. The battle ſhall be fought without him: he ſhall not pur⯑ſue the dark-brown hinds. When the warrior returns from battles, and tells of other lands, he will ſay, I have ſeen a tomb, by the roaring ſtream, where a warrior darkly dwells: he was ſlain by car-borne Oſcar, the firſt of mortal men.—I, perhaps, ſhall hear him, and a beam of joy will riſe in my ſoul.

THE night would have deſcended in ſorrow, and morning re⯑turned in the ſhadow of grief: our chiefs would have ſtood like cold dropping rocks on Lena, and have forgot the war, did not the king diſperſe his grief, and raiſe his mighty voice. The chiefs, as new-wakened from dreams, lift their heads around.

How long ſhall we weep on Lena; or pour our tears in Ullin? The mighty will not return. Oſcar ſhall not riſe in his ſtrength. The valiant muſt fall one day, and be no more known on his hills.—Where are our fathers, O warriors! the chiefs of the times of old? They have ſet like ſtars that have ſtone, we only hear the ſound of their praiſe. But they were renowned in their day, and the terror of other times. Thus ſhall we paſs, O warriors, in the day of our fall. Then let us be renowned when we may; and leave our fame behind us, like the laſt beams of the ſun, when he hides his red head in the weſt.

ULLIN, my aged bard! take the ſhip of the king. Carry Oſcar to Selma, and let the daughters of Morven weep. We ſhall fight in Erin for the race of fallen Cormac. The days of my years begin to fail: I feel the weakneſs of my arm. My fathers bend from [184] their clouds, to receive their gray-hair'd ſon. But, Trenmor! be⯑fore I go hence, one beam of my fame ſhall riſe: ſo ſhall my days end, as my years begun, in fame: my life ſhall be one ſtream of light to other times.

ULLIN rais'd his white ſails: the wind of the ſouth came forth. He bounded on the waves towards Selma's walls.—I remained in my grief, but my words were not heard.—The feaſt is ſpread on Lena: an hundred heroes reared the tomb of Cairbar: but no ſong is raiſed over the chief; for his ſoul had been dark and bloody. We remembered the fall of Cormac! and what could we ſay in Cair⯑bar's praiſe?

THE night came rolling down. The light of an hundred oaks aroſe. Fingal ſat beneath a tree. The chief of Etha ſat near the king, the gray-hair'd ſtrength of Uſnoth.

OLD Althan^* ſtood in the midſt, and told the tale of fallen Cormac. Althan the ſon of Conachar, the friend of car-borne Cuchullin: he dwelt with Cormac in windy Temora, when Semo's ſon fought with generous Torlath.—The tale of Althan was mourn⯑ful, and the tear was in his eye.

^† THE ſetting ſun was yellow on Dora^‡. Gray evening began to deſcend. Temora's woods ſhook with the blaſt of the unconſtant wind. A cloud, at length, gathered in the weſt, and a red ſtar [185] looked from behind its edge.—I ſtood in the wood alone, and ſaw a ghoſt on the darkening air. His ſtride extended from hill to hill: his ſhield was dim on his ſide. It was the ſon of Semo: I knew the ſadneſs of his face. But he paſſed away in his blaſt; and all was dark around.—My ſoul was ſad. I went to the hall of ſhells. A thouſand lights aroſe: the hundred bards had ſtrung the harp. Cormac ſtood in the midſt, like the morning ſtar^*, when it rejoices on the eaſtern hill, and its young beams are bathed in ſhowers.—The ſword of Artho^‖ was in the hand of the king; and he looked with joy on its poliſhed ſtuds: thrice he attempted to draw it, and thrice he failed: his yellow locks are ſpread on his ſhoulders: his cheeks of youth are red.—I mourned over the beam of youth, for he was ſoon to ſet.

ALTHAN! he ſaid, with a ſmile, haſt thou beheld my father? Heavy is the ſword of the king, ſurely his arm was ſtrong. O that I were like him in battle, when the rage of his wrath aroſe! then would I have met, like Cuchullin, the car-borne ſon of Cantéla! But years may come on, O Althan! and my arm be ſtrong.—Haſt thou heard of Semo's ſon, the chief of high Temora? He might have returned with his fame; for he promiſed to return to-night. My bards wait him with their ſongs, and my feaſt is ſpread.—

I HEARD the king in ſilence. My tears began to flow. I hid them with my gray locks; but he perceived my grief.

[186] SON of Conachar! he ſaid, is the king of Tura low? Why burſts thy ſigh in ſecret? And why deſcends the tear?—Comes the car-borne Torlath? Or the ſound of the red-haired Cairbar?—They come!—for I ſee thy grief; and Tura's king is low!—Shall I not ruſh to battle?—But I cannot lift the arms of my fathers!—O had mine arm the ſtrength of Cuchullin, ſoon would Cairbar fly; the fame of my fathers would be renewed; and the actions of other times!

HE took his bow of yew. Tears flow from his ſparkling eyes.—Grief ſaddens around: the bards bend forward from their harps. The blaſt touches their ſtrings, and the ſound of woe aſcends.

A VOICE is heard at a diſtance, as of one in grief; it was Carril of other times, who came from the dark Slimora^*.—He told of the death of Cuchullin, and of his mighty deeds. The people were ſcattered around his tomb: their arms lay on the ground. They had forgot the battle, for the ſound of his ſhield had ceaſed.

BUT who, ſaid the ſoft-voiced Carril, come like the bounding roes? their ſtature is like the young trees of the plain, growing in a ſhower:—Soft and ruddy are their cheeks: but fearleſs ſouls look forth from their eyes?—Who but the ſons of Uſnoth, the car-borne chiefs of Etha? The people riſe on every ſide, like the ſtrength of an half-extinguiſhed fire, when the winds come ſuddenly from the deſart, on their ruſtling wings.—The ſound of Caithbat's ſhield was heard. The heroes ſaw Cuchullin^†, in the form of lovely Nathos. So rolled his ſparkling eyes, and ſuch was his ſteps [187] on his heath.—Battles are fought at Lego: the ſword of Na⯑thos prevails. Soon ſhalt thou behold him in thy halls, king of woody Temora!—

AND ſoon may I behold him, O Carril! replied the returning joy of Cormac. But my ſoul is ſad for Cuchullin; his voice was plea⯑ſant in mine ear.—Often have we moved on Dora, at the chace of the dark-brown hinds: his bow was unerring on the mountains.—He ſpoke of mighty men. He told of the deeds of my fathers; and I felt the joy of my breaſt.—But ſit thou, at the feaſt, O Carril; I have often heard thy voice. Sing in the praiſe of Cuchullin; and of that mighty ſtranger.

DAY roſe on Temora, with all the beams of the eaſt. Trathin came to the hall, the ſon of old Gellama^‡.—I behold, he ſaid, a dark cloud in the deſart, king of Innisfail! a cloud it ſeemed at firſt, but now a croud of men. One ſtrides before them in his ſtrength; and his red hair flies in the wind. His ſhield glitters to the beam of the eaſt. His ſpear is in his hand.

CALL him to the feaſt of Temora, replied the king of Erin. My hall is the houſe of ſtrangers, ſon of the generous Gelláma!—Per⯑haps it is the chief of Etha, coming in the ſound of his renown.—Hail, mighty ſtranger, art thou of the friends of Cormac?—But Carril, he is dark, and unlovely; and he draws his ſword. Is that the ſon of Uſnoth, bard of the times of old?

IT is not the ſon of Uſnoth, ſaid Carril, but the chief of Atha.—Why comeſt thou in thy arms to Temora, Cairbar of the [188] gloomy brow? Let not thy ſword riſe againſt Cormac! Whither doſt thou turn thy ſpeed?

HE paſſed on in his darkneſs, and ſeized the hand of the king. Cormac foreſaw his death, and the rage of his eyes aroſe.—Retire, thou gloomy chief of Atha: Nathos comes with battle.—Thou art bold in Cormac's hall, for his arm is weak.—The ſword entered Cormac's ſide: he fell in the halls of his fathers. His fair hair is in the duſt. His blood is ſmoaking round.

AND art thou fallen in thy halls, I ſaid^‖, O ſon of noble Artho? The ſhield of Cuchullin was not near. Nor the ſpear of thy father. Mournful are the mountains of Erin, for the chief of the people is low!—Bleſt be thy ſoul, O Cormac! thou art ſnatched from the midſt of thy courſe.

MY words came to the ears of Cairbar, and he cloſed us^† in the midſt of darkneſs. He feared to ſtretch his ſword to the bards^*: though his ſoul was dark. Three days we pined alone: on the fourth, the noble Cathmor came.—He heard our voice from the cave; he turned the eye of his wrath on Cairbar.

Chief of Atha! he ſaid, how long wilt thou pain my ſoul? Thy heart is like the rock of the deſart; and thy thoughts are dark.—But thou art the brother of Cathmor, and he will fight thy battles.—But Cathmor's ſoul is not like thine, thou feeble hand of war! The light of my boſom is ſtained with thy deeds: the bards will not ſing of my renown. They may ſay, ‘"Cathmor was brave, [189] but he fought for gloomy Cairbar."’ They will paſs over my tomb in ſilence, and my fame ſhall not be heard.—Cairbar! looſe the bards: they are the ſons of other times. Their voice ſhall be heard in other ages, when the kings of Temora have failed.—

WE came forth at the words of the chief. We ſaw him in his ſtrength. He was like thy youth, O Fingal, when thou firſt didſt liſt the ſpear.—His face was like the plain of the ſun when it is bright: no darkneſs travelled over his brow. But he came with his thouſands to Ullin; to aid the red-haired Cairbar: and now he comes to revenge his death, O king of woody Morven.—

AND let him come, replied the king; I love a foe like Cathmor. His ſoul is great; his arm is ſtrong, and his battles are full of fame.—But the little ſoul is like a vapour that hovers round the marſhy lake: it never riſes on the green hill, leſt the winds meet it there: its dwelling is in the cave, and it ſends forth the dart of death.

USNOTH! thou haſt heard the fame of Etha's car-borne chiefs.—Our young heroes, O warrior, are like the renown of our fathers.—They fight in youth, and they fall: their names are in the ſong.—But we are old, O Uſnoth, let us not fall like aged oaks; which the blaſt overturns in ſecret. The hunter came paſt, and ſaw them lying gray acroſs a ſtream. How have theſe fallen, he ſaid, and whiſtling paſſed along.

RAISE the ſong of joy, ye bards of Morven, that our ſouls may forget the paſt.—The red ſtars look on us from the clouds, and ſilently deſcend. Soon ſhall the gray beam of the morning riſe, and ſhew us the foes of Cormac.—Fillan! take the ſpear of the [190] king; go to Mora's dark-brown ſide. Let thine eyes travel over the heath, like flames of fire. Obſerve the foes of Fingal, and the courſe of generous Cathmor. I hear a diſtant ſound, like the falling of rocks in the deſart.—But ſtrike thou thy ſhield, at times, that they may not come through night, and the ſame of Morven ceaſe.—I begin to be alone, my ſon, and I dread the fall of my renown.

THE voice of the bards aroſe. The king leaned on the ſhield of Trenmor.—Sleep deſcended on his eyes, and his future battles roſe in his dreams. The hoſt are ſleeping around. Dark-haired Fillan obſerved the foe. His ſteps are on a diſtant hill: we hear, at times, his clanging ſhield.

CARRIC-THURA: A POEM^*.

HAST^† thou left thy blue courſe in heaven, golden-haired ſon of the ſky! The weſt has opened its gates; the bed of thy repoſe is there. The waves come to behold thy beauty: they lift their trembling heads: they ſee thee lovely in thy ſleep; but they ſhrink away with fear. Reſt, in thy ſhadowy cave, O ſun! and let thy return be in joy.—But let a thouſand lights ariſe to the [194] ſound of the harps of Selma: let the beam ſpread in the hall, the king of ſhells is returned! The ſtrife of Crona^* is paſt, like ſounds that are no more: raiſe the ſong, O bards, the king is returned, with his fame!

SUCH was the ſong of Ullin, when Fingal returned from battle: when he returned in the fair bluſhing of youth; with all his heavy locks. His blue arms were on the hero; like a gray cloud on the ſun, when he moves in his robes of miſt, and ſhews but half his beams. His heroes follow the king: the feaſt of ſhells is ſpread. Fingal turns to his bards, and bids the ſong to riſe.

VOICES of ecchoing Cona! he ſaid, O bards of other times! Ye, on whoſe ſouls the blue hoſts of our fathers riſe! ſtrike the harp in my hall; and let Fingal hear the ſong. Pleaſant is the joy of grief! it is like the ſhower of ſpring, when it ſoftens the branch of the oak, and the young leaf lifts its green head. Sing on, O bards, to-morrow we lift the ſail. My blue courſe is through the ocean, to Carric-thura's walls; the moſſy walls of Sarno, where Co⯑mála dwelt. There the noble Cathulla, ſpreads the feaſt of ſhells. The boars of his woods are many, and the ſound of the chace ſhall ariſe.

CRONNAN^†, ſon of the ſong! ſaid Ullin, Minona, graceful at the harp! raiſe the ſong of Shilric, to pleaſe the king of Morven. Let [195] Vinvela come in her beauty, like the ſhowery bow, when it ſhews its lovely head on the lake, and the ſetting ſun is bright. And ſhe comes, O Fingal! her voice is ſoft but ſad.

MY love is a ſon of the hill. He purſues the flying deer. His gray dogs are panting around him; his bow-ſtring ſounds in the wind. Doſt thou reſt by the ſount of the rock, or by the noiſe of the mountain-ſtream? the ruſhes are nodding with the wind, the miſt is flying over the hill. I will approach my love unperceived, and ſee him from the rock. Lovely I ſaw thee firſt by the aged oak of Branno^*; thou wert returning tall from the chace; the faireſt among thy friends.

WHAT voice is that I hear? that voice like the ſummer-wind.—I ſit not by the nodding ruſhes; I hear not the fount of the rock. Afar, Vinvela^†, afar I go to the wars of Fingal. My dogs attend me no more. No more I tread the hill. No more from on high I ſee thee, fair-moving by the ſtream of the plain; bright as the bow of heaven; as the moon on the weſtern wave.

THEN thou art gone, O Shilric! and I am alone on the hill. The deer are ſeen on the brow; void of fear they graze along. No more they dread the wind; no more the ruſtling trce. The hunter [196] is far removed; he is in the field of graves. Strangers! ſons of the waves! ſpare my lovely Shilric.

IF fall I muſt in the field, raiſe high my grave, Vinvela. Gray ſtones and heaped-up earth, ſhall mark me to future times. When the hunter ſhall ſit by the mound, and produce his food at noon, ‘"Some warrior reſts here,"’ he will ſay; and my fame ſhall live in his praiſe. Remember me, Vinvela, when low on earth I lie!

YES!—I will remember thee—Indeed my Shilric will fall. What ſhall I do, my love! when thou art gone for ever? Through theſe hills I will go at noon: I will go through the ſilent heath. There I will ſee the place of thy reſt, returning from the chace. Indeed, my Shilric will fall; but I will remember him.

AND I remember the chief, ſaid the king of woody Morven; he conſumed the battle in his rage. But now my eyes behold him not. I met him, one day, on the hill; his cheek was pale; his brow was dark. The ſigh was frequent in his breaſt: his ſteps were to⯑wards the deſart. But now he is not in the crowd of my chiefs, when the ſounds of my ſhields ariſe. Dwells he in the narrow houſe^*, the chief of high Carmora^†?

CRONNAN! ſaid Ullin of other times, raiſe the ſong of Shilric; when he returned to his hills, and Vinvela was no more. He leaned on her gray moſſy ſtone; he thought Vinvela lived. He ſaw her fair-moving^‡ on the plain: but the bright form laſted not: the [197] ſun-beam fled from the field, and ſhe was ſeen no more. Hear the ſong of Shilric, it is ſoft but ſad.

I SIT by the moſſy fountain; on the top of the hill of winds. One tree is ruſtling above me. Dark waves roll over the heath. The lake is troubled below. The deer deſcend from the hill. No hun⯑ter at a diſtance is ſeen; no whiſtling cow-herd is nigh. It is mid-day: but all is ſilent. Sad are my thoughts alone. Didſt thou but appear, O my love, a wanderer on the heath! thy hair floating on the wind behind thee; thy boſom heaving on the ſight; thine eyes full of tears for thy friends, whom the miſt of the hill had con⯑cealed! Thee I would comfort, my love, and bring thee to thy fa⯑ther's houſe.

BUT is it ſhe that there appears, like a beam of light on the heath? bright as the moon in autumn, as the ſun in a ſummer⯑ſtorm, comeſt thou, lovely maid, over rocks, over mountains to me?—She ſpeaks: but how weak her voice! like the breeze in the reeds of the pool.

RETURNEST thou ſafe from the war? Where are thy friends, my love? I heard of thy death on the hill; I heard and mourned thee, Shilric!

YES, my fair, I return; but I alone of my race. Thou ſhalt ſee them no more: their graves I raiſed on the plain. But why art thou on the deſert hill? Why on the heath, alone?

ALONE I am, O Shilric! alone in the winter-houſe. With grief for thee I expired. Shilric, I am pale in the tomb.

[198] SHE fleets, ſhe ſails away; as gray miſt before the wind!—and, wilt thou not ſtay, my love? Stay and behold my tears? fair thou appeareſt, Vinvela! fair thou waſt, when alive!

BY the moſſy fountain I will ſit; on the top of the hill of winds. When mid-day is ſilent around, converſe, O my love, with me! come on the wings of the gale! on the blaſt of the mountain, come! Let me hear thy voice, as thou paſſeſt, when mid-day is ſi⯑lent around.

SUCH was the ſong of Cronnan, on the night of Selma's joy. But morning roſe in the eaſt; the blue waters rolled in light. Fingal bade his ſails to riſe, and the winds come ruſtling, from their hills. Inis-tore roſe to ſight, and Carric-thura's moſſy towers. But the ſign of diſtreſs was on their top: the green flame edged with ſmoke. The king of Morven ſtruck his breaſt: he aſſumed, at once, his ſpear. His darkened brow bends forward to the coaſt: he looks back to the lagging winds. His hair is diſordered on his back. The ſilence of the king is terrible.

NIGHT came down on the ſea; Rotha's bay received the ſhip. A rock bends along the coaſt with all its ecchoing wood. On the top is the circle^* of Loda, and the moſſy ſtone of power. A nar⯑row 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; and 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 battling chief. The [199] 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, and bore, on its wings, the ſpirit of Loda. He came to his place in his terrors^*, and he ſhook his duſky ſpear.—His eyes appear like flames in his dark face; and his voice is like diſtant thunder. Fingal advanced with the ſpear of his ſtrength, 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, diſmal ſpirit of Loda? Weak is thy ſhield of clouds: feeble is that meteor, thy ſword. The blaſt rolls them together; and thou thyſelf doſt vaniſh. 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 valiant. 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 then in thy calm fields, ſaid Fingal, and 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 diſ⯑mal [200] Loda? Why then doſt thou frown on Fingal? or ſhake thine airy ſpear? But thou frowneſt in vain: I never fled from mighty men. And ſhall the ſons of the wind frighten the king of Mor⯑ven? 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 ſtone 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; and bent forward his terrible height. But the king, advancing, drew his ſword; the blade of dark-brown Luno^*. The gleaming path of the ſteel winds thro' 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 compa⯑nions of Fingal ſtarted, at once; and took their heavy ſpears. They miſſed the king: they roſe with rage; all their arms reſound.

THE moon came forth in the eaſt. The king returned in the gleam of his arms. The joy of his youths was great, their ſouls ſettled, as a ſea from a ſtorm. Ullin raiſed the ſong of gladneſs. The hills of Iniſtore rejoiced. The flame of the oak aroſe; and the tales of heroes are told.

[201] BUT Frothal, Sora's battling king, ſits in ſadneſs beneath a tree. The hoſt ſpreads around Carric-thura. He looks towards the walls with rage. He longs for the blood of Cathulla, who, once, over⯑came the king in war.—When Annir reigned^* in Sora, the fa⯑ther of car-borne Frothal, a blaſt roſe on the ſea, and carried Frothal to Iniſtore. Three days he feaſted in Sarno's halls, and ſaw the ſlow rolling eyes of Comála. He loved her, in the rage of youth, and ruſhed to ſeize the white-armed maid. Cathulla met the chief. The gloomy battle roſe. Frothal is bound in the hall: three days he pined alone. On the fourth, Sarno ſent him to his ſhip, and he re⯑turned to his land. But wrath darkened in his ſoul againſt the noble Cathulla. When Annir's ſtone^† of fame aroſe, Frothal came in his ſtrength. The battle burned round Carric-thura, and Sarno's moſſy walls.

MORNING roſe on Iniſtore. Frothal ſtruck his dark-brown ſhield. His chiefs ſtarted at the ſound; they ſtood, but their eyes were turned to the ſea. They ſaw Fingal coming in his ſtrength; and firſt the noble Thubar ſpoke.

WHO comes like the ſtag of the mountain, with all his herd be⯑hind him? Frothal, it is a foe; I ſee his forward ſpear. Perhaps it is the king of Morven, Fingal the firſt of men. His actions are well known on Gormal; the blood of his foes is in Starno's halls. Shall I aſk the peace^‡ of kings? He is like the thunder of heaven.

[202] SON of the feeble hand, ſaid Frothal, ſhall my days begin in dark⯑neſs? Shall I yield before I have conquered in battle, chief of ſtreamy Tora? The people would ſay in Sora, Frothal flew forth like a meteor; but the dark cloud met it, and it is no more. No: Thubar, I will never yield; my fame ſhall ſurround me like light. No: I will never yield, king of ſtreamy Tora.

HE went forth with the ſtream of his people, but they met a rock: Fingal ſtood unmoved, broken they rolled back from his ſide. Nor did they roll in ſafety; the ſpear of the king purſued their flight. The field is covered with heroes. A riſing hill preſerved the flying hoſt.

FROTHAL ſaw their flight. The rage of his boſom roſe. He bent his eyes to the ground, and called the noble Thubar.—Thu⯑bar! my people fled. My fame has ceaſed to riſe. I will fight the king; I feel my burning ſoul. Send a bard to demand the com⯑bat. Speak not againſt Frothal's words.—But, Thubar! I love a maid; ſhe dwells by Thano's ſtream, the white-boſomed daughter of Herman, Utha with the ſoftly-rolling eyes. She feared the daughter^* of Iniſtore, and her ſoft ſighs roſe, at my departure. Tell to Utha that I am low; but that my ſoul delighted in her.

SUCH were his words, reſolved to fight. But the ſoft ſigh of Utha was near. She had followed her hero over the ſea, in the armour of a man. She rolled her eye on the youth, in ſecret, from beneath a glittering helmet. But now ſhe ſaw the bard as he went, and the ſpear fell thrice from her hand. Her looſe hair flew on the [203] wind. Her white breaſt roſe, with ſighs. She lifted up her eyes to the king; ſhe would ſpeak, but thrice ſhe failed.

FINGAL heard the words of the bard; he came in the ſtrength of ſteel. They mixed their deathful ſpears, and raiſed the gleam of their ſwords. But the ſteel of Fingal deſcended and cut Frothal's ſhield in twain. His fair ſide is expoſed; half bent he foreſees his death.

DARKNESS gathered on Utha's ſoul. The tear rolled down her cheek. She ruſhed to cover the chief with her ſhield; but a fallen oak met her ſteps. She fell on her arm of ſnow; her ſhield, her helmet flew wide. Her white boſom heaved to the ſight; her dark-brown hair is ſpread on earth.

FINGAL pitied the white-armed maid: he ſtayed the uplifted ſword. The tear was in the eye of the king, as, bending forward, he ſpoke. King of ſtreamy Sora! fear not the ſword of Fingal. It was never ſtained with the blood of the vanquiſhed; it never pierced a fallen foe. Let thy people rejoice along the blue waters of Tora: let the maids of thy love be glad. Why ſhouldeſt thou fall in thy youth, king of ſtreamy Sora?

FROTHAL heard the words of Fingal, and ſaw the riſing maid: they^* ſtood in ſilence, in their beauty: like two young trees of the plain, when the ſhower of ſpring is on their leaves, and the loud winds are laid.

DAUGHTER of Herman, ſaid Frothal, didſt thou come from Tora's ſtreams; didſt thou come, in thy beauty, to behold thy war⯑rior [204] low? But he was low before the mighty, maid of the ſlow-roll⯑ing eye! The feeble did not overcome the ſon of car-borne Annir. Terrible art thou, O king of Morven! in battles of the ſpear. But, in peace, thou art like the ſun, when he looks thro' a ſilent ſhower: the flowers lift their fair heads before him; and the gales ſhake their ruſtling wings. O that thou wert in Sora! that my feaſt were ſpread!—The future kings of Sora would ſee thy arms and rejoice. They would rejoice at the fame of their fathers, who be⯑held the mighty Fingal.

SON of Annir, replied the king, the fame of Sora's race ſhall be heard.—When chiefs are ſtrong in battle, then does the ſong ariſe! But if their ſwords are ſtretched over the feeble: if the blood of the weak has ſtained their arms; the bard ſhall forget them in the ſong, and their tombs ſhall not be known. The ſtranger ſhall come and build there, and remove the heaped-up earth. An half-worn ſword ſhall riſe before him; and bending above it, he will ſay, ‘"Theſe are the arms of chiefs of old, but their names are not in the ſong."’—Come thou, O Frothal, to the feaſt of Iniſtore; let the maid of thy love be there; and our faces will brighten with joy.

FINGAL took his ſpear, moving in the ſteps of his might. The gates of Carric-thura are opened. The feaſt of ſhells is ſpread.—The voice of muſic aroſe. Gladneſs brightened in the hall.—The voice of Ullin was heard; the harp of Selma was ſtrung.—Utha rejoiced in his preſence, and demanded the ſong of grief; the big tear hung in her eye, when the ſoft^* Crimora ſpoke. Crimora [205] the daughter of Rinval, who dwelt at Lotha's^† mighty ſtream. The tale was long, but lovely; and pleaſed the bluſhing maid of Tora.

^*

WHO cometh from the hill, like a cloud tinged with the beam of the weſt? Whoſe voice is that, loud as the wind, but pleaſant as the harp of Carril^‡? It is my love in the light of ſteel; but ſad is his darkened brow. Live the mighty race of Fingal? or what diſturbs my Connal^‖?

THEY live. I ſaw them return from the chace, like a ſtream of light. The ſun was on their ſhields. Like a ridge of fire they de⯑ſcended the hill. Loud is the voice of the youth; the war, my love, is near. To-morrow the terrible Dargo comes to try the force of our race. The race of Fingal he defies; the race of battle and wounds.

CONNAL, I ſaw his ſails like gray miſt on the ſable wave. They ſlowly came to land. Connal, many are the warriors of Dargo!

BRING me thy father's ſhield; the boſſy, iron ſhield of Rinval; that ſhield like the full moon when it moves darkened through heaven.

THAT ſhield I bring, O Connal; but it did not defend my father. By the ſpear of Gormar he fell. Thou may'ſt fall, O Connal!

FALL indeed I may: But raiſe my tomb, Crimora. Gray ſtones, a mound of earth, ſhall keep my memory. Bend thy red eye over my tomb, and beat thy mournful heaving breaſt. Though fair thou art, my love, as the light; more pleaſant than the gale of the hill; yet I will not ſtay. Raiſe my tomb, Crimora.

THEN give me thoſe arms of light; that ſword, and that ſpear of ſteel. I ſhall meet Dargo with thee, and aid my lovely Connal. Farewel, ye rocks of Ardven! ye deer! and ye ſtreams of the hill!—We ſhall return no more. Our tombs are diſtant far.

AND did they return no more? ſaid Utha's burſting ſigh. Fell the mighty in battle, and did Crimora live?—Her ſteps were lonely, and her ſoul was ſad for Connal. Was he not young and lovely; like the beam of the ſetting ſun? Ullin ſaw the virgin's tear, and took the ſoftly-trembling harp: the ſong was lovely, but ſad, and ſilence was in Carric-thura.

AUTUMN is dark on the mountains; gray miſt reſts on the hills. The whirlwind is heard on the heath. Dark rolls the river through [207] the narrow plain. A tree ſtands alone on the hill, and marks the ſlumbering Connal. The leaves whirl round with the wind, and ſtrew the grave of the dead. At times are ſeen here the ghoſts of the deceaſed, when the muſing hunter alone ſtalks ſlowly over the heath.

WHO can reach the ſource of thy race, O Connal? and who re⯑count thy fathers? Thy family grew like an oak on the mountain, which meeteth the wind with its lofty head. But now it is torn from the earth. Who ſhall ſupply the place of Connal?

HERE was the din of arms; and here the groans of the dying. Bloody are the wars of Fingal! O Connal! it was here thou didſt fall. Thine arm was like a ſtorm; thy ſword a beam of the ſky; thy height, a rock on the plain; thine eyes, a furnace of fire. Louder than a ſtorm was thy voice, in the battles of thy ſteel. Warriors fell by thy ſword, as the thiſtle by the ſtaff of a boy.

DARGO the mighty came on, like a cloud of thunder. His brows were contracted and dark. His eyes like two caves in a rock. Bright roſe their ſwords on each ſide; dire was the clang of their ſteel.

THE daughter of Rinval was near; Crimora bright in the armour of man; her yellow hair is looſe behind, her bow is in her hand. She followed the youth to the war, Connal her much-beloved. She drew the ſtring on Dargo; but erring pierced her Connal. He falls like an oak on the plain; like a rock from the ſhaggy hill. What ſhall ſhe do, hapleſs maid!—He bleeds; her Connal dies. All the night long ſhe cries, and all the day, O Connal, my love, and my friend! With grief the ſad mourner dies.

[208] EARTH here incloſes the lovelieſt pair on the hill. The graſs grows between the ſtones of the tomb; I often ſit in the mournful ſhade. The wind ſighs through the graſs; their memory ruſhes on my mind. Undiſturbed you now ſleep together; in the tomb of the mountain you reſt alone.

AND ſoft be your reſt, ſaid Utha, children of ſtreamy Lotha. I will remember you with tears, and my ſecret ſong ſhall riſe; when the wind is in the groves of Tora, and the ſtream is roaring near. Then ſhall ye come on my ſoul, with all your lovely grief.

THREE days feaſted the kings: on the fourth their white ſails aroſe. The winds of the north carry the ſhip of Fingal to Morven's woody land.—But the ſpirit of Loda ſat, in his cloud, behind the ſhips of Frothal. He hung forward with all his blaſts, and ſpread the white-boſomed ſails.—The wounds of his form were not forgot; he ſtill feared^* the hand of the king.

THE SONGS of SELMA^*.

STAR of the falling night! fair is thy light in the weſt! thou lifteſt thy unſhorn head from thy cloud: thy ſteps are ſtately on thy hill. What doſt thou behold in the plain? The ſtormy winds are laid. The murmur of the torrent comes from afar. Roaring waves climb the diſtant rock. The flies of evening are on their feeble wings, and the hum of their courſe is on the field. What doſt thou behold, fair light? But thou doſt ſmile and depart. The waves come with joy around thee, and bathe thy lovely hair. Farewel, thou ſilent beam!—Let the light of Oſſian's ſoul ariſe.

[210] AND it does ariſe in its ſtrength! I behold my departed friends. Their gathering is on Lora, as in the days that are paſt.—Fingal comes like a watry column of miſt; his heroes are around. And ſee the bards of the ſong, gray-haired Ullin; ſtately Ryno; Alpin^*, with the tuneful voice, and the ſoft complaint of Minona!—How are ye changed, my friends, ſince the days of Selma's feaſt! when we contended, like the gales of the ſpring, that, flying over the hill, by turns bend the feebly-whiſtling grafs.

MINONA^† came ſorth in her beauty; with down-caſt look and tearful eye; her hair flew ſlowly on the blaſt that ruſhed unfrequent from the hill.—The ſouls of the heroes were ſad when ſhe raiſed the tuneful voice; for often had they ſeen the grave of Salgar^‡, and the dark dwelling of white-boſomed Colma^‖. Colma left alone on the hill, with all her voice of muſic! Salgar promiſed to come: but the night deſcended round.—Hear the voice of Colma, when ſhe ſat alone on the hill!

IT is night;—I am alone, forlorn on the hill of ſtorms. The wind is heard in the mountain. The torrent ſhrieks down the rock. No hut receives me from the rain; forlorn on the hill of winds.

[211] RISE, moon! from behind thy clouds; ſtars of the night appear! Lead me, ſome light, to the place where my love reſts from the toil of the chace! his bow near him, unſtrung; his dogs panting around him. But here I muſt ſit alone, by the rock of the moſſy ſtream. The ſtream and the wind roar; nor can I hear the voice of my love.

WHY delays my Salgar, why the ſon of the hill, his promiſe? Here is the rock, and the tree; and here the roaring ſtream. Thou didſt promiſe with night to be here. Ah! whither is my Salgar gone? With thee I would fly, my father; with thee, my brother of pride. Our race have long been ſoes*; but we are not foes, O Salgar!

CEASE a little while, O wind! ſtream, be thou ſilent a while! let my voice be heard over the heath; let my wanderer hear me. Salgar! it is I who call. Here is the tree, and the rock. Salgar, my love! I am here. Why delayeſt thou thy coming?

Lo! the moon appeareth. The flood is bright in the vale. The rocks are grey on the face of the hill. But I ſee him not on the brow; his dogs before him tell not that he is coming. Here I muſt ſit alone.

BUT who are theſe that lie beyond me on the heath? Are they my love and my brother?—Speak to me, O my friends! they anſwer not. My ſoul is tormented with fears.—Ah! they are dead. Their ſwords are red from the fight. O my brother! my brother! why haſt thou ſlain my Salgar? why, O Salgar! haſt thou ſlain my brother? Dear were ye both to me! what ſhall I ſay in your praiſe? Thou wert fair on the hill among thouſands; he was [212] terrible in fight. Speak to me; hear my voice, ſons of my-love! But alas! they are ſilent; ſilent for ever! Cold are their breaſts of clay!

OH! from the rock of the hill; from the top of the windy mountain, ſpeak ye ghoſts of the dead! ſpeak, I will not be afraid.—Whither are ye gone to reſt? In what cave of the hill ſhall I find you? No feeble voice is on the wind: no anſwer half-drowned in the ſtorms of the hill.

I SIT in my grief. I wait for morning in my tears. Rear the tomb, ye friends of the dead; but cloſe it not till Colma come. My life flies away like a dream: why ſhould I ſtay behind? Here ſhall I reſt with my friends, by the ſtream of the ſounding rock. When night comes on the hill; when the wind is on the heath; my ghoſt ſhall ſtand in the wind, and mourn the death of my friends. The hunter ſhall hear from his booth. He ſhall fear but love my voice. For ſweet ſhall my voice be for my friends; for pleaſant were they both to me.

SUCH was thy ſong, Minona ſoftly-bluſhing maid of Torman. Our tears deſcended for Colma, and our ſouls were ſad.—Ullin came with the harp, and gave the ſong of Alpin.—The voice of Alpin was pleaſant: the ſoul of Ryno was a beam of fire. But they had reſted in the narrow houſe: and their voice was not heard in Selma.—Ullin had returned one day from the chace, before the heroes fell. He heard their ſtrife on the hill; their ſong was ſoft but ſad. They mourned the fall of Morar, firſt of mortal men. His ſoul was like the ſoul of Fingal; his ſword like the ſword of Oſcar.—But he fell, and his father mourned: his ſiſter's eyes were full of tears.—Minona's eyes were full of tears, the ſiſter of car-borne [213] Morar. She retired from the ſong of Ullin, like the moon in the weſt, when ſhe foreſees the ſhower, and hides her fair head in a cloud.—I touched the harp, with Ullin; the ſong of mourning roſe.

THE wind and the rain are over: calm is the noon of day. The clouds are divided in heaven. Over the green hills flies the incon⯑ſtant ſun. Red through the ſtony vale comes down the ſtream of the hill. Sweet are thy murmurs, O ſtream! but more ſweet is the voice I hear. It is the voice of Alpin, the ſon of the ſong, mourning for the dead. Bent is his head of age, and red his tear⯑ful eye. Alpin, thou ſon of the ſong, why alone on the ſilent hill? why complaineſt thou, as a blaſt in the wood; as a wave on the lonely ſhore?

MY tears, O Ryno! are for the dead; my voice, for the inhabi⯑tants of the grave. Tall thou art on the hill; fair among the ſons of the plain. But thou ſhalt fall like Morar^*; and the mourner ſhall ſit on thy tomb. The hills ſhall know thee no more; thy bow ſhall lie in the hall, unſtrung.

THOU wert ſwift, O Morar! as a roe on the hill; terrible as a meteor of fire. Thy wrath was as the ſtorm. Thy ſword in battle, as lightning in the field. Thy voice was like a ſtream after rain; like thunder on diſtant hills. Many fell by thy arm; they were con⯑ſumed in the flames of thy wrath.

BUT when thou didſt return from war, how peaceful was thy brow! Thy face was like the ſun after rain; like the moon in the [214] ſilence of night; calm as the breaſt of the lake when the loud wind is laid.

NARROW is thy dwelling now; dark the place of thine abode. With three ſteps I compaſs thy grave, O thou who waſt ſo great before! Four ſtones, with their heads of moſs, are the only memo⯑rial of thee. A tree with ſcarce a leaf, long graſs which whiſtles in the wind, mark to the hunter's eye the grave of the mighty Morar. Morar! thou art low indeed. Thou haſt no mother to mourn thee; no maid with her tears of love. Dead is ſhe that brought thee forth. Fallen is the daughter of Morglan.

WHO on his ſtaff is this? who is this, whoſe head is white with age, whoſe eyes are red with tears, who quakes at every ſtep.—It is thy father^*, O Morar! the father of no ſon but thee. He heard of thy fame in battle; he heard of foes diſperſed. He heard of Morar's fame; why did he not hear of his wound? Weep, thou father of Morar! weep; but thy ſon heareth thee not. Deep is the ſleep of the dead; low their pillow of duſt. No more ſhall he hear thy voice; no more ſhall he awake at thy call. When ſhall it be morn in the grave, to bid the ſlumberer awake?

FAREWEL, thou braveſt of men! thou conqueror in the field! but the field ſhall ſee thee no more; nor the dark wood be lightened with the ſplendor of thy ſteel. Thou haſt left no ſon. But the ſong ſhall preſerve thy name. Future times ſhall hear of thee; they ſhall hear of the fallen Morar.

THE grief of all aroſe, but moſt the burſting ſigh of Armin^†. He remembers the death of his ſon, who fell in the days of his [215] youth. Carmor^* was near the hero, the chief of the ecchoing Gal⯑mal. Why burſts the ſigh of Armin, he ſaid? Is there a cauſe to mourn? The ſong comes, with its muſic, to melt and pleaſe the ſoul. It is like ſoft miſt, that, riſing from a lake, pours on the ſi⯑lent vale; the green flowers are filled with dew, but the ſun re⯑turns in his ſtrength, and the miſt is gone. Why art thou ſad, O Armin, chief of ſea-ſurrounded Gorma?

SAD! I am indeed: nor ſmall my cauſe of woe!—Carmor, thou haſt loſt no ſon; thou haſt loſt no daughter of beauty. Colgar the valiant lives; and Annira faireſt maid. The boughs of thy family flouriſh, O Carmor! but Armin is the laſt of his race. Dark is thy bed, O Daura! and deep thy ſleep in the tomb.—When ſhalt thou awake with thy ſongs? with all thy voice of muſic?

RISE, winds of autumn, riſe; blow upon the dark heath! ſtreams of the mountains, roar! howl, ye tempeſts, in the top of the oak! walk through broken clouds, O moon! ſhow by intervals thy pale face! bring to my mind that ſad night, when all my children fell; when Arindal the mighty fell; when Dura the lovely failed.

DAURA, my daughter! thou wert fair; fair as the moon on the hills of Fura^†; white as the driven ſnow; ſweet as the breath⯑ing gale. Arindal, thy bow was ſtrong, thy ſpear was ſwift in the field: thy look was like miſt on the wave; thy ſhield, a red cloud in a ſtorm. Armar, renowned in war, came, and ſought Daura's love; he was not long denied; fair was the hope of their friends.

[216] ERATH, ſon of Odgal, repined; for his brother was ſlain by Armar. He came diſguiſed like a ſon of the ſea: fair was his ſkiff on the wave; white his locks of age; calm his ſerious brow. Fair⯑eſt of women, he ſaid, lovely daughter of Armin! a rock not diſtant in the ſea, bears a tree on its ſide; red ſhines the fruit afar. There Armor waits for Daura. I came to carry his love along the roll⯑ing ſea.

SHE went; and ſhe called on Armar. Nought anſwered, but the ſon^* of the rock. Armor, my love! my love! why tormenteſt thou me with fear? hear, ſon of Ardnart, hear: it is Daura who calleth thee! Erath the traitor fled laughing to the land. She lifted up her voice, and cried for her brother and her father. Arin⯑dal! Armin! none to relieve your Daura.

HER voice came over the ſea. Arindal my ſon deſcended from the hill; rough in the ſpoils of the chace. His arrows rattled by his ſide; his bow was in his hand: five dark gray dogs attended his ſteps. He ſaw fierce Erath on the ſhore: he ſeized and bound him to an oak. Thick fly the thongs^† of the hide around his limbs; he loads the wind with his groans.

ARINDAL aſcends the deep in his boat, to bring Daura to land. Armar came in his wrath, and let fly the gray-feathered ſhaft. It ſung; it ſunk in thy heart, O Arindal my ſon! for Erath the trai⯑tor thou diedſt. The oar is ſtopped at once; he panted on the rock [217] and expired. What is thy grief, O Daura, when round thy feet is poured thy brother's blood.

THE boat is broken in twain by the waves. Armar plunges into the ſea, to reſcue his Daura or die. Sudden a blaſt from the hill comes over the waves. He ſunk, and he roſe no more.

ALONE, on the ſea-beat rock, my daughter was heard to com⯑plain. Frequent and loud were her cries; nor could her father re⯑lieve her. All night I ſtood on the ſhore. I ſaw her by the faint beam of the moon. All night I heard her cries. Loud was the wind; and the rain beat hard on the ſide of the mountain. Before morning appeared, her voice was weak. It died away, like the evening-breeze among the graſs of the rocks. Spent with grief ſhe expired. And left thee Armin alone: gone is my ſtrength in the war, and fallen my pride among women.

WHEN the ſtorms of the mountain come; when the north lifts the waves on high; I ſit by the ſounding ſhore, and look on the fatal rock. Often by the ſetting moon I ſee the ghoſts of my chil⯑dren. Half-viewleſs, they walk in mournful conference together. Will none of you ſpeak in pity? They do not regard their father. I am ſad, O Carmor, nor ſmall my cauſe of woe!

SUCH were the words of the bards in the days of the ſong; when the king heard the muſic of harps, and the tales of other times. The chiefs gathered from all their hills, and heard the lovely ſound. They praiſed the voice^* of Cona! the firſt among a thouſand bards. But age is now on my tongue; and my ſoul has failed. I hear, [218] ſometimes, the ghoſts of bards, and learn their pleaſant ſong. But memory fails on my mind; I hear the call of years. They ſay, as they paſs along, why does Oſſian ſing? Soon ſhall he lie in the nar⯑row houſe, and no bard ſhall raiſe his fame.

ROLL on, ye dark-brown years, for ye bring no joy on your courſe. Let the tomb open to Oſſian, for his ſtrength has failed. The ſons of the ſong are gone to reſt; my voice remains, like a blaſt, that roars, lonely, on a ſea-ſurrounded rock, after the winds are laid. The dark moſs whiſtles there, and the diſtant mariner ſees the waving trees.

CALTHON and COLMAL: A POEM^*.

PLEASANT is the voice of thy ſong, thou lonely dweller of the rock. It comes on the ſound of the ſtream, along the narrow vale. My ſoul awakes, O ſtranger! in the midſt of my hall. I ſtretch my hand to the ſpear, as in the days of other years.—I [220] ſtretch my hand, but it is ſeeble; and the ſigh of my boſom grows.—Wilt thou not liſten, ſon of the rock, to the ſong of Oſſian? My ſoul is full of other times; the joy of my youth returns. Thus the ſun^† appears in the weſt, after the ſteps of his brightneſs have moved behind a ſtorm; the green hills lift their dewy heads: the blue ſtreams rejoice in the vale. The aged hero comes forth on his ſtaff, and his grey hair glitters in the beam.

DOST thou not behold, ſon of the rock, a ſhield in Oſſian's hall? It is marked with the ſtrokes of battle; and the brightneſs of its boſſes has failed. That ſhield the great Dunthalmo bore, the chief of ſtreamy Teutha.—Dunthalmo bore it in battle, before he fell by Oſſian's ſpear. Liſten, ſon of the rock, to the tale of other years.—

RATHMOR was a chief of Clutha. The feeble dwelt in his hall. The gates of Rathmor were never cloſed; his feaſt was always ſpread. The ſons of the ſtranger came, and bleſſed the generous chief of Clutha. Bards raiſed the ſong, and touched the harp: and joy brightened on the face of the mournful.—Dunthalmo came, in his pride, and ruſhed into the combat of Rathmor. The chief of Clutha overcame: the rage of Dunthalmo roſe—He came, by night, with his warriors; and the mighty Rathmor fell. He fell in his halls, where his feaſt was often ſpread for ſtrangers.—

[221] COLMAR and Calthon were young, the ſons of car-borne Rath⯑mor. They came, in the joy of youth, into their father's hall. They behold him in his blood, and their burſting tears deſcend.—The ſoul of Dunthalmo melted, when he ſaw the children of youth; he brought them to Alteutha's^‡. walls; they grew in the houſe of their foe.—They bent the bow in his preſence; and came forth to his battles.

THEY ſaw the ſallen walls of their fathers; they ſaw the green thorn in the hall. Their tears deſcended in ſecret; and, at times, their faces were mournful. Dunthalmo beheld their grief: his darkening ſoul deſigned their death. He cloſed them in two caves, on the ecchoing banks of Teutha. The ſun did not come there with his beams; nor the moon of heaven by night. The ſons of Rathmor remained in darkneſs, and ſoreſaw their death.

THE daughter of Dunthalmo wept in ſilence, the fair-haired, blue-eyed Colmal^‖. Her eye had rolled in ſecret on Calthon; his lovelineſs ſwelled in her ſoul. She trembled for her warrior; but what could Colmal do? Her arm could not lift the ſpear; nor was the ſword ſormed for her ſide. Her white breaſt never roſe beneath a mail. Neither was her eye the terror of heroes. What canſt thou do, O Colmal! for the falling chief?—Her ſteps are unequal; her hair is looſe: her eye looked wildly through her tears.—She [222] came, by night, to the hall^*; and armed her lovely form in ſteel; the ſteel of a young warrior, who fell in the firſt of his battles.—She came to the cave of Calthon, and looſed the thong from his hands.

ARISE, ſon of Rathmor, ſhe ſaid, ariſe, the night is dark. Let us fly to the king of Selma^†, chief of fallen Clutha! I am the ſon of Lamgal, who dwelt in thy father's hall. I heard of thy dark dwelling in the cave, and my ſoul aroſe. Ariſe, ſon of Rathmor, for the night is dark.—

BLEST voice! replied the chief, comeſt thou from the darkly-rolling clouds? for often the ghoſts of his fathers deſcend to Cal⯑thon's dreams, ſince the ſun has retired from his eyes, and darkneſs has dwelt around him. Or art thou the ſon of Lamgal, the chief I often ſaw in Clutha? But will I fly to Fingal, and Colmar my brother low? Will I fly to Morven, and the hero cloſed in night? No: give me that ſpear, ſon of Lamgal, Calthon will defend his brother.

A THOUSAND heroes, replied the maid, ſtretch their ſpears round car-borne Colmar. What can Calthon do againſt a hoſt ſo great? Let us fly to the king of Morven, he will come with battle. His arm is ſtretched forth to the unhappy; the lightning of his ſword is round the weak.—Ariſe, thou ſon of Rathmor; the ſhadows will fly away. Dunthalmo will behold thy ſteps on the field, and thou muſt fall in thy youth.

[223] THE ſighing hero roſe; his tears deſcend for car-borne Colmar. He came with the maid to Selma's hall; but he knew not that it was Colmal. The helmet cover'd her lovely face; and her breaſt roſe beneath the ſteel. Fingal returned from the chace, and found the lovely ſtrangers. They were like two beams of light, in the midſt of the hall.

THE kind heard the tale of grief; and turned his eyes around. A thouſand heroes half-roſe before him; claiming the war of Teu⯑tha.—I came with my ſpear from the hill, and the joy of battle roſe in my breaſt: for the king ſpoke to Oſſian in the midſt of the people.

SON of my ſtrength, he ſaid, take the ſpear of Fingal; go to Teutha's mighty ſtream, and ſave the car-borne Colmar.—Let thy fame return before thee like a pleaſant gale; that my ſoul may re⯑joice over my ſon, who renews the renown of our fathers.—Oſſian! be thou a ſtorm in battle; but mild when the foes are low!—It was thus my fame aroſe, O my ſon; and be thou like Selma's chief.—When the haughty come to my halls, my eyes behold them not. But my arm is ſtretched forth to the unhappy. My ſword defends the weak.

I REJOICED in the words of the king: and took my rattling arms.—Diaran^* roſe at my ſide, and Dargo^† king of ſpears.— [224] Three hundred youths followed our ſteps: the lovely ſtrangers were at my ſide. Dunthalmo heard the ſound of our approach; he gathered the ſtrength of Teutha.—He ſtood on a hill with his hoſt; they were like rocks broken with thunder, when their bent trees are ſinged and bare, and the ſtreams of their chinks have failed.

THE ſtream of Teutha rolled, in its pride, before the gloomy foe. I ſent a bard to Dunthalmo, to offer the combat on the plain; but he ſmiled in the darkneſs of his pride.—His unſettled hoſt moved on the hill; like the mountain-cloud, when the blaſt has entered its womb, and ſcatters the curling gloom on every ſide.

THEY brought Colmar to Teutha's bank, bound with a thouſand thongs. The chief is ſad, but lovely, and his eye is on his friends; for we ſtood, in our arms, on the oppoſite bank of Teutha. Dun⯑thalmo [225] came with his ſpear, and pierced the hero's ſide: he rolled on the bank in his blood, and we heard his broken ſighs.

CALTHON ruſhed into the ſtream: I bounded forward on my ſpear. Teutha's race fell before us. Night came rolling down. Dunthalmo reſted on a rock, amidſt an aged wood. The rage of his boſom burned againſt the car-borne Calthon.—But Calthon ſtood in his grief; he mourned the fallen Colmar; Colmar ſlain in youth, before his fame aroſe.

I BADE the ſong of woe to riſe, to ſooth the mournful chief; but he ſtood beneath a tree, and often threw his ſpear on earth.—The humid eye of Colmal rolled near in a ſecret tear: ſhe foreſaw the fall of Dunthalmo, or of Clutha's battling chief.

Now half the night had paſſed away. Silence and darkneſs were on the field; ſleep reſted on the eyes of the heroes: Calthon's ſettling ſoul was ſtill. His eyes were half-cloſed; but the murmur of Teutha had not yet failed in his ear.—Pale, and ſhewing his wounds, the ghoſt of Colmar came: he bended his head over the hero, and raiſed his feeble voice.

SLEEPS the ſon of Rathmor in his night, and his brother low? Did we not riſe to the chace together, and purſue the dark-brown hinds? Colmar was not forgot till he fell; till death had blaſted his youth. I lie pale beneath the rock of Lona. O let Calthon riſe! the morning comes with its beams; and Dunthalmo will diſ⯑honour the fallen.

HE paſſed away in his blaſt. The riſing Calthon ſaw the ſteps of his departure.—He ruſhed in the ſound of his ſteel; and unhappy Colmal roſe. She followed her hero through night, and dragged [226] her ſpear behind.—But when Calthon came to Lona's rock, he found his fallen brother—The rage of his boſom roſe, and he ruſhed among the foe. The groans of death aſcend. They cloſe around the chief.—He is bound in the midſt, and brought to gloomy Dun⯑thalmo.—The ſhout of joy aroſe; and the hills of night replied.—

I ſtarted at the ſound: and took my father's ſpear. Diaran roſe at my ſide; and the youthful ſtrength of Dargo. We miſſed the chief of Clutha, and our ſouls were ſad.—I dreaded the departure of my fame; the pride of my valour roſe.

SONS of Morven, I ſaid, it is not thus our fathers fought. They reſted not on the field of ſtrangers, when the foe did not fall before them.—Their ſtrength was like the eagles of heaven; their re⯑nown is in the ſong. But our people fall by degrees, and our fame begins to depart.—What ſhall the king of Morven ſay, if Oſſian conquers not at Teutha? Riſe in your ſteel, ye warriors, and ſollow the ſound of Oſſian's courſe. He will not return, but renowned, to the echoing walls of Selma.

MORNING roſe on the blue waters of Teutha; Colmal ſtood before me in tears. She told of the chief of Clutha: and thrice the ſpear fell from her hand. My wrath turned againſt the ſtranger; for my ſoul trembled for Calthon.

SON of the feeble hand, I ſaid, do Teutha's warriors fight with tears? The battle is not won with grief; nor dwells the ſigh in the ſoul of war.—Go to the deer of Carmun, or the lowing herds of Teutha.—But leave theſe arms, thou ſon of fear; a warrior may lift them in battle.—

[227] I tore the mail from her ſhoulders. Her ſnowy breaſt appeared. She bent her red face to the ground.—I looked in ſilence to the chiefs. The ſpear fell from my hand; and the ſigh of my boſom roſe.—But when I heard the name of the maid, my crowding tears deſcended. I bleſſed the lovely beam of youth, and bade the battle move.—

WHY, ſon of the rock, ſhould Oſſian tell how Teutha's warriors died? They are now forgot in their land; and their tombs are not found on the heath.—Years came on with their tempeſts; and the green mounds mouldered away.—Scarce is the grave of Dunthalmo ſeen, or the place where he fell by the ſpear of Oſſian.—Some gray warrior, half blind with age, ſitting by night at the flaming oak of the hall, tells now my actions to his ſons, and the fall of the dark Dunthalmo. The ſaces of youth bend ſidelong towards his voice; ſurprize and joy burn in their eyes.—

I FOUND the ſon^* of Rathmor bound to an oak; my ſword cut the thongs from his hands. And I gave him the white-boſomed Colmal.—They dwelt in the halls of Teutha; and Oſſian returned to Selma.

LATHMON: A POEM^*.

SELMA, thy halls are ſilent. There is no ſound in the woods of Morven. The wave tumbles alone on the coast. The ſi⯑lent beam of the ſun is on the field. The daughters of Morven come forth, like the bow of the ſhower; they look towards green Ullin for the white ſails of the king. He had promiſed to return, but the winds of the north aroſe.

WHO pours from the eaſtern hill, like a ſtream of darkneſs? It is the hoſt of Lathmon. He has heard of the abſence of Fingal. He truſts in the wind of the north. His ſoul brightens with joy. Why doſt thou come, Lathmon? The mighty are not in Selma. Why comeſt thou with thy forward ſpear? Will the daughters of Morven fight? But ſtop, O mighty ſtream, in thy courſe! Does not Lathmon behold theſe ſails? Why doſt thou vaniſh, Lathmon, [229] like the miſt of the lake? But the ſqually ſtorm is behind thee; Fingal purſues thy ſteps!

THE king of Morven ſtarted from ſleep, as we rolled on the dark-blue wave. He ſtretched his hand to his ſpear, and his heroes roſe around. We knew that he had ſeen his fathers, for they often de⯑ſcended to his dreams, when the ſword of the foe roſe over the land; and the battle darkened before us.

WHITHER haſt thou fled, O wind, ſaid the king of Morven? Doſt thou ruſtle in the chambers of the ſouth, and purſue the ſhower in other lands? Why doſt thou not come to my ſails? to the blue face of my ſeas? The foe is in the land of Morven, and the king is abſent. But let each bind on his mail, and each aſſume his ſhield. Stretch every ſpear over the wave; let every ſword be un⯑ſheathed. Lathmon^* is before us with his hoſt: he that fled^† from Fingal on the plains of Lona. But he returns, like a collected ſtream, and his roar is between our hills.

SUCH were the words of Fingal. We ruſhed into Carmona's bay. Oſſian aſcended the hill; and thrice ſtruck his boſſy ſhield. The rock of Morven replied; and the bounding roes came forth. The foes were troubled in my preſence: and collected their darken⯑ed hoſt; for I ſtood, like a cloud on the hill, rejoicing in the arma of my youth.

[230] MORNI^* ſat beneath a tree, at the roaring waters of Strumon^†: his locks of age are gray: he leans forward on his ſtaff; young Gaul is near the hero, hearing the battles of his youth. Often did he riſe, in the fire of his ſoul, at the mighty deeds of Morni.

THE aged heard the ſound of Oſſian's ſhield: he knew the ſign of battle. He ſtarted at once from his place. His gray hair part⯑ed on his back. He remembers the actions of other years. My ſon, he ſaid to fair haired Gaul, I hear the ſound of battle. The king of Morven is returned, the ſign of war is heard. Go to the halls of Strumon, and bring his arms to Morni. Bring the arms which my father wore in his age, for my arm begins to fail. Take thou thy armour, O Gaul; and ruſh to the firſt of thy battles. Let thine arm reach to the renown of thy fathers. Be thy courſe in the field, like the eagle's wing. Why ſhouldſt thou fear death, my ſon! the valiant fall with fame; their ſhields turn the dark ſtream of danger away, and renown dwells on their gray hairs. Doſt thou not ſee, O Gaul, how the ſteps of my age are honoured? Morni moves forth, and the young meet him, with reverence, and turn their eyes, with ſilent joy, on his courſe. But I never fled from danger, my ſon! my ſword lightened through the darkneſs of battle. The ſtranger melted before me; the mighty were blaſted in my preſence.

GAUL brought the arms to Morni: the aged warrior covered him⯑ſelf with ſteel. He took the ſpear in his hand, which was often [231] ſtained with the blood of the valiant. He came towards Fingal, his ſon attended his ſteps. The ſon of Comhal rejoiced over the warrior, when he came in the locks of his age.

KING of the roaring Strumon! ſaid the riſing joy of Fingal; do I behold thee in arms, after thy ſtrength has failed? Often has Morni ſhone in battles, like the beam of the riſing ſun; when he diſperſes the ſtorms of the hill, and brings peace to the glittering fields. But why didſt thou not reſt in thine age? Thy renown is in the ſong. The people behold thee, and bleſs the departure of mighty Morni. Why didſt thou not reſt in thine age? For the foe will vaniſh before Fingal.

SON of Comhal, replied the chief, the ſtrength of Morni's arm has failed. I attempt to draw the ſword of my youth, but it re⯑mains in its place. I throw the ſpear, but it falls ſhort of the mark; and I feel the weight of my ſhield. We decay, like the graſs of the mountain, and our ſtrength returns no more. I have a ſon, O Fingal, his ſoul has delighted in the actions of Morni's youth; but his ſword has not been lifted againſt the foe, neither has his fame begun. I come with him to battle; to direct his arm. His re⯑nown will be a ſun to my ſoul, in the dark hour of my departure. O that the name of Morni were forgot among the people! that the heroes would only ſay, ‘"Behold the father of Gaul!"’

KING of Strumon, Fingal replied, Gaul ſhall lift the ſword in battle. But he ſhall lift it before Fingal; my arm ſhall defend his youth. But reſt thou in the halls of Selma; and hear of our renown. Bid the harp be ſtrung; and the voice of the bard ariſe, that thoſe who fall may rejoice in their fame; and the ſoul of Morni brighten with gladneſs.—Oſſian! thou haſt ſought in [232] battles: the blood of ſtrangers is on thy ſpear: let thy courſe be with Gaul in the ſtrife; but depart not from the ſide of Fingal; leſt the foe find you alone, and your fame fail at once.

I SAW^* Gaul in his arms, and my ſoul was mixed with his: for the fire of the battle was in his eyes! he looked to the ſoe with joy. We ſpoke the words of friendſhip in ſecret; and the lightning of our ſwords poured together; for we drew them behind the wood, and tried the ſtrength of our arms on the empty air.

NIGHT came down on Morven. Fingal ſat at the beam of the oak. Morni ſat by his ſide with all his gray waving locks. Their diſcourſe is of other times, and the actions of their fathers. Three bards, at times, touched the harp; and Ullin was near with his ſong. He ſung of the mighty Comhal; but darkneſs gathered^† on Morni's brow. He rolled his red eye on Ullin; and the ſong of the bard ceaſed. Fingal obſerved the aged hero, and he mildly ſpoke.

CHIEF of Strumon, why that darkneſs? Let the days of other years be forgot. Our fathers contended in battle; but we meet to⯑gether, at the feaſt. Our ſwords are turned on the foes, and they melt before us on the field. Let the days of our fathers be forgot, king of moſſy Strumon.

[233] KING of Morven, replied the chief, I remember thy father with joy. He was terrible in battle; the rage^* of the chief was deadly. My eyes were full of tears, when the king of heroes ſell. The va⯑liant fall, O Fingal, and the feeble remain on the hills. How many heroes have paſſed away, in the days of Morni! And I did not ſhun the battle; neither did I fly from the ſtrife of the valiant.

Now let the friends of Fingal reſt; for the night is around; that they may riſe, with ſtrength, to battle againſt car-borne Lathmon. I hear the ſound of his hoſt, like thunder heard on a diſtant heath. Oſſian! and fair-haired Gaul! ye are ſwift in the race. Obſerve the foes of Fingal from that woody hill. But approach them not, your fathers are not near to ſhield you. Let not your fame fall at once. The valour of youth may fail.

WE heard the words of the chief with joy, and moved in the clang of our arms. Our ſteps are on the woody hill. Heaven burns with all its ſtars. The meteors of death fly over the field. The diſtant noiſe of the foe reached our ears. It was then Gaul ſpoke, in his valour; his hand half-unſheathed the ſword.

SON of Fingal, he ſaid, why burns the ſoul of Gaul? My heart beats high. My ſteps are diſordered; and my hand trembles on my ſword. When I look towards the foe, my ſoul lightens before me, and I ſee their ſleeping hoſt. Tremble thus the ſouls of the valiant in battles of the ſpear?—How would the ſoul of Morni riſe if we [234] ſhould ruſh on the foe! Our renown would grow in the ſong; and our ſteps be ſtately in the eyes of the brave.

SON of Morni, I replied, my ſoul delights in battle. I delight to ſhine in battle alone, and to give my name to the bards. But what if the foe ſhould prevail; ſhall I behold the eyes of the king? They are terrible in his diſpleaſure, and like the flames of death.—But I will not behold them in his wrath. Oſſian ſhall prevail or fall. But ſhall the fame of the vanquiſhed riſe?—They paſs away like a ſhadow. But the fame of Oſſian ſhall riſe. His deeds ſhall be like his fathers. Let us ruſh in our arms; ſon of Morni, let us ruſh to battle. Gaul! if thou ſhalt return, go to Selma's lofty wall. Tell to Evirallin^* that I fell with fame; carry this ſword to Branno's daughter. Let her give it to Oſcar, when the years of his youth ſhall ariſe.

SON of Fingal, Gaul replied with a ſigh; will I return after Oſ⯑ſian is low!—What would my father ſay, and Fingal king of men? The feeble would turn their eyes and ſay, ‘"Behold the mighty Gaul who left his friend in his blood!"’ Ye ſhall not behold me, ye feeble, but in the midſt of my renown. Oſſian! I have heard from my father the mighty deeds of heroes; their mighty deeds when alone; for the ſoul increaſes in danger.

SON of Morni, I replied and ſtrode before him on the heath, our fathers ſhall praiſe our valour, when they mourn our fall. A beam of gladneſs ſhall riſe on their ſouls, when their eyes are full of tears. They will ſay, ‘"Our ſons have not fallen like the graſs of the field, for they ſpread death around them."’—But why [235] ſhould we think of the narrow houſe? The ſword defends the va⯑liant. But death purſues the flight of the feeble; and their re⯑nown is not heard.

WE ruſhed forward through night; and came to the roar of a ſtream which bent its blue courſe round the foe, through trees that ecchoed to its noiſe; we came to the bank of the ſtream, and ſaw the ſleeping hoſt. Their fires were decayed on the plain; and the lonely ſteps of their ſcouts were diſtant far. I ſtretched my ſpear before me to ſupport my ſteps over the ſtream. But Gaul took my hand, and ſpoke the words of the valiant.

SHALL^* the ſon of Fingal ruſh on a ſleeping foe? Shall he come like a blaſt by night when it overturns the young trees in ſecret? Fingal did not thus receive his fame, nor dwells renown on the gray hairs of Morni, for actions like theſe. Strike, Oſſian, ſtrike the ſhield of battle, and let their thouſands riſe. Let them meet Gaul in his firſt battle, that he may try the ſtrength of his arm.

MY ſoul rejoiced over the warrior, and my burſting tears de⯑ſcended. And the foe ſhall meet Gaul, I ſaid: the fame of Morni's ſon ſhall ariſe. But ruſh not too far, my hero: let the gleam of thy ſteel be near to Oſſian. Let our hands join in ſlaughter.—Gaul! doſt thou not behold that rock? Its gray ſide dimly gleams to the ſtars. If the foe ſhall prevail, let our back be towards the [236] rock. Then ſhall they fear to approach our ſpears; for death is in our hands.

I STRUCK thrice my ecchoing ſhield. The ſtarting foe aroſe. We ruſhed on in the ſound of our arms. Their crouded ſteps fly over the heath; for they thought that the mighty Fingal came; and the ſtrength of their arms withered away. The ſound of their flight was like that of flame, when it ruſhes thro' the blaſted groves.

IT was then the ſpear of Gaul flew in its ſtrength; it was then his ſword aroſe. Cremor fell; and mighty Leth. Dunthormo ſtruggled in his blood. The ſteel ruſhed through Crotho's ſide, as bent, he roſe on his ſpear; the black ſtream poured from the wound, and hiſſed on the half-extinguiſhed oak. Cathmin ſaw the ſteps of the hero behind him, and aſcended a blaſted tree; but the ſpear pierced him from behind. Shrieking, panting, he fell; moſs and withered branches purſue his fall, and ſtrew the blue arms of Gaul.

SUCH were thy deeds, ſon of Morni, in the firſt of thy battles. Nor ſlept the ſword by thy ſide, thou laſt of Fingal's race! Oſſian ruſhed forward in his ſtrength, and the people fell before him; as the graſs by the ſtaff of the boy, when he whiſtles along the field, and the gray beard of the thiſtle falls. But careleſs the youth moves on; his ſteps are towards the deſart.

GRAY morning roſe around us, the winding ſtreams are bright along the heath. The foe gathered on a hill; and the rage of Lath⯑mon roſe. He bent the red eye of his wrath: he is ſilent in his riſing grief. He often ſtruck his boſſy ſhield; and his ſteps are un⯑equal on the heath. I ſaw the diſtant darkneſs of the hero, and I ſpoke to Morni's ſon.

[237] CAR-BORNE^* chief of Strumon, doſt thou behold the foe? They gather on the hill in their wrath. Let our ſteps be towards the king^†. He ſhall riſe in his ſtrength, and the hoſt of Lathmon vaniſh. Our fame is around us, warrior, the eyes of the aged^‡ will rejoice. But let us fly, ſon of Morni, Lathmon deſcends the hill.

THEN let our ſteps^‖ be ſlow, replied the fair—haired Gaul; leſt the foe ſay, with a ſmile, ‘"Behold the warriors of night, they are, like ghoſts, terrible in darkneſs, but they melt away before the beam of the eaſt."’ Oſſian, take the ſhield of Gormar who fell be⯑neath thy ſpear, that the aged heroes may rejoice, when they ſhall behold the actions of their ſons.

SUCH were our words on the plain, when Sulmath^{{inverted †}} came to car-borne Lathmon: Sulmath chief of Dutha at the dark-rolling ſtream of Duvranna^§. Why doſt thou not ruſh, ſon of Nuäth, with a thouſand of thy heroes? Why doſt thou not deſcend with thy hoſt, before the warriors fly? Their blue arms are beaming to the riſing light, and their ſteps are before us on the heath.

[238] SON of the feeble hand, ſaid Lathmon, ſhall my hoſt deſcend! They^* are but two, ſon of Dutha, and ſhall a thouſand lift their ſteel! Nuäth would mourn, in his hall, for the departure of his fame. His eyes would turn from Lathmon, when the tread of his feet approached.

Go thou to the heroes, chief of Dutha, for I behold the ſtately ſteps of Oſſian. His fame is worthy of my ſteel; let him fight with Lathmon.

THE noble Sulmath came. I rejoiced in the words of the king. I raiſed the ſhield on my arm; and Gaul placed in my hand the ſword of Morni. We returned to the murmuring ſtream; Lath⯑mon came in his ſtrength. His dark hoſt rolled, like the clouds, be⯑hind him: but the ſon of Nuäth was bright in his ſteel.

SON of Fingal, ſaid the hero, thy fame has grown on our fall. How many lie there of my people by thy hand, thou king of men! Lift now thy ſpear againſt Lathmon; and lay the ſon of Nuäth low. Lay him low among his people, or thou thyſelf muſt fall. [239] It ſhall never be told in my halls that my warriors fell in my pre⯑ſence; that they fell in the preſence of Lathmon when his ſword reſted by his ſide: the blue eyes of Cutha^* would roll in tears, and her ſteps be lonely in the vales of Dunlathmon.

NEITHER ſhall it be told, I replied, that the ſon of Fingal fled. Were his ſteps covered with darkneſs, yet would not Oſſian fly; his ſoul would meet him and ſay, ‘"Does the bard of Selma fear the foe?"’ No: he does not fear the foe. His joy is in the midſt of battle.

LATHMON came on with his ſpear, and pierced the ſhield of Oſſian. I felt the cold ſteel at my ſide; and drew the ſwored of Morni; I cut the ſpear in twain; the bright point fell glittering on the ground. The ſon of Nuäth burnt in his wrath, and lifted high his ſounding ſhield. His dark eyes rolled above it, as bending for⯑ward, it ſhone like a gate of braſs. But Oſſian's ſpear pierced the brightneſs of its boſſes, and ſunk in a tree that roſe behind. The ſhield hung on the quivering lance! but Lathmon ſtill advanced. Gaul foreſaw the fall of the chief, and ſtretched his buckler before my ſword; when it deſcended, in a ſtream of light over the king of Dunlathmon.

LATHMON beheld the ſon of Morni, and the tear ſtarted from his eye. He threw the ſword of his fathers on the ground, and ſpoke the words of the valiant. Why ſhould Lathmon fight againſt the firſt of mortal men? Your ſouls are beams from heaven; your ſwords the flames of death. Who can equal the renown of the heroes, whoſe actions are ſo great in youth! O that ye were in the halls of Nuäth, in the green dwelling of Lathmon! then would my father ſay, that his ſon did not yield to the feeble.—But who comes, a [240] mighty ſtream, along the ecchoing heath? the little hills are trou⯑bled before him, and a thouſand ghoſts are on the beams of his ſteel; the ghoſts^* of thoſe who are to fall by the arm of the king of re⯑ſounding Morven.—Happy art thou, O Fingal, thy ſons ſhall fight thy battles; they go forth before thee; and they return with the ſteps of their renown.

FINGAL came, in his mildneſs, rejoicing in ſecret over the actions of his ſon. Morni's face brightened with gladneſs, and his aged eyes look faintly through the tears of joy. We came to the halls of Selma, and ſat round the feaſt of ſhells. The maids of the ſong came into our preſence, and the mildly bluſhing Evirallin. Her dark hair ſpreads on her neck of ſnow, her eye rolled in ſecret on Oſſian; ſhe touched the harp of muſic, and we bleſſed the daughter of Branno.

FINGAL roſe in his place, and ſpoke to Dunlathmon's battling king. The ſword of Trenmor trembled by his ſide, as he lifted up his mighty arm. Son of Nuäth, he ſaid, why doſt thou ſearch for fame in Morven? We are not of the race of the feeble; nor do our ſwords gleam over the weak. When did we come to Dunlathmon, with the ſound of war? Fingal does not delight in battle, though his arm is ſtrong. My renown grows on the fall of the haughty. The lightning of my ſteel pours on the proud in arms. The battle comes; and the tombs of the valiant riſe; the tombs of my people riſe, O my fathers! and I at laſt muſt remain alone. But I will remain re⯑nowned, and the departure of my ſoul ſhall be one ſtream of light. Lathmon! retire to thy place. Turn thy battles to other lands. The race of Morven are renowned, and their foes are the ſons of the unhappy.

OITHÓNA: A POEM^*.

DARKNESS dwells around Dunlathmon, though the moon ſhews half her face on the hill. The daughter of night turns her eyes away; for ſhe beholds the grief that is coming.—The ſon of Morni is on the plain; but there is no ſound in the hall. [242] No long-ſtreaming^* beam of light comes trembling through the gloom. The voice of Oithona^† is not heard amidſt the noiſe of the ſtreams of Duvranna.—

WHITHER art thou gone in thy beauty, dark-haired daughter of Nuäth? Lathmon is in the field of the valiant, but thou didſt pro⯑miſe to remain in the hall; thou didſt promiſe to remain in the hall till the ſon of Morni returned. Till he returned from Strumon, to the maid of his love. The tear was on thy cheek at his departure; the ſigh roſe in ſecret in thy breaſt. But thou doſt not come to meet him, with ſongs, with the lightly-trembling ſound of the harp.—

SUCH were the words of Gaul, when he came to Dunlathmon's towers. The gates were open and dark. The winds were bluſter⯑ing in the hall. The trees ſtrowed the threſhold with leaves; and the murmur of night is abroad.—Sad and ſilent, at a rock, the ſon of Morni ſat: his ſoul trembled for the maid; but he knew not [243] whither to turn his courſe. The ſon^‡ of Leth ſtood at a diſtance, and heard the winds in his buſhy hair. But he did not raiſe his voice, for he ſaw the ſorrow of Gaul.

SLEEP deſcended on the heroes. The viſions of night aroſe. Oithona ſtood in a dream, before the eyes of Morni's ſon. Her dark hair was looſe and diſordered: her lovely eye rolled in tears. Blood ſtained her ſnowy arm. The robe half hid the wound of her breaſt. She ſtood over the chief, and her voice was heard.

SLEEPS the ſon of Morni, he that was lovely in the eyes of Oithona? Sleeps Gaul at the diſtant rock, and the daughter of Nuäth low? The ſea rolls round the dark iſle of Tromáthon; I ſit in my tears in the cave. Nor do I ſit alone, O Gaul, the dark chief of Cuthal is there. He is there in the rage of his love.—And what can Oithona do?

A ROUGHER blaſt ruſhed through the oak. The dream of night departed. Gaul took his aſpen ſpear; he ſtood in the rage of wrath. Often did his eyes turn to the eaſt, and accuſe the lagging light.—At length the morning came forth. The hero lifted up the ſail. The winds came ruſtling from the hill; and he bounded on the waves of the deep.—On the third day aroſe Tromathon^{* †}, like a blue ſhield in the midſt of the ſea. The white wave roared againſt [244] its rocks; ſad Oithona ſat on the coaſt. She looked on the rolling waters, and her tears deſcend.—But when ſhe ſaw Gaul in his arms, ſhe ſtarted and turned her eyes away. Her lovely cheek is bent and red; her white arm trembles by her ſide.—Thrice ſhe ſtrove to fly from his preſence; but her ſteps failed her as ſhe went.

DAUGHTER of Nuäth, ſaid the hero, why doſt thou fly from Gaul? Do my eyes ſend forth the flame of death? Or darkens hatred in my ſoul? Thou art to me the beam of the eaſt riſing in a land unknown. But thou covereſt thy face with ſadneſs, daughter of high Dunlathmon! Is the foe of Oithona near? My ſoul burns to meet him in battle. The ſword trembles on the ſide of Gaul, and longs to glitter in his hand.—Speak, daughter of Nuäth, doſt thou not behold my tears?

CAR-BORNE chief of Strumon, replied the ſighing maid, why comeſt thou over the dark-blue wave to Nuäth's mournful daughter? Why did I not paſs away in ſecret, like the flower of the rock, that lifts its fair head unſeen, and ſtrows its withered leaves on the blaſt? Why didſt thou come, O Gaul, to hear my departing ſigh? I paſs away in my youth; and my name ſhall not be heard. Or it will be heard with ſorrow, and the tears of Nuäth will fall. Thou wilt be ſad, ſon of Morni, for the fallen fame of Oithona. But ſhe ſhall ſleep in the narrow tomb, far from the voice of the mourner.—Why didſt thou come, chief of Strumon, to the ſea-beat rocks of Tromathon.

I CAME to meet thy foes, daughter of car-borne Nuäth! the death of Cuthal's chief darkens before me; or Morni's ſon ſhall fall.—Oithona! when Gaul is low, raiſe my tomb on that oozy rock; and [245] when the dark-bounding ſhip ſhall paſs, call the ſons of the ſea; call them, and give this ſword, that they may carry it to Morni's hall; that the grey-haired hero may ceaſe to look towards the deſart for the return of his ſon.

AND ſhall the daughter of Nuäth live, ſhe replied with a burſting ſigh? Shall I live in Tromáthon, and the ſon of Morni low? My heart is not of that rock; nor my ſoul careleſs as that ſea, which lifts its blue waves to every wind, and rolls beneath the ſtorm. The blaſt which ſhall lay thee low, ſhall ſpread the branches of Oithona on earth. We ſhall wither together, ſon of car-borne Morni!—The narrow houſe is pleaſant to me, and the gray ſtone of the dead: for never more will I leave thy rocks, ſea-ſurrounded Tromáthon!—Night^* came on with her clouds, after the departure of Lathmon, when he went to the wars of his fathers, to the moſs-covered rock of Duthórmoth; night came on, and I ſat in the hall, at the beam of the oak. The wind was abroad in the trees. I heard the ſound of arms. Joy roſe in my face; for I thought of thy return. It was the chief of Cuthal, the red-haired ſtrength of Dunrommath. His eyes rolled in fire: the blood of my people was on his ſword. They who defended Oithona fell by the gloomy chief.—What could I do? My arm was weak; it could not lift the ſpear. He took me in my grief, amidſt my tears he raiſed the ſail. He feared the returning ſtrength of Lathmon, the brother of unhappy Oithona.—But behold, he comes with his people! the dark wave is divided before him!—Whither wilt thou turn thy ſteps, ſon of Morni? Many are the warriors of Dun⯑rommath!

[246] MY ſteps never turned from battle, replied the hero, as he un⯑ſheathed his ſword; and will I begin to fear, Oithona, when thy foes are near? Go to thy cave, daughter of Nuath, till our battle ceaſe. Son of Leth, bring the bows of our fathers; and the ſound⯑ing quiver of Morni. Let our three warriors bend the yew. Our ſelves will lift the ſpear. They are an hoſt on the rock; but our ſouls are ſtrong.

THE daughter of Nuäth went to the cave: a troubled joy roſe on her mind, like the red path of the lightning on a ſtormy cloud.—Her ſoul was reſolved, and the tear was dried from her wildly⯑looking eye.—Dunrommath ſlowly approached; for he ſaw the ſon of Morni. Contempt contracted his face, a ſmile is on his dark-brown cheek; his red eye rolled, half-conceal'd, beneath his ſhaggy brows.

WHENCE are the ſons of the ſea, begun the gloomy chief? Have the winds driven you to the rocks of Tromáthon? Or come you in ſearch of the white-handed daughter of Nuäth? The ſons of the unhappy, ye feeble men, come to the hand of Dunrommath. His eye ſpares not the weak; and he delights in the blood of ſtrangers. Oithona is a beam of light, and the chief of Cuthal enjoys it in ſecret; wouldſt thou come on its lovelineſs like a cloud, ſon of the feeble hand!—Thou mayſt come, but ſhalt thou return to the halls of thy fathers?

DOST thou not know me, ſaid Gaul, red-haired chief of Cuthal? Thy feet were ſwift on the heath, in the battle of car-borne Lath⯑mon; when the ſword of Morni's ſon purſued his hoſt, in Morven's woody land. Dunrommath! thy words are mighty, for thy warriors [247] gather behind thee. But do I fear them, ſon of pride? I am not of the race of the feeble.

GAUL advanced in his arms; Dunrommath ſhrunk behind his people. But the ſpear of Gaul pierced the gloomy chief, and his ſword lopped off his head, as it bended in death.—The ſon of Morni ſhook it thrice by the lock; the warriors of Dunrommath fled. The arrows of Morven purſued them: ten fell on the moſſy rocks. The reſt lift the ſounding ſail, and bound on the eccho⯑ing deep.

GAUL advanced towards the cave of Oithona. He beheld a youth leaning againſt a rock. An arrow had pierced his ſide; and his eye rolled faintly beneath his helmet.—The ſoul of Morni's ſon is ſad, he came and ſpoke the words of peace.

CAN the hand of Gaul heal thee, youth of the mournful brow? I have ſearched for the herbs of the mountains; I have gathered them on the ſecret banks of their ſtreams. My hand has cloſed the wound of the valiant, and their eyes have bleſſed the ſon of Morni. Where dwelt thy fathers, warrior? Were they of the ſons of the mighty? Sadneſs ſhall come, like night, on thy native ſtreams; for thou art fallen in thy youth.—

MY fathers, replied the ſtranger, were of the ſons of the mighty; but they ſhall not be ſad; for my fame is departed like morning miſt. High walls riſe on the banks of Duvranna; and ſee their moſſy towers in the ſtream; a rock aſcends behind them with its bending firs. Thou mayſt behold it far diſtant. There my bro⯑ther dwells. He is renowned in battle: give him this glitter⯑ing helmet.

[248] THE helmet fell from the hand of Gaul; for it was the wounded Oithona. She had armed herſelf in the cave, and came in ſearch of death. Her heavy eyes are half cloſed; the blood pours from her ſide.—

SON of Morni, ſhe ſaid, prepare the narrow tomb. Sleep comes, like a cloud, on my ſoul. The eyes of Oithona are dim. O had I dwelt at Duvranna, in the bright beam of my fame! then had my years come on with joy; and the virgins would bleſs my ſteps. But I fall in youth, ſon of Morni, and my father ſhall bluſh in his hall.—

SHE fell pale on the rock of Tromáthon. The mournful hero raiſed her tomb.—He came to Morven; but we ſaw the darkneſs of his ſoul. Oſſian took the harp in the praiſe of Oithona. The brightneſs of the face of Gaul returned. But his ſigh roſe, at times, in the midſt of his friends, like blaſts that ſhake their unfrequent wings, after the ſtormy winds are laid.

CROMA: A POEM^*.

IT was the voice of my love! few are his viſits to the dreams of Malvina! Open your airy halls, ye fathers of mighty Toſcar. Unfold the gates of your clouds; the ſteps of Malvina's departure are near. I have heard a voice in my dream. I feel the fluttering of my ſoul. Why didſt thou come, O blaſt, from the dark-rolling of the lake? Thy ruſtling wing was in the trees, the dream of Mal⯑vina departed. But ſhe beheld her love, when his robe of miſt flew on the wind; the beam of the ſun was on his ſkirts, they glit⯑tered like the gold of the ſtranger. It was the voice of my love! few are his viſits to my dreams!

[250] BUT thou dwelleſt in the ſoul of Malvina, ſon of mighty Oſſian. My ſighs ariſe with the beam of the eaſt; my tears deſcend with the drops of night. I was a lovely tree, in thy preſence, Oſcar, with all my branches round me; but thy death came like a blaſt from the deſart, and laid my green head low; the ſpring returned with its ſhowers, but no leaf of mine aroſe. The virgins ſaw me ſilent in the hall, and they touched the harp of joy. The tear was on the cheek of Malvina: the virgins beheld me in my grief. Why art thou ſad, they ſaid; thou firſt of the maids of Lutha? Was he lovely as the beam of the morning, and ſtately in thy ſight?

PLEASANT is thy ſong in Oſſian's ear, daughter of ſtreamy Lu⯑tha! Thou haſt heard the muſic of departed bards in the dream of thy reſt, when ſleep fell on thine eyes, at the murmur of Moruth^*. When thou didſt return from the chace, in the day of the ſun, thou haſt heard the muſic of the bards, and thy ſong is lovely. It is lovely, O Malvina, but it melts the ſoul. There is a joy in grief when peace dwells in the breaſt of the ſad. But ſorrow waſtes the mournful, O daughter of Toſcar, and their days are few. They fall away, like the flower on which the ſun looks in his ſtrength after the mildew has paſſed over it, and its head is heavy with the drops of night. Attend to the tale of Oſſian, O maid; he remem⯑bers the days of his youth.

THE king commanded; I raiſed my ſails, and ruſhed into the bay of Croma; into Croma's ſounding bay in lovely Inisfail^†. High on the coaſt aroſe the towers of Crothar king of ſpears; Crothar renowned in the battles of his youth; but age dwelt then around the chief. Rothmar raiſed the ſword againſt the hero; and the [251] wrath of Fingal burned. He ſent Oſſian to meet Rothmar in battle, for the chief of Croma was the companion of his youth.

I SENT the bard before me with ſongs; I came into the hall of Crothar. There ſat the hero amidſt the arms of his fathers, but his eyes had failed. His gray locks waved around a ſtaff, on which the warrior leaned. He hummed the ſong of other times, when the ſound of our arms reached his ears. Crothar roſe, ſtretched his aged hand and bleſſed the ſon of Fingal.

OSSIAN! ſaid the hero, the ſtrength of Crothar's arm has failed. O could I liſt the ſword, as on the day that Fingal fought at Stru⯑tha! He was the firſt of mortal men; but Crothar had alſo his fame. The king of Morven praiſed me, and he placed on my arm the boſſy ſhield of Calthar, whom the hero had ſlain in war. Doſt thou not behold it on the wall, for Crothar's eyes have failed? Is thy ſtrength, like thy fathers, Oſſian? let the aged feel thine arm.

I GAVE my arm to the king; he ſeels it with his aged hands. The ſigh roſe in his breaſt, and his tears deſcended. Thou art ſtrong, my ſon, he ſaid, but not like the king of Morven. But who is like the hero among the mighty in war! Let the feaſt of my halls be ſpread; and let my bards raiſe the ſong. Great is he that is within my walls, ſons of ecchoing Croma!

THE feaſt is ſpread. The harp is heard; and joy is in the hall. But it was joy covering a ſigh, that darkly dwelt in every breaſt. It was like the faint beam of the moon ſpread on a cloud in heaven. At length the muſic ceaſed, and the aged king of Croma ſpoke; he ſpoke without a tear, but the ſigh ſwelled in the midſt of his voice.

[252] SON of Fingal! doſt thou not behold the darkneſs of Crothar's hall of ſhells? My ſoul was not dark at the feaſt, when my people lived. I rejoiced in the preſence of ſtrangers, when my ſon ſhone in the hall. But, Oſſian, he is a beam that is departed, and left no ſtreak of light behind. He is fallen, ſon of Fingal, in the battles of his father.—Rothmar the chief of graſſy Tromlo heard that my eyes had ſailed; he heard that my arms were fixed in the hall, and the pride of his ſoul aroſe. He came towards Croma; my people fell before him. I took my arms in the hall, but what could ſight⯑leſs Crothar do? My ſteps were unequal; my grief was great. I wiſhed for the days that were paſt. Days! wherein I fought; and won in the field of blood. My ſon returned from the chace; the fair-haired Fovar-gormo^*. He had not lifted his ſword in battle, for his arm was young. But the ſoul of the youth was great; the fire of valour burnt in his eyes. He ſaw the diſordered ſteps of his father, and his ſigh aroſe. King of Croma, he ſaid, is it becauſe thou haſt no ſon; is it for the weakneſs of Fovar-gormo's arm that thy ſighs ariſe? I begin, my father, to feel the ſtrength of my arm; I have drawn the ſword of my youth; and I have bent the bow. Let me meet this Rothmar, with the youths of Croma: let me meet him, O my father; for I feel my burning ſoul.

AND thou ſhalt meet him, I ſaid, ſon of the ſightleſs Crothar! But let others advance before thee, that I may hear the tread of thy feet at thy return; for my eyes behold thee not, fair-haired Fovar-gormo!—He went, he met the foe; he fell. The foe advances towards Croma. He who ſlew my ſon is near, with all his pointed ſpears.

IT is not time to fill the ſhell, I replied, and took my ſpear. My people ſaw the fire of my eyes, and they roſe around. All night we [253] ſtrode along the heath. Gray morning roſe in the eaſt. A green narrow vale appeared before us; nor did it want its blue ſtream. The dark hoſt of Rothmar are on its banks, with all their glittering arms. We fought along the vale; they fled; Rothmar ſunk be⯑neath my ſword. Day had not deſcended in the weſt when I brought his arms to Crothar. The aged hero felt them with his hands; and joy brightened in his ſoul.

THE people gather to the hall; the ſhells of the feaſt are heard. Ten harps are ſtrung; five bards advance, and ſing, by turns,^*, the praiſe of Oſſian; they poured forth their burning ſouls, and the harp anſwered to their voice. The joy of Croma was great: for peace returned to the land. The night came on with ſilence, and the morning returned with joy. No foe came in darkneſs, with [254] his glittering ſpear. The joy of Croma was great; for the gloomy Rothmar fell.

I RAISED my voice for Fovar-gormo, when they laid the chief in earth. The aged Crothar was there, but his ſigh was not heard. He ſearched for the wound of his ſon, and found it in his breaſt. Joy roſe in the face of the aged. He came and ſpoke to Oſſian.

[255] KING of ſpears! he ſaid, my ſon has not fallen without his fame. The young warrior did not fly; but met death, as he went forward in his ſtrength. Happy are they who die in youth, when their re⯑nown is heard! The ſeeble will not behold them in the hall; or ſmile at their trembling hands. Their memory ſhall be honour⯑ed in the ſong; the young tear of the virgin falls. But the aged [256] wither away, by degrees, and the fame of their youth begins to be forgot. They fall in ſecret; the ſigh of their ſon is not heard. Joy is around their tomb; and the ſtone of their fame is placed with⯑out a tear. Happy are they who die in youth, when their renown is around them!

BERRATHON: A POEM^*.

BEND thy blue courſe, O ſtream, round the narrow plain of Lutha^†. Let the green woods hang over it from their moun⯑tains: and the ſun look on it at noon. The thiſtle is there on its rock, and ſhakes its beard to the wind. The flower hangs its heavy head, waving, at times, to the gale. Why doſt thou awake me, O gale, it ſeems to ſay, I am covered with the drops of heaven? The time of [258] of my fading is near, and the blaſt that ſhall ſcatter my leaves. To-morrow ſhall the traveller come, he that ſaw me in my beauty ſhall come; his eyes will ſearch the field, but they will not find me?—So ſhall they ſearch in vain, for the voice of Cona, after it has failed in the field. The hunter ſhall come forth in the morning, and the voice of my harp ſhall not be heard. ‘"Where is the ſon of car-borne Fingal?"’ The tear will be on his cheek.

THEN come thou, O Malvina^‡, with all thy muſic, come; lay Oſſian in the plain of Lutha: let his tomb riſe in the lovely field.—Malvina! where art thou, with thy ſongs: with the ſoft ſound of thy ſteps?—Son^‖ of Alpin art thou near? where is the daughter of Toſcar?

I PASSED, O ſon of Fingal, by Tar-lutha's moſſy walls. The ſmoke of the hall was ceaſed: ſilence was among the trees of the [259] hill. The voice of the chace was over. I ſaw the daughters of the bow. I aſked about Malvina, but they anſwered not. They turned their faces away: thin darkneſs covered their beauty. They were like ſtars, on a rainy hill, by night, each looking faintly through her miſt.

PLEASANT^* be thy reſt, O lovely beam! ſoon haſt thou ſet on our hills! The ſteps of thy departure were ſtately, like the moon on the blue, trembling wave. But thou haſt left us in darkneſs, firſt of the maids of Lutha! We ſit, at the rock, and there is no voice; no light but the meteor of fire! Son haſt thou ſet, Malvina, daugh⯑ter of generous Toſcar!

BUT thou riſeſt like the beam of the eaſt, among the ſpirits of thy friends, where they ſit in their ſtormy halls, the chambers of the thunder.—A cloud hovers over Cona: its blue curling ſides are high. The winds are beneath it, with their wings; within it is the dwelling^† of Fingal. There the hero ſits in darkneſs; his airy ſpear is in his hand. His ſhield half covered with clouds, is like the darkened moon; when one half ſtill remains in the wave, and the other looks ſickly on the field.

HIS friends ſit around the king, on miſt; and hear the ſongs of Ullin: he ſtrikes the half-viewleſs harp; and raiſes the feeble voice. The leſſer heroes, with a thouſand meteors, light the airy hall. [260] Malvina riſes, in the midſt; a bluſh is on her cheek. She beholds the unknown faces of her fathers, and turns aſide her humid eyes.

ART thou come ſo ſoon, ſaid Fingal, daughter of generous Toſ⯑car? Sadneſs dwells in the halls of Lutha. My aged ſon^* is ſad. I hear the breeze of Cona, that was wont to lift thy heavy locks. It comes to the hall, but thou art not there; its voice is mournful among the arms of thy fathers. Go with thy ruſtling wing, O breeze! and ſigh on Malvina's tomb. It riſes yonder beneath the rock, at the blue ſtream of Lutha. The maids^† are departed to their place; and thou alone, O breez [...] mourneſt there.

BUT who comes from the duſky weſt, ſupported on a cloud? A ſmile is on his gray, watry face; his locks of miſt fly on the wind: he bends forward on his airy ſpear: it is thy father, Malvina! Why ſhineſt thou, ſo ſoon, on our clouds, he ſays, O lovely light of Lu⯑tha!—But thou wert ſad, my daughter, for thy friends were paſſed away. The ſons of little men^‡ were in the hall; and none remained of the heroes, but Oſſian king of ſpears.

AND doſt thou remember Oſſian, car-borne Toſcar^‖ ſon of Con⯑loch? The battles of our youth were many; our ſwords went to⯑gether to the field. They ſaw us coming like two falling rocks; [261] and the ſons of the ſtranger fled. There come the warriors of Co⯑na, they ſaid; their ſteps are in the paths of the vanquiſhed.

DRAW near, ſon of Alpin, to the ſong of the aged. The actions of other times are in my ſoul: my memory beams on the days that are paſt. On the days of the mighty Toſcar, when our path was in the deep. Draw near, ſon of Alpin, to the laſt ſound^* of the voice of Cona.

THE king of Morven commanded, and I raiſed my ſails to the wind. Toſcar chief of Lutha ſtood at my ſide, as I roſe on the dark-blue wave. Our courſe was to ſea-ſurrounded Berrathon^†, the iſle of many ſtorms. There dwelt, with his locks of age, the ſtately ſtrength of Larthmor. Larthmor who ſpread the feaſt of ſhells to Comhal's mighty ſon, when he went to Starno's halls, in the days of Agandecca. But when the chief was old, the pride of his ſon aroſe, the pride of fair-haired Uthal, the love of a thouſand maids. He bound the aged Larthmor, and dwelt in his ſounding halls.

LONG pined the king in his cave, beſide his rolling ſea. Day did not come to his dwelling; nor the burning oak by night. But the wind of ocean was there, and the parting beam of the moon. The red ſtar looked on the king, when it trembled on the weſtern wave. Snitho came to Selma's hall: Snitho companion of Larthmor's youth. He told of the king of Berrathon: the wrath of Fingal roſe. Thrice he aſſumed the ſpear, reſolved to ſtretch his hand to [262] Uthal. But the memory^* of his actions roſe before the king, and he ſent his ſon and Toſcar. Our joy was great on the rolling ſea; and we often half-unſheathed our ſwords^†. For never before had we fought alone, in the battles of the ſpear. Night came down on the ocean; the winds departed on their wings. Cold and pale is the moon. The red ſtars lift their heads. Our courſe is ſlow along the coaſt of Berrathon; the white waves tumble on the rocks.

WHAT voice is that, ſaid Toſcar, which comes between the ſounds of the waves? It is ſoft but mournſul, like the voice of de⯑parted bards. But I behold the maid^‡, ſhe ſits on the rock alone. Her head bends on her arm of ſnow: her dark hair is in the wind. Hear, ſon of Fingal, her ſong, it is ſmooth as the gliding waters of Lavath.—We came to the ſilent bay, and heard the maid of night.

How long will ye roll around me, blue-tumbling waters of ocean? My dwelling was not always in caves, nor beneath the whiſtling tree. The feaſt was ſpread in Torthóma's hall; my father delight⯑ed in my voice. The youths beheld me in the ſteps of my loveli⯑neſs, and they bleſſed the dark-haired Nina-thoma. It was then thou didſt come, O Uthal! like the ſun of heaven. The ſouls of [263] the virgins are thine, ſon of generous Larthmor! But why doſt thou leave me alone in the midſt of roaring waters. Was my ſoul dark with thy death? Did my white hand lift the ſword? Why then haſt thou left me alone, king of high Finthormo^*!

THE tear ſtarted from my eye, when I heard the voice of the maid. I ſtood before her in my arms, and ſpoke the words of peace.—Lovely dweller of the cave, what ſigh is in that breaſt? Shall Oſſian lift his ſword in thy preſence, the deſtruction of thy foes?—Daugh⯑ter of Torthóma, riſe, I have heard the words of thy grief. The race of Morven are around thee, who never injured the weak. Come to our dark-boſomed ſhip, thou brighter than that ſetting moon. Our courſe is to the rocky Berrathon, to the ecchoing walls of Finthormo.—She came in her beauty, ſhe came with all her lovely ſteps. Silent joy brightened in her face, as when the ſha⯑dows fly from the field of ſpring; the blue-ſtream is rolling in brightneſs, and the green buſh bends over its courſe.

THE morning roſe with its beams. We came to Rothma's bay. A boar ruſhed from the wood; my ſpear pierced his ſide. I rejoiced over the blood^†, and foreſaw my growing fame.—But now the ſound of Uthal's train came from the high Fin-thormo; they ſpread over the heath to the chance of the boar. Himſelf comes ſlowly on, in the pride of his ſtrength. He lifts two pointed ſpears. On his ſide is the hero's ſword. Three youths carry his poliſhed [264] bows: the bounding of five dogs is before him. His heroes move on, at a diſtance, admiring the ſteps of the king. Stately was the ſon of Larthmor! but his ſoul was dark. Dark as the troubled face of the moon, when it foretels the ſtorms.

WE roſe on the heath before the king; he ſtopt in the midſt of his courſe. His heroes gathered around, and a gray-haired bard ad⯑vanced. Whence are the ſons of the ſtrangers! begun the bard of the ſong; the children of the unhappy come to Berrathon; to the ſword of car-borne Uthal. He ſpreads no feaſt in his hall: the blood of ſtrangers is on his ſtreams. If from Selma's walls ye come, from the moſſy walls of Fingal, chuſe three youths to go to your king to tell of the fall of his people. Perhaps the hero may come and pour his blood on Uthal's ſword; ſo ſhall the fame of Finthormo ariſe, like the growing tree of the vale.

NEVER will it riſe, O bard, I ſaid in the pride of my wrath. He would ſhrink in the preſence of Fingal, whoſe eyes are the flames of death. The ſon of Comhal comes, and the kings vaniſh in his preſence; they are rolled together, like miſt, by the breath of his rage. Shall three tell to Fingal, that his people fell? Yes!—they may tell it, bard! but his people ſhall fall with fame.

I STOOD in the darkneſs of my ſtrength; Toſcar drew his ſword at my ſide. The foe came on like a ſtream: the mingled ſound of death aroſe. Man took man, ſhield met ſhield; ſteel mixed its beams with ſteel.—Darts hiſs through air; ſpears ring on mails; and ſwords on broken bucklers bound. As the noiſe of an aged grove beneath the roaring wind, when a thouſand ghoſts break the trees by night, ſuch was the din of arms.—But Uthal fell beneath my ſword; and the ſons of Berrathon fled.—It was then I ſaw him in [265] his beauty, and the tear hung in my eye. Thou art fallen^*, young tree, I ſaid, with all thy beauty round thee. Thou art fallen on thy plains, and the field is bare. The winds come from the deſart, and there is no ſound in thy leaves! Lovely art thou in death, ſon of car-borne Larthmor.

NINA-THOMA ſat on the ſhore, and heard the ſound of battle. She turned her red eyes on Lethmal the gray-haired bard of Selma, for he had remained on the coaſt, with the daughter of Torthóma. Son of the times of old! ſhe ſaid, I hear the noiſe of death. Thy friends have met with Uthal and the chief is low! O that I had remained on the rock, incloſed with the tumbling waves! Then would my ſoul be ſad, but his death would not reach my ear. Art thou fallen on thy heath, O ſon of high Finthormo! thou didſt leave me on a rock, but my ſoul was full of thee. Son of high Finthormo! art thou fallen on thy heath?

SHE roſe pale in her tears, and ſaw the bloody ſhield of Uthal; ſhe ſaw it in Oſſian's hand; her ſteps were diſtracted on the heath. She flew; ſhe found him; ſhe fell. Her ſoul came forth in a ſigh. Her hair is ſpread on his face. My burſting tears deſcend. A tomb aroſe on the unhappy; and my ſong was heard.

[266] REST, hapleſs children of youth! and the noiſe of that moſſy ſtream. The virgins will ſee your tomb, at the chace, and turn away their weeping eyes. Your fame will be in the ſong; the voice of the harp will be heard in your praiſe. The daughters of Selma ſhall hear it; and your renown ſhall be in other lands.—Reſt, children of youth, at the noiſe of the moſſy ſtream.

Two days we remained on the coaſt. The heroes of Berrathon convened. We brought Larthmor to his halls; the feaſt of ſhells is ſpread.—The joy of the aged was great; he looked to the arms of his fathers; the arms which he left in his hall, when the pride of Uthal aroſe—We were renowned before Larthmor, and he bleſſed the chiefs of Morven; but he knew not that his ſon was low, the ſtately ſtrength of Uthal. They had told, that he had retired to the woods, with the tears of grief; they had told it, but he was ſilent in the tomb of Rothma's heath.

ON the fourth day we raiſed our ſails to the roar of the northern wind. Larthmor came to the coaſt, and his bards raiſed the ſong. The joy of the king was great, he looked to Rothma's gloomy heath; he ſaw the tomb of his ſon; and the memory of Uthal roſe.—Who of my heroes, he ſaid, lies there: he ſeems to have been of the kings of ſpears? Was he renowned in my halls, before the pride of Uthal roſe?

YE are ſilent, ye ſons of Berrathon, is the king of heroes low?—My heart melts for thee, O Uthal; though thy hand was againſt thy father.—O that I had remained in the cave! that my ſon had dwelt in Finthormo!—I might have heard the tread of his feet, when he went to the chace of the boar.—I might have heard [267] his voice on the blaſt of my cave. Then would my ſoul be glad: but now darkneſs dwells in my halls.

SUCH were my deeds, ſon of Alpin, when the arm of my youth was ſtrong; ſuch were^* the actions of Toſcar, the car-borne ſon of Conloch. But Toſcar is on his flying cloud; and I am alone at Lutha: my voice is like the laſt ſound of the wind, when it forſakes the woods. But Oſſian ſhall not be long alone, he ſees the miſt that ſhall receive his ghoſt. He beholds the miſt that ſhall ſorm his robe, when he appears on his hills. The ſons of little men ſhall behold me, and admire the ſtature of the chiefs of old. They ſhall creep to their caves, and look to the ſky with fear; for my ſteps ſhall be in the clouds, and darkneſs ſhall roll on my ſide.

LEAD, ſon of Alpin, lead the aged to his woods. The winds begin to riſe. The dark wave of the lake reſounds. Bends there not a tree from Mora with its branches bare? It bends, ſon of Alpin, in the ruſtling blaſt. My harp hangs on a blaſted branch. The ſound of its ſtrings is mournful.—Does the wind touch thee, O harp, or is it ſome paſſing ghoſt!—It is the hand of Malvina! but bring me the harp, ſon of Alpin; another ſong ſhall riſe. My ſoul ſhall depart in the ſound; my fathers ſhall hear it in their airy hall.—Their dim faces ſhall hang, with joy, from their clouds; and their hands receive their ſon.

^† The aged oak bends over the ſtream. It ſighs with all its moſs. The withered fern whiſtles near, and mixes, as it waves, with Oſſian's hair.—Strike the harp and raiſe the ſong: be near, with [268] all your wings, ye winds. Bear the mournful ſound away to Fingal's airy hall. Bear it to Fingal's hall, that he may hear the voice of his ſon; the voice of him that praiſed the mighty.—The blaſt of north opens thy gates, O king, and I behold thee ſitting on miſt, dimly gleaming in all thine arms. Thy form now is not the terror of the valiant: but like a watery cloud; when we ſee the ſtars be⯑hind it with their weeping eyes. Thy ſhield is like the aged moon: thy ſword a vapour half-kindled with fire. Dim and feeble is the chief, who travelled in brightneſs before.—

BUT thy ſteps^† are on the winds of the deſart, and the ſtorms darken in thy hand. Thou takeſt the ſun in thy wrath, and hideſt him in thy clouds. The ſons of little men are afraid; and a thou⯑ſand ſhowers deſcend.—

BUT when thou comeſt forth in thy mildneſs; the gale of the morning is near thy courſe. The ſun laughs in his blue fields; and the gray ſtream winds in its valley.—The buſhes ſhake their green heads in the wind. The roes bound towards the deſart.

[269] BUT there is a murmur in the heath! the ſtormy winds abate! I hear the voice of Fingal. Long has it been abſent from mine ear!—Come, Oſſian, come away, he ſays: Fingal has received his fame. We paſſed away, like flames that had ſhone for a ſeaſon, our departure was in renown. Though the plains of our battles are dark and ſilent; our fame is in the four gray ſtones. The voice of Oſſian has been heard; and the harp was ſtrung in Selma.—Come Oſſian, come away, he ſays, and fly with thy fathers on clouds.

AND come I will, thou king of men! the life of Oſſian fails. I begin to vaniſh on Cona; and my ſteps are not ſeen in Selma. Beſide the ſtone of Mora I ſhall fall aſleep. The winds whiſtling in my grey hair, ſhall not waken me.—Depart on thy wings, O wind: thou canſt not diſturb the reſt of the bard. The night is long, but his eyes are heavy; depart, thou ruſtling blaſt.

BUT why art thou ſad, ſon of Fingal? Why grows the cloud of thy ſoul? The chiefs of other times are departed; they have gone without their fame. The ſons of future years ſhall paſs away; and another race ariſe. The people are like the waves of ocean: like the leaves^‡ of woody Morven, they paſs away in the ruſtling blaſt, and other leaves lift their green heads.—

[270] DID thy beauty laſt, O Ryno^*? Stood the ſtrength of car-borne Oſcar? Fingal himſelf paſſed away; and the halls of his fathers forgot his ſteps.—And ſhalt thou remain, aged bard! when the mighty have failed?—But my fame ſhall remain, and grow like the oak of Morven; which lifts its broad head to the ſtorm, and rejoices in the courſe of the wind.